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Katie Moore
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fetishvictims.jpg
Art by Mr. Byron 2010

Fetish Victims

 

Katie Moore

 

 

Dixon was a businessman trading in human desperation. He was a supplier, possibly even a pusher. Not in the traditional sense of the word, he didn’t sell drugs or run a gamblers den, he didn’t ref pit fights or pimp girls—almost no one got hurt, unless they wanted to, almost.

 

Dixon was a wholesale fetish baron, trading in the most bizarre of human pleasures. He sold gigantic cloth diapers to 300-lb men with their grannies tattooed on their cheesy asses. He sold medical equipment for amateur doctors to poke and prod, stretch and suture, the body. He sold razor blades specifically designed for insertion under the nails of the fingers and toes. Those were for the ones who liked to be hurt. He sold the special mittens to match, fitting over the hands and tying in such intricate knots that no amount of effort could remove them. To Tom Grennig he sold red pubic hair, from candy apple-dyed to natural dusty orange—those were his favorite, the Natural Ginger, Item No. 57869. He also occasionally bought breast milk, for bathing, he said, but really he covered his Rice Puffs in the stuff.

 

Standing on the corner, impatiently waiting for the light to change, Tom sucked his licorice whip, raking it along the ridged tops of his teeth, scraping off a fine crust of black goo. He sucked hard, like Candy had sucked Dixon’s cock to pay off Tom’s debts. He had to keep his mouth busy, otherwise he just might say something stupid. He did that when he got nervous, and one thing Tom was, was perceptive. This would not be the time to let nerves get the better of him.

 

He had someone to find, quick—Candy, the irony of her name was that she wasn’t sweet at all. She was a hard-ass, ball-busting bitch, but for some reason she loved Tom. She thought it was probably because Pisces females and Virgo males have great sex, astrologically speaking. They sure did have great sex, when Tom wasn’t too nervous about Dixon or his friends busting in with an unwelcome donkey punch for her and a few lead slugs for him. Tom wasn’t convinced that she did love him, even though she was willing to do that fat greasy fuck to get him out of a hard spot. That took loyalty, maybe even devotion.

 

He was sure he didn’t love Candy. He was just looking for her, walking toward the airport, passport in his back pocket, because he owed her. She gave Dixon a hummer, knocked four thou off Tom’s ten thou bill, and allowed him to live a little longer. A man had to thank a girl for that sort of bailout, even if she wasn’t anything really special.

 

Tom was pretty certain he’d find her on the corner near the airport, where she would sell herself like a caddy dealer slung cars to drug barons. He just had to do this one thing first. He just had to give Dixon what he owed. Then he could find Candy and hop a plane to Minali. There he would smoke dope, go barefoot, and meditate till he was cured. Even if he couldn’t find Candy, he’d be gone by tomorrow. He’d try, but he wasn’t waiting around for a cokehead hooker with red above and brown below.

 

Tom was hoping Dixon wouldn’t be there, as he stood outside the plain office building waiting for the buzzer to talk back. He spit the nub of his licorice whip, smacked his gums and sucked his teeth. As he lodged a fresh black rope between his teeth, the door clicked and Dixon’s voice crackled, “7th floor,” from the intercom.

 

As he mounted the steps, Tom sucked harder and harder, avoiding the elevator, dreading this face-to-face. He and Dixon had been buddies, practically grew up together. That was before Tom started putting his purchases on the tab, needing more and more product to get off.

 

Fucking the fake redheads worked for awhile, always from behind with his hands in their hair. Eventually it wasn’t enough and he had to have the real thing, to sniff and snuggle and rub himself off with. Sometimes he would make Candy sit very still while he arranged it in color patterns on and around her before he fucked her with his eyes closed, thinking only of the color red. Those were expensive nights, and he was finally paying for them. He’d sold everything, cashed everything in, given blood, and coerced blowjobs. He was coming clean, going straight, and dropping out.

 

Dixon was waiting on the landing, crisply suited and smirking, his bald head gleaming in the green stairwell light.

 

“Hey buddy, thought you’d rather not do this in the office. Awful busy today . . .”

 

“I appreciate it, man, you know, this isn’t like me, it’s not something

 . . .” Tom trailed off in a fury of licorice sucking and hung his head. He held out the thick white envelope to Dixon, managing just to keep his hand from shaking. “With this and Candy, we’re square.”

 

“Oh, yes, Candy. You don’t need to bother looking for her before you leave town. We’ve sent her on a little business trip.”

 

“What the fuck, business trip?”

 

“She was tired of being treated roughly and compensated so little for her . . . pains. I gave her a job. She will be very well cared for. See, I noticed when she was blowing off some of your debt that Candy is a girl who likes to be in control.”

 

Tom was only mildly surprised. He knew she was one mean lay and it wasn’t like he loved her. “So you gave her some kind of Dominatrix job?”

 

“Oh, nothing that limiting,” Dixon said. “We’ve given her some peace from that need to take charge. I explained it all to her before we began: just a few holes in her skull and all that unnecessary pressure goes away. It’s like Zen, Tom. That was a word Candy knew from listening to you lie about your affected philosophy while you jerked off with other women’s bright red pubes.”

 

“You, what? Fuck, holes?” When Tom got nervous, he had a real rough time getting his point across. “Where is she, dude?”

 

“Sometime over the Atlantic at this point, in a cargo hold. We put the livestock asleep when we ship them to the breeders in Burma.”

 

“Breeders? Candy hates kids.” Tom was beginning to be more confused than nervous.

 

“Just because you have a child doesn’t mean you have to take care of it, Tom. You know that. Your mother is a perfect example. She left you when you were, what, six?”

 

In the span of a moment Tom’s face had changed color from a sweaty nervous pink to a suffocating purple tinge. He was unable to answer Dixon’s question in anything but a fevered round of licorice sucking.

 

“She was a redhead, wasn’t she, your mother?”

 

Tom was pretty sure he hadn’t loved Candy in the first place, and he was completely convinced he wouldn’t love her with holes drilled in her head.

 

“Fuck you, man. I gave you your money. Fuck that whore. I gotta catch a plane.”

 

“I’ll be sad to see you go,” Dixon said. “You practically carried the entire division. We’ve been stocking mostly red hairs since you started doing business with us. How ’bout a little something for the road?” He held out a clear plastic vacuum sealed package.  The color was unmistakable: Natural Ginger Item No. 57869.

 

Tom shuffled his feet and chomped the whip clean in two, letting the longer half click to the floor. He reached for the gift as he said, “No, thanks, I’m going straight.” With one long, guilty stare into Dixon’s smirking face, he turned and ran down the steps.

 

By the time he got to fresh air, Tom was shaking, panting, and couldn’t wait to get to the bathroom in the airplane. It was going to be just like joining the mile high club all by himself.

 

Katie Moore loves words more than anything, even sex, except maybe coffee. She is an editor for The Legendary, a place for hardcore word explosions. Contact her here: katie@downdirtyword.com.

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