User:Shabidoo/Devastating Aristocrats

That memorable thanksgiving my brother blew a wad in my face. It came out like a fire violently and detached my retina. It was a time of deeply devastating family tragedy. The aching loss of our grandmother haunting us. JAs I was eating my lonely turkey, my brother lovingly shared his nectar on me and my food. We hadn't been close for so long but clearly he still cared which caught me off guard. I looked back at him with the eyes of a sister who felt reconnection. I responded by eating the turkey with my brothers gravy all over it. Slowly savouring the salty spicy flavour and soft but stringy texture. It was as though our minds shook hands. A part of our fragile selves healed at that moment even if the wounds remained raw. If only we knew how shattered our family would be in less than an hour. I responded by splaying open my wrists and squirting the blood down his throat so that he could catch my chlamydia. The whole family shared in this special moment and fought one another for the precious little squirts of blood I had left. My mother shoved her thumb up my brothers anus, as was a family tradition when I sliced open my wrists so that he would choke on my blood. It brought us together as a family in a way we hadn’t known for years. Our detachment had become a predictable unstoppable current. It was as though we had lost our ability to really see one another's pain. My clap was particularly virulent and they could look forward to terrible puss filled sores on their lips the next day. Again, something we would lovingly share. My brother asked my mother to keep her thumb deep up his ass while he ate, a little tradition of theirs, but she couldn’t. She had to give out the Christmas crackers. We open them on thanksgiving for some reason I don't recall...certainly mired deeply in our dark Irish past, the "why" was lost with the ghosts of reason. The thing about Christmas crackers is, it’s more than just a surprise. There is a mysticism inside of it. Opening it up reveals that which we’ve been waiting for all our lives but were never brave enough to touch or even acquire. Only surface. Never penetrate.

I opened my cracker with my little sister who held onto one as we both pulled, pulled as though we were tearing each other's sisterhood. It opened with the little bang the flint makes. The bang blew her fingers clear off her hand and as my sister screamed I eagerly waited for the same. As her blood sprayed all over our faces I listened to the series of bangs that took off my family's digits. Nothing happened to me. Nothing ever happened to me and I always knew deep down that my mother had set it up that way. Everyone would lose fingers except for her least favourite daughter. She never took the time to maim me or cause me distress as she did the rest of the family. While she had always cared for me as any mother, and did her best to hide her deeper feelings of dissapointment, I secretly knew she resented me for the pain I caused her during labour. When I was born it was an easy pregnancy and I didn’t rip open her vagina with some oversized body or a huge head like she was hoping during the delivery. I always felt a sense of neglect but I knew she still loved me…even when she excluded me from shared family trauma. Her non-mangled vagina was a symbol…a symbol of the bond between mother and daughter I never knew, that while not perfect I was still a part of her and she would nurture me as best as the family values from her generation would allow. As the rest of my family lost their digits together with the communal howling in pain, I participated in my own way. As the blood of my parents and siblings flew in my face I sucked in the taste and saltiness of it. The poignant intimacy of the hot liquid of my family in my mouth made me orgasm and as I leaked vagina juice all over the chair the cat came over to lick it up, as she had been lovingly trained to do. She was such a special cat not just because she cleaned up our period mess every month but because whenever we felt lonely she would come and lick our vaginas dry while purring like the motor of a speed boat. There was something more human about her tender soul than anyone else in the family. She understood you without having to say a word. A mysterious creature desperate to share everything and yet shared nothing.

Once everyone had calmed down a little we started eating one another's finger, as is the family tradition, but then my little sister noticed that there was actually something inside the crackers. A small round black nugget of our dogs excrement plopped onto the table from each Christmas cracker. We all looked adoringly at our mother, it must have taken her ages to sort through our dogs various bowel movements to find the most well-formed spheres, sort them by size, dry them and then wrap them in shiny tissue paper, string and small explosives in loving festive colours. She always found the time for us and cared about the trivial sordid details. I felt a pang of heartache because yet again, this special family moment would be interrupted soon by my family betrayal. My sister ate her dog ball first. She called over the dog who jumped on her lap and as she pet him as she ate it, part of him was inside her and she stroked his fur and fingered his anus as we usually do when you have something of someone else inside of you. That's how we dealt with alienation. She then orgasmed so hard it released a massive quaff that filled the air with orgasm gas. A fragile quiet gas that tried to hide itself but yet still revealed its inner queefness. My parents inhaled the scent while my brother beat off to the festive holiday aroma. I knew how much she loved a gift from the dog in her mouth so I decided to give her half of mine. She held back a tear and enjoyed the half that I gave her. It was only ten years earlier that we were both girls, sharing our fears and dreams and she would often share her used tampons with me. I could only return the favour now that we were caring adults. And then something so magical happened. One by one...everyone in the family gave her half of their ball of dog shit. It actually brought tears to my mother's eyes as semi-spheres of our dogs excrement were handed over to my sister piling up on her plate. You had to realise that eating our dogs beautiful manure was a rare and highly sacred experience and to give away, even half of it, was an incredible meaningful sacrifice. It was a very special moment for our family, especially because soon I would break all their hearts. But first my sister ate every half ball and we watched, as each piece consumed a part of her and tore away at the hearts of my family.

My brother shared stories about his college experiences. He was coasting through school, aloof and set adrift in the mist of adult indecision. He admitted that he had been questioning his sexuality and had his first experience sharing love with a dead body. He talked about it with shame because we as a family deeply believed in having sex with living humans and animals and that this was a sacred unquestionable case of Kantian morality. We all looked at our father to see if he would be understanding of it. To our relief, and as I had known all along, he was tolerant of the ways of our new generation. He told him that no matter who he shared his semen with...he would always love him. While he may not have understood why my brother would fuck a being without a beating heart, he respected his choices. And even offered his own dead body as a future corpse to fuck after he died. It was so beautiful to see this because recently it seemed as though my brother and my father had grown bitter towards each other. And I'm sure, just as I did...my other sisters thought warmly fantasizing about my brother fucking our fathers dead corpse at the funeral. It would make his passing away easier for all of us. My sister quaffed a few more times which turned on the dog who then face raped the cat and her screams was like a lullaby that serenaded our still and fragile hearts. It was both touching but still heart rendering because I myself had many personal demons that had to come out of the closet that night.

My younger brother brought a pie to the table and dropped it in the centre. It was a Polish style crumble made with the cancerous left testicle they extracted a few months earlier during his testicular cancer surgery. We all knew about that feeling of loss but for him it was a deep one. Not just an actual part of him but also the warm little factory of his sexual liquids, a personal intimate part of you that shatters apart when it becomes full of cancer. He shouldn’t have stuck his balls in the microwave so many times while blowing off my older brother. Their closeness with each other was a blessing but also a burden. He was really young to lose his left ball but wouldn’t put it to waste. Just when you thought this Thanksgiving couldn't be more special we found out he had been saving the salted pureed spiced remains of his infected genital just for us. I could only imagine how difficult it must have been to have it stored in his fridge all those weeks and not give into the panging urge to eat it. How many evenings did he spend in his room with all of those lovely night terrors and voices in his head telling him to chew on his left cancerous testicle. But no, he saved it for us. A sacrifice that embodied his own loss. It was baked into a European style flaky crust and polish butter crumble. Crumbled just like his aching heart for his missing manhood. We enjoyed that dessert and ate it as though it was our very last desert we would ever eat. If only most of my family knew it really would be their last desert. Because despite how close and loving we all were, family still have secrets. We still hide some of our inner feelings. deep aching feelings that can change our lives so fast it gives us emotional whiplash. Only last week I had an abortion. One I had to do on my own. My grandfather sodomized me a few months back and he ejaculated so forcefully it ripped a fissure between my anus and vagina. I was in a magical daze for days as it was the greatest orgasm of my life. So I had barely noticed that my genitals were completely messed up. And more so…that I was pregnant. I know how devastating it would be to the family to know that I didn't give a chance for our incestuous retard baby to have an opportunity to live a full and meaningful life. We were a conservative family after all. Every one of us was precious and we had to hold onto each other, every chance to bring one another love. But I was, deep down, too insecure and unsure of myself. How could I raise such a special child and not corrupt it with my own fragile feelings of loneliness and inadequacy? So I terminated it. Too ashamed to go to I clinic I reached into my womb and pulled out the foetus yanking it out so hard the placenta dislodged ripping open a hole in my uterus. The pain, I deserved it. For the evil act I was committing. I ate the foetus whole since, while I wasn't strong enough to raise such a special baby, at least there would always be part of him (it was a boy) inside of me for the rest of my life. I didn’t eat the placenta as some modern mothers do cause, honestly, that’s just revolting and I’ve heard its quite unsanitary. It was all a deep personal tragedy that I knew I had to share with my family. I knew it would hurt them so horridly but I couldn't hide it...not from those who protected me from all the hurt out there in the world.

After dinner was over we went to the living room and lit a fire. My youngest brother and sister did their annual thanks giving show by performing the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. While we had seen it all before we enjoyed watching them speak their lines (they were bad actors) and they would both (as was common in the 16th century) take a few poppers and fuck each other with various kitchen implements. Each year it would be a surprise...which kitchen utensil would they use? This year my brother used a turkey baster (fairly predictable) and my sister used a Braun blender (that was plugged in and turned on). At one point, after jamming the blender up my brothers ass and putting it on the highest speed, my mother got so excited she joined in and started fingering both in the anus with measuring spoons. It was so tender, our shy and bashful mother could sometimes be such a trouble maker. It was yet one more special family moment that would be overshadowed by our familiar devastation. Then, as was tradition in our family, we passed around a crack pipe. This year my mother spiced up the crack with a little bit of cinnamon for the lovely smell and a generous amount of fentanyl which was so strong I eventually passed out before I could enjoy the high. The hallucinations I had while I was unconscious were strong and terrifying. But inside that terror was a message, a message that my family would understand the many secrets I had to tell them. I was as though I had a guardian demon telling me to reveal all. When I woke up it seemed that my family had already had their crack-orgy without out (they always exclude me) and my mother was crying. I worried because I hated to see her upset. But to my relief they were tears of joy. It seemed my brother had a fentanyl overdose and the strong opiates made for permanent brain damage. He was sitting happily on the sofa in a comatose space. I saw my father steal glances at my brother, so proud of him that his son had finally become a useless sack of shit taking up space on the sofa. As he drooled all over himself my brother looked like he was finally at peace. But I knew that my father’s happiness wouldn't last. I would eventually have to horrify my family. Not just because of the abortion of my incestuous retard baby but also because I had started seeing someone. Nathaniel Goldstein. The love of my life. And I knew it would kill them when they found out who he was. They were so disappointed that I had left my last boyfriend. It was one of my students at the elementary school where I taught. He was a very mature third grader and my father enjoyed sharing a few beers with him whenever we both came over to visit. In fact the boy left me for another teacher because I was unable to satisfy him and my father was disappointed not only to lose a possible son in law who he was deeply attracted to…but also that his daughter couldn’t pleasure her boyfriend satisfactorily. I chose to reveal all to my family while they were still a little high from the fentanyl and in the glow of the orgasms from the family orgy. I told them I had something to announce and that it wouldn't be easy but I asked them to listen respectfully to which my elder sister assured me, they'd always be there for me and I could tell them anything. I told them that I had a new boyfriend and that he was the one. But there was something they had to know. My mother prepared myself for the worst but little did she know it was far more horrifying than she could ever have thought. The problem is, he is my own age. My family let out a gasp. The idea that I wasn't in a relationship with a ninety year old dirty pervert or a highly underage child who barely started puberty shocked my family. My father took a deep breath and asked me what kind of physical disabilities and mental problems he had and when I told him he had none my father got up and left the table. “I can’t even look at you right now” he said running away in tears. My mother called after him to come back but I knew he needed time to process the news.

My mother asked, what strain of AIDS my new boyfriend had? I looked down in shame. My sister glanced at me and slowly saying "Please don't tell me that he has a non-viral undetectable strain of AIDS". When I revealed that he didn't have AIDS at all...there was absolute silence. We could hear the cat licking his balls it was so silent. They never believed I’d sink that low and live with someone who didn’t infect me with their disease every time we made love. The look of horror on their faces was too much to bear. At least my brother just sat there comatose with saliva bubbling out the side of his mouth but if he could have understood what I was saying he would have been hurt by my shame.

"What does he do? Is he a garbage man or a sewer inspector or fish gutter or..."? asked my mother.

"He's actually an accountant” I said. This was too much and my sister started to cry. "There is more" I said.

"No! I don't think I can hear anymore" said my mother in hysterical tears.

But life is all about hurting one another. I had to smash our family innocence. "He doesn't have an infected penis". No one could believe it. "His parents are not brother and sister and he doesn’t believe in any sex acts that results in hospitalization”. Nobody said anything...nobody could say anything. "And his semen doesn't taste like rotten yoghurt".

"My God..." said my sister "what does it taste like?"

"Well...it sort of tastes like sweet eggnog". My sister threw up on the spot

"Better you just didn't tell me" she said choking on her words.

"I haven't even told you the worst part". They looked at me incredulously just as my father walked back into the room.

"Please just stop...stop telling us these things" my sister said.

"Yes" my mother demanded. "It's been such a wonderful thanksgiving".

"No" I insisted. "Because if I don't tell you, then there will always be a part of me absent from us, this family, and we are already too fractured and separated". This truth calmed them down. And it was clear I was in the right. They none the less sat around staring at me with the faces of hurt and devastation. "He wants to have a baby and our child can never, ever ever participate in a family orgy."

"What are you saying" said my younger brother.

"Not even once he becomes an adult" I finished.

My father screamed at me "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!!! GET OUT!!! JUST GET OUT!!!". Everyone tried to stop him but he was so furious he physically pushed me out the dining room, through the living room and out the front door with incredible speed. He was so upset he didn't even pull my hair, bruise my arms or spit in my face as was the family tradition. As the door slammed close in my face, I knew that some doors could never be opened again. I thought my mother would come back and tell me to come inside and we would work it all out. But it never happened. Instead I heard crying and even screaming from my family. I sat outside the door for twenty minutes coming to terms with how irreparable the devastation was. And they'd likely never forgive me. Eventually I knew I had to go home in shame. I walked the whole way home trying to get hit by a car with no luck. Then, lying in bed I felt regret that I had told them. They weren't ready to hear it. I was so amped up I couldn’t sleep. Maybe I wanted to hurt them. Perhaps I was a miserable horrid spoilt girl. Who wanted to devastate them. Not even the vibrator my father gave me for my last birthday could calm me down. I had to use the a power drill for half an hour in my vagina to release some steam and feel tired enough to sleep for a while which unfortunately sanded down my clitoris beyond repair which, I knew, was an organ I would miss. I never learn. I deserved it.

The next morning, after I woke up my boyfriend was there, lovingly cleaning up my vagina mess and dead scar tissue from the power tool. He never understood my family traditions, nor would participate in them...but I could always count on him to clean up the bodily fluids after me. The phone rang, and somehow I knew it would be the worst kind of news. It was a fire marshal telling my family had burnt to death in a house fire. Of course they did. The devastation never ends. I knew one day I would hurt them so much they would ritually commit suicide without me. I could see them holding hands as their bodies started searing and their flesh melted off their bones, happy in their final minutes of glorious torture and not sharing it with me. They were so shattered they couldn't end it all in my presence like we had all planned for one day. My boyfriend held me as I wept and though I was in his arms, I had never felt so alone. When the fire inspector came they told me that someone had placed a huge tank of petrol in the livingroom before they started the fire. I knew what it meant. My family clearly had done it on purpose. They made it so the gasoline would incinerate their bodies afterwards so that I wouldn't be able to eat their remains or pleasure myself with their leftover body parts. Nothing more could be shared. I was abandoned and now an orphan, unable to eat my parents dead genitals. My boyfriend hid the video going around on YouTube from me, keeping me away from twitter but eventually I saw it. My family filmed the ritual suicide and put it on Facebook-live as it happened. They did it just to show me how much I violated our family bond. I saw them hugging each other as beams from the house fell down and crushed their bones. They seemed so together and caring…united in grief and love. My boyfriend told me he'd do anything to make me feel better and I said the only thing that would cheer me up is if he fucked me up the peehole. He really didn't like anything other than missionary sex but he wouldn’t say no. He couldn't after my family had excluded me for the last time, an exclusion that came from devastation and contempt. Unwilling contempt. The feeling once he came inside my ripped open pee hole led me to orgasm harder than I ever had before. I passed out from the pain and pleasure hoping I'd never wake up. Once we cleaned up the copious amount of blood I spooned on the bed with my future husband. I was to live with my normal non-abusive healthy well-adjusted boyfriend and as sickening as that would have been to my family, they were now gone and it was my life to live...regardless of how messed up and perverted a mediocre life might be. I told him I wanted to get married as soon as possible.

"I didn't realise you loved me so much"? He said.

I told him it wasn't about love but because I need to change my last name. He was both hurt but also honoured. I wanted to become Samantha Goldstein. I no longer deserved to be called Samantha Aristocrat. As my peehole slowly became infected I stuck my finger inside and licked on my finger soaking in puss, my boyfriend’s sweet eggnog and my own essence of piss. This was a family tradition after invasive pee-hole sex. All that was left of my family now was tradition. Life could still be meaningful with a boring husband I knew it and wouldn't let my families end stop me. I could be innocent once again. Even if I was no longer an aristocrat.