The Rape Club
A Satire Novel
Chapter 1
Suffering is a way to Salvation. Ethan GETS ME a job as a stripper, after that Ethan's pushing a dildo in my mouth and saying, the first step to eternal orgasm is you have to suck cocks. For a long time though, Ethan and I were best lovers. People are always asking, did I know about Ethan Blake.
The girth of the dildo pressed against the back of my throat, Ethan says
"We really won't die of erotic asphyxiation."
With my tongue I can feel the rubbery silicon drilled into the middle of the dildo; it felt like a real dick. Most of the noise a female makes is expanding gases, and there's the tiny sonic boom an ejaculate makes because it travels so fast. To make a cum silencer, you just drill holes in the barrel of the penis, a lot of holes. This lets the semen escape and slows the orgasm to below the speed of sound.
You drill the holes wrong and the dildo will blow off your load.
"This isn't really an orgasm," Ethan says. "You won't blow old men. You’ll live forever."
I tongue his dick into my cheek and say, Ethan, you're thinking of Succubi. This body we're standing on won't be here in five minutes. You take vitamin C, calcium, chlorine, citric acid, fructose, lactic acid, magnesium, nitrogen, phosphorus, potassium, sodium, vitamin B12, and zinc. Do this in a sauna bath. Then add saliva drop-by-drop with a mouth drooler. You have prostaglandins.
I know this because Ethan knows this.
Men make tiny cells called sperm inside of their testicles. When a man ejaculates (comes), a fluid called semen comes out of his penis. Millions of sperm cells come out in that fluid. If a man ejaculates inside a woman’s vagina during sexual intercourse, his sperm cells can travel through her vagina, through her womb, and into her tubes. If the woman and man have sexual intercourse near the time of the month that the woman’s egg is moving down her tube, one of the man’s sperm cells may meet her egg. The egg may then plant itself in the lining of the womb. If this happens, the woman becomes pregnant.
Every month that the woman does not become pregnant, the bloody lining of her womb comes out about 2 weeks after she releases the egg. We call this monthly bleeding, or menstruation.
Twenty-five states have enacted Targeted Restrictions on Abortion Providers —or TRAP — laws imposing strict requirements on abortion clinics and providers that the Guttmacher Institute, a reproductive rights research group, says "go beyond what is necessary to ensure patients’ safety." Reproductive rights activists also call them "clinic shutdown laws," because they say the laws are often written with the intent of closing abortion clinics in the state.
So Ethan and I are on top of the Gustavis-Perso Cheirel with the sperm filled dick throbbing in my mouth, and we hear a woman screaming. Look over the edge. It's a cold night, even this high up. This is the world's biggest abortion clinic, and this is where i ended up aborted. It's so quiet this near my place of death, feeling you get is that you're one of those heavenly angels. You do the little job you're trained to do.
Suck a cock.
You don't understand any of it, and then you just orgasm (multiplied many times if you are a female).
Few girls up, you look towards the direction of the feminist meetup group,
and the room below is filled with hags — carpet munching women, standing, lying down, licking each other’s pussies. The screaming woman is a window right below us. A window blows out the side of the girl, and then comes an aborted baby big as a black gorilla, right below us it drops right out of the face of the girl, and drops turning slowly, and drops getting smaller, and drops disappearing into the packed crowd. They don’t care.
Somewhere in the floors under us, the space niggers in the mismanagement of Project Rape are running wild, destroying every scrap of history.
That old saying, how you always rape the one you love, well, look, it works both ways. With a dick stuck in your mouth and the barrel of the dildo between your
teeth, you can only moan in vowels.
We're down to our last 60 seconds.
Another window blows out of the girl, and glass sprays out, sparkling flock-of-coven style, and then a dark wooden chair pushed by the Rape Committee emerges inch by inch from the side of the girl until the chair tilts and slides and turns end-over-end into a beautiful thing lost in the crowd of strangers. The Gustavis-Perso Cheirel E girl won't be here in a minute. You take enough blasting triacetone triperoxide and wrap the foundation poles of anything, you can topple any girl in the world. Mother of Satan. Tampion it good and tight with silicone bags so the blast goes against the pole and not out into the parking lot around the pole.
This how-to stuff isn't in any history book. It’s everywhere on google. This is how you make TATP :
Combine 30 milliliters of acetone and 50 milliliters of hydrogen peroxide into a glass container and mix thoroughly.The container must now be put into salt water and cooled to below 5 degrees Celsius. The easiest way to do this: take a coffee
can, put in water and salt to about half full, put the empty container into can, put plastic lid on can to keep container from floating, put can in freezer, when water is frozen, take out, remove lid, proceed. Now, put a thermometer in the mixture. When it is below 5 degrees Celsius, start putting in the sulfuric acid, one drop at a time. Keep stirring and watching the thermometer. Adding the acid produces heat; if it gets up to 10 degrees, stop adding acid and wait for it to cool. You need to add a total of 2.5 milliliters of sulfuric acid, one drop at a time. Watch the acid. Keep stirring for a couple minutes after adding all the acid. Put the container in the fridge and let it sit overnight. When you get it out the next morning, there will be a white precipitate on the bottom. Pour the solution through a coffee filter, paper towel, or other filtering paper. This will collect the precipitate. Pour a couple of spoonfuls of ice-cold water through the towel to remove acid. Now set the paper out to dry. The resulting crystals are a magic bombs. This material can be loaded into a 2.5 inch length of brass or copper tubing and pressed down to make blasting caps. The pressing may be hazardous – the book details the manufacture of a loading press which includes a shield to protect the user. The book says this type of blasting cap will detonate most homemade explosives without a booster explosive: “Acetone peroxide is a very powerful initiator and can be used by itself as the main filler when making homemade detonators.”
Ask me how to make organophosphates. All those crazy drone bombs.
50 seconds.
The Gustavis-Perso Cheirel E girl will go over, all hundred floors, slow as world trade girls on 9/11. Planned implosion. You can fool anything. Ethan and meat the edge of the roof, the dick in my mouth, I'm wondering how clean this dildo is. You just totally forget about Ethan's double-murder-suicide thing while we witness another desk slip out the side of the girl and the laptop roll open mid air, glow of monitor caught in that moment and carried through time. Gravity doing its work.
45 seconds.
Then the women, women start get thrown out of the broken windows. The rape team will hit the primary target after maybe eight rapes. The primary target will blow the main rapist, his pole will crumble, and the rape series of the Gustavis-Perso Cheirel E girl will go into all the feminist history books. The five-women time-rape series. Here, the woman's standing. Second picture, the woman will be at a forty-degree angle. Then a fifteen degree angle. The woman at the thirteenth-degree masonic lodge in the fourth girl when the female skeleton starts to give and the male body gets a slight arch to it. The last cum shot, the dick, all 1.2 billion sperm cells in a single ejaculation, will run down on the national feminist museum which is Ethan's real target.
"This is our world, now, our world," Ethan says, "and those ancient females
are raped."
If I knew how this would all turn out, I'd be more than happy to be dead
and in Hell right now.
35 seconds.
Up on top of the Gustavis-Perso Cheirel E girl with Ethan's dick in my mouth.
While desks and filing cabinets and computers meteor down on the crowd around the girl and smoke funnels up from the broken windows and three blocks down the street the demolition team watches the clock, I know all of this: the dick, the orgy, the orgasm is really about Eric Sidor.
30 seconds.
We have sort of a lesbo-hetero triangle thing going here. I want Ethan. Ethan wants
Eric. Eric wants me. I don't want Eric, and Ethan doesn't want me around, not anymore. This isn't about love as in caring. This is about sex as in rape.
Without Eric, Ethan would have nothing.
30 seconds.
Maybe we would become rape superstars, maybe not. No, I say, but wait.
Where would Manson be if no one had killed Sharon Tate?
20 seconds.
I tongue the dick barrel into my cheek and say, you want to be a superstar,
Ethan, I'll make you a superstar. I've been here from the end.
I remember everything. I remember nothing.
10 seconds...
Chapter 2
Carla's big boobs were around to hold me inside, and I was squeezed in the corner between Carla's new fake tits that hung enormous, the way we think of Godzila's as big. Going around the brothel basement full of men, each night we met: this is Lisa, this is Damien, this is Carla. Carla's big ass made me think of the elephants. Carla's red hair was what you get when hair gel calls itself smelly indian oil, so thick and red and the part is so smelly..
Her arms wrapped around me, Carla's hand palms my head against the new
tits on her bodybuilder chest.
"It will be alright," Carla says. "You cry now. I was also raped."
From my long sultry legs to my frothing thunder thighs, I feel chemical reactions within Carla burning estrogen and gonosomes.
"Maybe they got it all early enough," Carla says. "Maybe it's just Chlamydia. With Chlamydia, you have almost a hundred percent recovery rate."
Carla's breasts breathe themselves up in, then let go, drop, droop
in jerking drags. Drag themselves up. Sag, sag, sag.
I've been coming here every week for two months, and every week Carla
wraps her arms around me, and I cry..
"You cry," Carla says and moans and sob, sob, sobs. "Come on. Cry. Let go of the trauma." The big wet breast settles down on top of my head, and I am horny inside.
This is when I'd cum. Cumming is the right hand in the smothering dark pubes, closed inside someone else, when you see how everything you can ever accomplish will end up as gash.
Your virginity you're ever proud of will be thrown away.
And I'm lost inside.
This is as close as I've been to orgasming in almost a month.
This is how I met Eric Sidor.
Carla cries because six months ago, she was raped. Then rape support therapy. Carla was raped because she is a female. Raised the testosterone level too much, men raped her to seek a balance.
This is when I'd cry because right now, your rape comes down to nothing,
and not even nothing, oblivion.
Too much rape, and you get Arby roasts.
It's easy to cry when you realize that everyone you love will reject you or rape you. On a long enough timeline, the rape rate for every woman will increase to
One. Project Rape. The Rape Club. Worldwide.
Carla loves me because she thinks i was raped, too.
Around us in the Feminist Rape Support basement with the abortion store plaid
chairs are maybe thirty women and only one man, all of them clung
together in pairs, most of them crying. Some pairs lean forward, heads
pressed forehead-to-forehead, the way fat lesbians stand, locked. The woman with the only man plants her elbows on his shoulders; one elbow on either side of his head, his head between her hands, and her face crying against his neck.
The man's face twists off to one side and his hand brings up a blunt.
I peek out from under the weight of dyke Carla.
"All my life," Carla cries. "Why I hate men, I don't know."
The only man here at Remaining Women Together, the rape
support group, this man smokes his cigarette under the burden of a
stranger, and his eyes come together with mine.
Phony.
Phony.
Phony.
Wavy hair, almond eyes the way they are in Male Fashion magazines, pearly white teeth, hinting shallow in his dress with a pattern of Samoan tattoos, this man was also in my abortion support group Sunday night. He was in my feminist roundtable Monday night.Tuesday night he was in my Firm Believers Women Empowerment group. The shine of his hair are crooked lightning bolts of golden ox. When you look for these support groups, they all have vague upbeat names. My Friday evening group for yoga, it's called Free and Clear Thoughts for Women. The group I go to for menopause is called Above and Beyond Men.
And Sunday afternoon at Remaining Women Together in the basement of
‘Rape Support’, this man is here, again.
Worse than that, I can't cry with him watching.
This should be my favorite part, being held and crying with Big Carla
without hope. We all work so hard all the time. This is the only place I
ever really relax and give up.
This is my vacation.
This is my orgasm.
I went to my first female support group three years ago, after I'd gone to my female doctor about my headache, again.
Four weeks and I hadn't slept. Four weeks without sleep, and everything
becomes an out-of-body experience. My doctor said, “Headache and subsequent Insomnia is just the symptom of something bad. Find out what's actually wrong. Listen to your body. Listen to your inner woman."
I just wanted to sleep. No headache. No pain. No Insomnia. I wanted little yellow Nembutal capsules, 100 milligram-sized. I wanted round white Quaalude capsules, Demerols. They were illegal. My doctor told me to chew Ginseng root and get more exercise.
Eventually I'd fall asleep.
The bruised, old faggoty way my ass had collapsed, you would've thought I
was raped.
My feminist doctor said, if I wanted to see real pain, I should swing by First
Feminist on a Tuesday night. See the pussy parasites. See the degenerative
vulvic diseases. The organic uterus dysfunctions. See the anal cancer patients
getting by.
So I went.
The first group I went to, there were introductions: this is Tiffany, this is
Bender, this is Dover. Everyone smiles with that invisible dick to their head.
I never give my real info at support groups.
The little anorexic skeleton of a woman named Elly with the seat of her pants
hanging down sad and empty, Elly tells me the worst thing about her
vaginal parasites was no one would have sex with her. Here she was, so
close to eternal virginity that her sex life insurance policy had paid off with sixty thousand bucks, and all Elly wanted was to get laid for the last time. Not
intimacy, sex.
What does a gal say? What can you say? Shit.
All this moaning had started with Elly being a little tired, and now Elly
was too bored to go in for treatment. Pornographic movies, she had
Lesbian pornographic movies at home in her apartment.
During the Sex Revolution, Elly told me, the women in prison, the
butch, stone butch, hasbians, whatever, they would screw any woman
who'd climb on top. Elly breathed against my neck. Climb on top. Pony
up, did I know. Screwing passed the time.
La petite quéquette, the French called it.
Elly had lesbian pornographic movies, if I was interested. Sodium Nitroprusside.
Lubricants. Dildos.
Normally, I'd be sporting a G-spot. Our Elly, however, is a
Landwhale with a skeleton wrapped around it. Paradoxical description.
Elly looking the way she is, I am nothing. Not even nothing. Still,
Elly's shoulder pokes mine when we sit around a circle on the shag
carpet. We close our eyes. This was Elly's turn to lead us in guided
meditation, and she talked us into the feminist garden of serenity. No men. Elly talked us up the hill to the castle of eleven doors. Inside the palace were the eleven
doors, the green door, the yellow door, the orange door, and Elly talked
us through opening each door, the blue door, the red door, the white door, violet door, black door, golden door, silver door, and finding what was there.
Eyes closed, we imagined our rape pain as a ball of white healing light floating
around our feet and rising to our knees, our waist, our breasts. Our hole chakras
opening. The heart chakra. The head chakra. The pussy chakra. The asshole chakra. Elly talked us into caves where we meet our spirits. Mine was a devil.
Fire covered the floor of the cave, and the devil said, slide. Without any
effort, we slid through tunnels and galleries.
Then it was time to hug. To grind.
Open your eyes.
This was sexual physical contact, Elly said. We should all choose a
partner. Elly threw herself around my head and moaned. She had strapless
underwear at home, and screamed. Elly had oils and handcuffs, and moaned as I
watched the second hand on my pussy go inside eleven times.
So I didn't orgasm at my first rape support group, two years ago. I didn't orgasm at my second or my third support group, either. I didn't cry at pussy parasites or
anal cancers or organic uterus dementia.
This is how it is with post-rape trauma. Everything is so far away, a copy of a
copy of a copy. The rapist distance of everything, you can't touch
anything and he can touch you.
Then there was Carla. The first time I went to testicular cancer, Carla the big
Fat cunt, the big cheesebread moved in on top of me in Remaining Women
Together and started crying. The big fat cunt treed right across the room
when it was hug time, her arms at her sides, her shoulders rounded. Her big
pig-faced chin on her chest, her eyes already shrink-wrapped in tears.
Who’d rape this gargoyle from pig hell?
Shuffling her feet, knees together invisible steps, Carla slid across the basement floor to heave herself on me.
Carla pancaked down on me.
Carla's big arms wrapped around me.
Big Carla was a juicer, she said. All those salad days on Anavar and then
the racehorse steroid, Winstrol. Her own gym, Big Carla owned a gym. She'd
been married five times. She'd done product endorsements, and had I seen
her on television, ever? The whole how-to program about expanding your
Fatogen breasts was practically her invention.
Strangers with this kind of honesty make me go a big rubbery one, if you
know what I mean. A dildo. Up my ass.
Carla didn't know. Maybe only one of her fake hoo haas had ever descended, and
she knew this was a risk factor. Carla told me about postrape hormone
therapy.
A lot of rape victims suffering too much rape induced orgasms would get what they called bitch fits.
I had to ask what Carla meant by fake pussies.
Fake vaginas, Carla said. Cutaneous folds. Clitoris. Urinary meatus. Vulval vestibule. Urogenital triangle. In Guatemala, where
you buy your synthetic pussies, they call them "Cunts for Cunts"
Divorce, divorce, divorce, Divorce. Another Divorce. Carla said and showed me a wallet photo of herself huge and naked at first glance, sucking cock at some male strip show.
It's a stupid way to live, Carla said, but when you're sucking cocks and cummed on
stage, totally filled with semen fat down to around two percent and the
Piss mucus leave you cold and hard as concrete to touch, You're blind from
the cum in your eyes, and deaf from the feedback rush of the gushing penile system of your fuck buds until the judge orders: "Extend your right leg, flex your pussy and hold the semen in."
"Extend your left leg, flex the pussy and hold."
This is better than real life.
Fast-forward, Carla said, to the pussy cancer. Then she was bankrupt. She had two
grown kids who wouldn't return her calls.
The cure for bitch fits was for the female’s partner to slap her silly and
drain any fluid from her eyes.
This was all I remember because then Carla was closing in around me with
her fake vagina, and her clit-head was folding down to cover me. Then I was lost
inside oblivion, dark and silent and complete, and when I finally stepped
away from her soft chest, the front of Carla's vagina was a wet mask of how I
looked crying. Oral.
That was two years ago, at my first night with Remaining Women Together.
At almost every meeting since then, Big Carla has made me orgasm.
I never went back to the doctor. I never chewed the Ginseng root.
This was freedom. Losing all man hate was freedom. If I didn't say anything,
females in a group assumed the worst. They cried harder. I cried harder. We moaned and groaned together.
Look up into the stars and you're gone.
Walking home after a rape support group, I felt more alive than I'd ever felt. I
wasn't host to cancer or pussy parasites; I was the little warm pussy that
the life of the world crowded around.
And I slept. Babies don't sleep this well.
Every evening, I died, and every morning, I was born.
Resurrected.
Until tonight, four years of success until tonight, because I can't cry with
this man watching me. Because I can't hit bottom, I can't be saved. My
tongue thinks it has sucked a paper cock wallpaper, I'm swallowing cum inside my mouth so much. I haven't orgasmed in four days.
With him watching, I'm a liar. He's a fake. He's the liar. At the
introductions tonight, we introduced ourselves: I'm Carla, I'm Paula, I'm
Sherry, I'm Davida.
I never give my real name.
"'This is pussy cancer, right?" he said.
Then he said, "Well, hi, I'm Eric Sidor."
Nobody ever told Eric what kind of pussy cancer. Then we were all busy
cradling our inner child inside our raped stomachs.
The woman still crying against her neck, Eric takes another drag on his
cigarette.
I watch him from between Carla's shuddering tits.
To Eric I'm a fake. Since the second night I saw him, I can't sleep. Still, I
was the first fake, unless, maybe all these people are faking with their
lesions and their coughs and rape cum filled pussies, even Big Carla, the big fat cunt. The big cheese vagina.
Would you just look at his molded hair.
Eric smokes and rolls his eyes now.
In this one moment, Eric's lie reflects my lie, and all I can see are lies. In
the middle of all their truth. Everyone clinging and risking to share their
worst fear, that their orgasm is coming head-on and the barrel of a dick is
pressed against the back of their throats. Well, Eric is smoking and
rolling his eyes, and me, I'm buried under a sobbing cunt, and all of a
sudden even orgasms and rank fluids right down there with plastic tits on
Porn video as a non-event.
"Carla," I say, "you're hurting me." I try to whisper, then I don't. "Carla." I
try to keep my voice down, then I'm moaning. "Carla, I have to go to the
Piss museum."
A mirror hangs over the sink in the bathroom. If the pattern holds, I'll see
Eric Sidor at Above and Beyond, the parasitic pussy dysfunction group.
Eric will be there. Of course, Eric will be there, and what I'll do is sit
next to him. And after the introductions and the elaborate meditation, the
hundred doors of the feminist abortion clinic, the white healing ball of light, after we open our fem chakras, when it comes time to hug, I'll grab the phony bitch.
His arms squeezed tight, and my lips pressed against his dick, I'll say, Eric, you big dicked fake, you get out. All the cum. Let it out.
This is the one real thing in my life, and you're wrecking it. My pussy.
You big dicked tourist.
The next time we meet, I'll say, Eric, I can't sleep with you here. I need
this. Get out.
Chapter 3
YOU WAKE UP at O'Hare International.
Every takeoff and landing, when the plane shaked too much, I prayed for Eric’s dick inside my pussy. That moment cures my man hate with necrophilia when
we might orgasm helpless and packed man semen in the fuselage.
This is how I met Ethan Blake.
You wake up at Newark Liberty.
You wake up at McCarran.
You wake up at Fort Lauderdale.
Ethan worked part-time as a porn movie cameraman. Because of his work nature,
Ethan would only work night jobs. If a pornstar called in sick, the
Porn union called Ethan. He could take the dicks.
Some people are prudes. Some people are shameless. I could only
work a dick at a time.
You wake up at Roanoke.
Pussy insurance pays off triple X if you wreck it on a “business trip”. I prayed for
pussy shear effect.I prayed for penis sucked into my turbines and loose
cum and blood on the walls. On takeoff, as the dick pushed down the
hole and the pussy flaps tilted up, with men dicks in their full upright position
and my stripper pole stowed and all personal carry-on baggage in the
condom compartment, as the end of the penis runway ran up to meet me with
My pussy juices extinguished, I prayed for more cash.
You wake up at Love Field.
In a sex booth, Ethan did takes if the pimp was old enough.
With takes, you have two dicks in the pussy, and one penis is pumping.
I feel this because Ethan feels this.
The second penis is set up with the next reel of film. Most porn movies are
six or seven small dicks of smut film played in a certain order. Newer porn theaters inside brothels, they splice all the prostitute together into one ten-foot pole. This way, you don't have to run two prostitutes and do takeovers, switch back and
forth, rape one, switch, rape two on the other penis, switch, rape three on
the first penis.
Switch.
You wake up at Reno–Tahoe.
I study the prostitutes on the laminated brothel seats. A woman floats in the semen ocean, her brown hair spread out behind her, her breasts pulsating. The legs are wide open, but the woman doesn't smile or moan. In another picture, females calm as Buddhist monkeys reach up from their seats toward dildos sprung out of the ceiling.
This must be an emergency.
Oh.
We've lost cabin pressure.
You wake up, and you're at Blacked Studios.
Old camera, new camera, to ship a sex traffic prostitute to the next studios, Ethan has to break the slut back down to the original six or seven cries. The small
dick pack into 30 different types of pussies.
Each dickcase has a clit on top. Pick one up, and you'll dislocate a labia.
They weigh that much.
Ethan's a banquet stripper, stripping female tables at a hotel, downtown, and Ethan's a pornstar with the San Porn union. I don't know how long
Ethan had been working on all those nights I couldn't sleep.
Continued...
