The Beginning

Swaying like green boats down this velvet tide of air, it's raining leaves. One can hear the patter of their edges scraping against the small ripples and dips of her naked back before they slide off. They reluctantly fall below her by the park's artificial lake. She used to paddle with lovers here. Biting her lips from one end of a floating vessel of wood, watching them squeeze their paddles in agitation, waiting to slip into their conversation something to impress her with. A new exclusive credit card they purchased or the eggplants they grew in their backyard garden. These men never knew that she never cared about such details when she reached down with her hands for the oyster curled hemline of her skirt, and parted her thighs. Skirt almost as small as her silk scarf. Now, the scarf and skirt are gone. Only her earrings hang.

Four globes from her earlobes. Two on each side. Sometimes the leaf petioles get stuck in these globes, swinging against the wind like chlorophylled wind chimes, trying to peek at the peaks of her nipples. Nipples pink like boiled nubs of peanuts. No one knows how many of the city have run their tongue and incisors over them. An astute observer would notice most men prefer nibbling or biting the left one over the right. She doesn't notice. She is too often too preoccupied by their hips against her orifices.

It always rains leaves this time of the year. Sky goes a pink hue. You even feel this hue misting your chest. Leaves of all color. Arugula, Kale, Rapini. On the good days you get collard greens and slanting broken columns of cilantro. She can close her eyes and smell one from the other. Watching her nostrils sniffle to this is a sight. The stay-at-home parents love this free delivery of groceries at their door step. But their partners come home late these days. Often stopping at the park on their way back home. Calls for a new parking lot are being raised at the town hall meetings. And showers. So they can wash her cum of their fingers soon after, and not get it on their steering wheels.

But the smell she looks for the most, wading past the wafts from nearby steak house and the Asian fusion food truck, is those of the men dyed from the tribulations of the day. Even when the jack rabbits pose themselves on their hind legs. And they do so often. They stretch themselves up for her and swing at each other's face as a form of display. To get her inter-species attention. Even faced with this performance, her nose can pick out the musk. From the gym instructor to the stock broker. She could be stung by wasps and the worst insults, but it wouldn't stunt her senses for the contours of their cocks pressing against their pants. Like a chef's excitement at the sight of fresh produce against their shopping duffel bag.

The pace of their boots trampling the grass brings a sound that impulsively causes her to spreads her legs like young timber reaching for the dawn light. She likes to play this game as she dig her ankles against the whiskers of the knots holding her in place. Listening to the flapping of their flannel shirts or business suits against their muscles. What would each one's thrust feel like? If she can imagine the veins coiling around their cocks when they would eventually slide across the layers of her puffy center. Like a chess player seeing moves ahead.

Only, she is a slut. Not a chess enthusiast. And for that reason, no one believes she holds the kind of intelligence for disentangling such correlation. But she thinks she has gotten better at translating the intensity of their teasing and taunting. Apparently, each beat of the boot gives her a hint of where their knuckles will rest over her once they release their belt buckles. Maybe they'll hold her over wet hair. Maybe one will hold her tied hands, crossing them against each other at the rise of her lower back. Or not at all. Just leave her with undulating heat from the sting of their slaps against her ass. But I would say it's just tarots in her pussy. These premonitions.

You might wonder what really goes on in her head in these moments. Or settle for something less exciting. Like how is her hair always wet?

Your best bet in answering such questions is the bald man with the nose ring who visits her every evening. He hasn't come by yet. It might be the day he snips her hair with his pocket scissors to exactly the length she likes. She can still taste the porcelain of the bowl from which he feeds her water. And then soup. The two never exchange any words. Only a smile or a nod. Some days he doesn't even fuck her. He has developed an instinct for when she is sated from the rest of the day.

In those worn out evenings, before feeding her, he cleans her up with a warm towel, wiping off the cum off her beaming body. She groans in approval when he collects the bit on her forehead and cheeks all on her lips. Usually, she sticks her tongue out and slurps it in, causing a very visibly satisfied contraction in her throat. This always causes him to smirk and pat her cheeks in adoration. A final display of wantonness for the day.

He then reads her a book, sole on the ground, back against the grey wall. She tries hard to keep her eyelids from drooping as she watches the sun dip down on its invisible elevator between the two sky scrapers facing her. At the turning of thirteen or fourteen pages, when the sun has passed the first floor, he hears the slow hum of her snoring. That's when he stops. He looks at her for a little while. Wipes her face with another towel. Then leaves.

While I say this is the beginning, this is truly not. As the man from New York times rubbing his chin over the nearby bench won't tell you, he is precisely investigating how this began. He keenly watches her every day, placing his cup of cranberries next to him on the bench so that no one will sit there and try to make conversation.

The reporter used to cower and look distracted about the fellow with the fork digging frantically at the corner of the park too close to the water fountain. The reporter has ever since gotten used to this loafer's erratic body language. The swans introduced to the lake sometimes strut towards the fork man and peck at him continuously. But he doesn't relent. Or stab back the white tufts of feathers with his fork. His determination to dig a hole is as strong as the slut's to be the city's cum bucket. But this story is not about him. It's about her.

Some say she used to be a CEO of a company called TraceNet. And the board one day had enough of her controversial decisions. Decisions such as training the employees to curry favor with the auditors with photos of themselves in appropriately chosen lingerie. She even showed them how in a meeting. So they fired her and had her stretched against this wall in the middle of city park and tied her up to two large Saguaro cacti, her head sticking out through a hole in the marble wall between them. The rest of her resting on an elevation with her ass against the air. This state is not meant for Saguaros. But the Saguaros feel at home now ever since she was planted here.

The couples who perform tai chi on the nearby lawn trade rumors about her between their sedated hand and leg sways. When the instructor is facing away, looking like he is bursting stars from the sight of the massive fig tree at the park center, they gossip that the men who make her moan the loudest are all in fact ex-subordinates of TraceNet. These men used to smack their lips everyday, watching the swing of her hips every time she would exit the conference room. She would always frustrate them with her audacious work attire. There were only days of some cleavage or more cleavage. Days of some inner thigh or more inner thigh. And now, day by day, they have torn off any sliver of clothing.

But there is no record of TraceNet or of her being a CEO. Whether or not any of these men visiting her is an ex-subordinate, a regular visitor is one of the husbands who attends the tai chi class. He has found this new habit of going out every night on long walks at the park. Full from the mix of couscous, cherry tomatoes, tofu and basil that his wife prepares, he plugs in a pair of earphones to jaunt out for a stroll. The laughing Buddha at their house entrance sports as wide a grin as the husband. He is unusually hard for a man with a full stomach going to enjoy the night lights. The drops of apple cider vinegar the wife always sprinkles in the dinner probably helps.

His wife does suspect something. She suspects he has been sneaking out to revisit his smoking ways. While he comes back way less anxious, the stench he brings back is not those of the Malboros he used to smoke in college. It's the ex-CEO's cunt. The wife is partly pleased he is not as horny these days before bed. But what if the cigarette habit is affecting his libido as she read in medicaldaily? She worries. If only the wife knew.

Some say the ex-CEO story is bogus. "Look at her. Could such a cum dump have been been a CEO?" They say the installation is due to an ex-boyfriend. A lean experimental artist who sells only to the upper echelons. Like the ones who are part of company boards. His sinewy Krav Maga trained body is covered with tattoos of objects from the works of Dali. He was always feigning nonchalance to the men she fucked. He did give a new agey nod to her promiscuous lifestyle. But it would get him snappy during his art tours, imagining her spreading herself to god-knows-who back in his own self-warming bed hundred miles away at home.

The final straw was when during a squabble she lashed back with the revelation that she fucked the analytic philosopher next door. This especially pinched a nerve. This neighbor would often have a condescending air about him whenever the artist would politely strike a conversation while collecting his free coupons from the mail box. The subject of his art would come up and the neighbor would annoyingly interject to explain how his own academic work was more about establishing incontrovertible truths.

In a following state of hypnagogia while meditating after his training at the Krav Maga dojo, he imagined her like this. An open human envelope for the city's cocks. He furiously started drawing sketches of the piece. Sketches of her behind to be perched in the most promising angles. And word is, after he dragged her off the bed during one of her romps, it materialized the same night. He donated the installment to the city. Now it even says in neon lights blinking over her head, next to a melted clock and an elephant with feet as obscenely large as its trunk. The lights say For Public Use.

Below the lights someone has spray painted over the new law which was meant avoid overcrowding. It used to say, Utmost three at a time. The philosopher has since started directing his post tenure research towards grayer truths. Apparently.

The city's mayor has embraced her arrival. Even he doesn't know how or when she showed up in the park expenses registers and the spreadsheets. He only knows that he has now assigned special days for maintenance of the installment. Truth is, these are days when he has the workmen install a tarp tent around her, and has his own way with her. He has given himself unrestrained access to one park camera feed. Between meetings, it really gets him worked up to see her so obediently restrained and hands run all over her body by the lecherous citizens of his city. The workmen have been assigned their own precise method of her maintenance. She looks forward to these days. Their construction site smell all over her reminds her of a younger time.

A move that everyone in the city liked is how she was once decorated with a string of lights coiling around her. While they removed most of the lights after New year's, they left a bulb of light in her butthole. This seems to have hardened the visiting men's cocks when they push themselves into her. When they are fucking her, the tungsten glows brighter. The city college scientists have confirmed this with their flux meters. Some other scientists have raised skepticism though. There are calls to repeat the experiment with better controls.

The reporter can't tell which of these stories is true. All seem equally suspect through his rimmed glasses. Today he has added some yogurt and chia seeds to his cranberry. This is the only positive development he has to report of his visits. Out of the corner of his eye, the picture does look different. He sees the man with the fork staring at the city slut. He has never seen the two interact before. But the fellow has a very peculiar look that the reporter doesn't recall ever scribbling in his blue paged moleskin diary. As if the man is teetering at the edge of regaining his sanity.

The fork man stretches himself up on his feet like a jackrabbit about to flex it's limbs, and proceeds to the city slut. He rests on his knee behind her, and starts tugging at the bulb. Her head bobs up. The word Whore written all over her in thirty eight different languages from men visiting from her all around the world feel more visible to anyone passing by. The tungsten flickers in surprise. She is startled by the fork man's advance as much as the reporter. Nevertheless, she starts squirming and lifting up her restrained bottom, plump like a pumpkin ready for Halloween. As if she has been waiting to lift his curse.

He keeps tugging at the bulb to give her what she wants. Her moans have a different note of pleading and pleasing. Even distracting a regular passerby with a glaringly purple coat on his minimally sleek yellow bike. He stops and starts taking pictures of the fork man kneeling behind her.

The tugging doesn't seem enough. So he carefully hooks the base of the bulb between the fingers of his fork, and starts levering harder and harder, the rays from her butthole rhythmically contracting and expanding. Her eyes are shrunken in a mix of pain and pleasure at this. She bites her lip exactly when bicyclist clicks on his phone. Her eyes are barely open in a state of trance. She hopes everyone can see. She wants to keep her face fixed on the screen as if she is teasing a constellation of a hundred thousand voyeurs. The city has in fact dedicated a youtube channel to her. And it has a few thirteen million followers, many who watch her live. No one ever thought to tell her this.

As she licks her lips, she feels a loud plop of the bulb escaping her ass, leaving a hole she hadn't felt for a while. She feels like a full apple suddenly missing its core. Without a moment's thought, he presses the edges of her ass to spread it wider, rests his nose against her cocyx and sticks his tongue in. As he holds her cheeks in his fist, he pulls her back into his face. She feels the core back in her and starts bucking back into it, uprooting the grass and fallen leaves beneath her with her fist. As the number of people huddling around her grows to about twenty, she finds her thighs stiffening and arms feeling that soreness before that final leap. Shadows in the sky scraper start closing towards the glass windows and she can see silhouettes moving their hands up and down in an urgent incoherent fashion. Even a woman sitting on a big desk on the 18th floor can be seen spreading her legs wide open. Possibly a CEO by the look of the desk.

Even before her groans have washed away completely, the bicyclist flings himself for the bulb in the grass, and packs it into the lower pocket of his purple coat. He then zooms away on his bike, clenching his pocket as if his own soul was packed in there and could leap out any time. As she recovers from the sensations, the man with the fork, zips up his pants, and walks out of the park.

The reporter never sees the crazy man again. But she is always here. He still wears his rimmed glasses, but has since added the fork to his arsenal. He can be found digging at the same hole at a distance from her, causing the pile of mud to grow larger and larger. He is no more as sharp in his observations. He just enjoys the sound of the men, and sometimes woman, sliding their tongues between the cheeks of her buttocks, as he scoops along into the hole, not giving a fuck about how this all began.

A blue sheet of paper from his diary always escapes the early morning trash pickers and has it's own life inside the park. If any one could pick it up, they would see brushes of word art with a Mitsubishi 9000 pencil. The final thing the reporter wrote. Possibly the title of his article that he could never write. The Tossed Salad.