Like A Hole In The Head 1

Author's note: This tale features a brain-damage fetish, unorthodox sex, and unstable people over age 18. This story is sexual but not really erotic, and is NOT for the squeamish, although nobody is forced, harmed, or trepanned here.

I aimed the power drill at my forehead and pulled the trigger. The motor spun up to speed like a solid dust-devil. My future stared into my face. Would I? Could I?

"C'mon Marva, don't start at the end. How did this begin?"

What, I should tell you how I reached this point? What, you think you want to know my fucking story? Yeah sure. I do NOT have time for this.

"Bad attitude, girl. Don't you want help? Tell me everything!"

Okay then, fuckhead. I'm a little freaky. Not REALLY freaky, no coprophagia or bestiality or batshit-crazy conservative politics. I do not fantasize about furries, or sweaty armpits, or footwear, or invisible friends, or vast conspiracies. I do not get high on cheap 54-proof WalMart mouthwash, or electric kool-ade, or snorting. I do not Tase myself or anyone else.

But I

am

fascinated with brain injuries. Other people's brain wrecks, not my own. And not just a simple obsession. Brain damage is extremely hot, sexually stimulating. Brain-damaged lovers are just the most exciting kind!

"What the fuck

IS

this shit, Marva?" my now-ex-boyfriend demanded. We were talking on the phone. Well, I was talking, and Mike was shouting like a foghorn. I had told him I was breaking up with him. He was not happy. Neither was I, really.

I tried to be soothing. "Just calm down now, Miguel. You knew this wouldn't last forever. I mean, thanks for all the jewelry and everything, but..."

Mike cut me off. "But fucking nothing, you cunt! You've just been fucking USING me! All this time, hot and heavy, building a life together, and now you're fucking GONE?!? You've been playing me for a fool all along! You..."

His profane diatribe dimmed to a bothersome buzz as I held the phone away and looked out my cheap apartment window over the gritty townscape. I heard and saw a train rolling westbound. I would be riding Amtrak real soon, getting away from here, escaping again.

When the angry buzzing died away, I spoke to the phone. "Mike, you've been an okay guy, even with all your concussions. But y'know, you're really a bit boring. I always know what to expect from you. I can only take so much of that.

Adios

, lover."

The phone screamed again till I switched it off. Nothing personal, Mike.

I looked around the worn, tidy little room. Nothing intimate here, no spirit or memories. Only a room. I hummed to myself, "All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go..." and I knew I was never coming back. I rolled my light luggage out the door, over to the elevator, down to the waiting taxi.

*****

"You really are a manipulator. Do you even know why?"

WHY doesn't matter. All that really matters is HOW. And I have been practicing and refining strategies and tactics for a long time, learning HOW to get what I want. No, I do not have it yet. I am still learning, still practicing.

It probably started back in high school with Tyler. We dated all senior year, gone to first and second bases and almost stole third, but nothing wild, no pressure. Tyler was a sweet guy, calm and cheerful and not too bright, just comfortable.

Then Tyler ran his Yamaha dirt bike off a rough trail and rammed his head into a big rock. The doctors just diagnosed a mild concussion, nothing too serious. He only missed school the week of Prom. He made all his classes after that and even survived finals somehow.

But he had changed. The injury did something to him, altered his neuro-bio-chemistry or whatever. Now he was a fucking charismatic sexual ANIMAL. He stayed calm until he saw some flesh. Then he went monstrous and magnetic on me. He had to have goddam trifectas every night, mouth and cunt and ass, over and over again. He about pounded me to a pulp.

And I loved it!

"Oh yeah Marva, you're just so fucking TIGHT, goddam I love your asshole, unh unh unh AAARGH!!!" he yelled, his long fat black dick skewering me, his red-hot jizm exploding into my waiting bowels.

He never fell out. He was hard again in less than a minute. The butt-beating resumed. I pushed my ass back into his groin. And I worked myself to endless climaxes, endless ecstasy, endless GETTING from him.

That is when I knew exactly what I wanted. I wanted ORGASMS and ADRENALINE and CONTROL and lovers who were OUT of control. Lovers who would astound me.

*****

"You were using Tyler then. Was he the first? The worst?"

"Hey, Tyler was a real piece of work, AFTER. Like, right after graduation. Tyler's smarter older sister Kayla was waiting with their folks' big Sequoia to haul us to the first party. Kayla was gorgeous and happy.

We never made it to the party.

Next thing I knew, Tyler had persuaded Kayla to drive to a deserted country lane. He had the back seats laid flat, and he had all of us naked. Kayla was flat on her back with Tyler's man-meat stuffed into her pussy while I sat on her face and wriggled and giggled.

Tyler kept oozing pheromones. We females reacted. After Kayla's tongue made me scream, I found myself in doggie position; butt in the air, Tyler reaming my hungry anus, while I ate his last loads of semen from his sister's pulsating pussy. My hands on her chocolate tits, and her hands wrapped into my hair, kept my face in place despite Tyler's pile-driver impacts.

We all yelled a lot. It was a helluva afternoon.

And Tyler's pheromones kept flowing. We all kept fucking and sucking and slurping. Tyler's brain injury supercharged his libido. He just stayed hard and kept on cumming. No way was he the worst of my fuckmates. No way!

"But didn't you think you had lost control of Tyler?"

Well, I had to slap him to get his attention, to get him to quit, after he had fucked me and Kayla senseless, nearly unconscious. Yeah, he was a monster, but I *did* manage to control him, eventually.

And now that I think about it, this was all exactly what I wanted, including the lezzing-out with Kayla. It was not my first, and I am pretty sure it was not hers either. I mean, look, she lived in a girls' dorm at college, so of COURSE she had tongue-in-pussy experience. And maybe she wasn't wild and nutz like Tyler, but she was sure nutz enough!

Tyler BEFORE, and other guys and girls before, were okay to fuck, but nothing really earth-shaking. Tyler AFTER just rocked my world.

Tyler rocked other worlds too. Two days after graduation, he joined the Marines. I heard he fucked damn near everything in his path after he finished boot camp in San Diego. That was okay with me. I was ready for fresh meat.

*****

"Did you see yourself as hypersexual, a nymphomaniac, a slut?"

Hey, I just found that I really liked to fuck! And not just ordinary fucks. After Tyler left, I tried a bunch of different lovers. BORE-ing!! Totally unsatisfying. Not crazy enough.

So I started looking for crazy lovers. I quickly found that crazy wasn't enough. There was don't-give-a-shit crazy, and another-fucking-world crazy, and cold-ass-sociopath crazy. No nice funny bull-goose-looney crazy, no charming eccentrics, just dysfunctional guys and girls unfit to live around others. And they weren't too much fun sexually either.

I remembered Tyler. Fondly. Very fondly. I figured out what I was doing wrong. I was trying crazy folks. They weren't what I wanted. It came to me. I wanted novelty, excitement. That meant brain-damaged lovers, physically and mentally unstable; and surprising, always surprising.

"Acceptable head cases are pretty hard to find, aren't they?"

No shit! How to locate them? I took to reading the newspaper police reports, scanning for news of head injuries. That didn't pan out, so I bribed some hospital orderlies to tell me about patients with head injuries and ailments, especially cancers.

BONANZA! Some of those brain-salad surgery cases were great!

Leon's unpleasant business associates, dealing in contraband, had decided that he knew too much but wasn't worth killing, so they stuck an icepick up his nose and scrambled his brains a little. They aimed for his prefrontal cortex (I'D RATHER HAVE A FULL BOTTLE IN FRONT OF ME THAN A PREFRONTAL LOBOTOMY) but missed. Instead of Gomer-izing him, they just short-circuited his superego. OUT went his self-control. His memory was a bit muddled too.

Leon wasn't incapacitated too badly but he wasn't exactly fit for polite society. He gave in to every impulse. Think of someone with full-body Tourette's Syndrome. When he got the urge to piss, he pissed. When he got the urge to fuck, he fucked. You get the idea.

I kept Leon as a house pet for awhile, but he got to be too much, even for me. So I found some other playmates to join in the fun.

First, came big Whitney and little Lavonne, two diverse women from the 'hood..

Whitney and Lavonne had both suffered and survived brain tumors. Their LARGE tumors had been successfully removed, leaving lacunae (empty spaces) inside their heads. Fairly long and narrow lacunae. Whitney's was behind her left eye, where her optical cortex had been removed. Lavonne's was inside her right ear.

Both Whitney and Lavonne were simple, complacent, compliant girls, who would do almost anything they were asked. Or at least, they tried to comply. Sometimes they went off on weird tangents, twitching or yodeling or writhing crab-like across the floor.

Leon was energetic but not well-endowed. His full-erect length was only about four inches. That was just fine for the ladies. (And okay for me too, when he was reaming my ass -- not too far there, thanks.) He could fuck their heads, ramming his short fat prick all the way in, banging his balls respectively against Whitney's cheek or or Lavonne's neck, WHAP WHAP!

Next, I found Marcalla and Dwayne.

Marcalla's cancer was in her nasal cavity, now hollowed out. I had read that the only known nasal sex in the animal kingdom was with Amazon River Dolphins, whose males would fuck any dorsal blowhole they found. Then Leon started fucking Marcalla up her nose. Hot damn! Those dolphins have competition now.

Dwayne had cracked his Nordic skull when he fell from a moving car, so he was just weird enough. But his cancer had been abdominal, leaving a great lacuna behind his navel. Leon was happy to give him belly-fucks, slamming into Dwayne's gym-hardened abdomen.

Naturally, any cranial or other hole Leon and Dwayne weren't filling at the moment was likely to be tongued and/or fingered by one or more of the rest of us. We played-out some of our usual scenarios.

Scenario:

Dwayne is on his back with Leon crouched over him, fucking his navel. Whitney is sitting on Dwayne's face, enjoying his tongue, and facing Leon, who leans in to bite her tits. I am sitting on Dwayne's adequate cock and sticking fingers up Leon's anus. Lavonne and Marcalla are 69'ing nearby. Grunts, groans and moans fill the air.

Scenario:

Lavonne is lying on her back. I'm between her legs, lazily slurping her pussy with my butt in the air and my knees straddling Marcalla's round Korean head as she eats me. Leon is busy fucking Lavonne's ear while she happily swallows Dwayne's cock and fingers Whitney crouching beside side her: a 'shocker' up Whitney's slithery pussy and anus with one hand, and the other thumb swirling inside her sensitive eye socket.

Scenario:

I am on my back. Leon is supine under me, working his chubby little prick into my flat ass. Dwayne is squatting over my face, feeding me his bigger cock, and he's eating the pussy of whoever is standing over my head. Somebody else is between my legs, eating me. Where the others are, I dunno, because my line-of-sight is blocked, and anyway, they're always moving around, changing positions. Yeah, whatever.

And that's how our days and nights generally went. The guys' pricks stayed busy as long as they were conscious. Holes were filled, whether or not the recipient was awake. Everyone but me (the normal one) tended to spontaneously erupt with emotion and confusion at odd times. Yeah, I loved those surprises.

Things went well for a few weeks. Then Leon got a bit over-energetic and fucked Lavonne's earhole too deeply. He seemed to have impacted her brain's pleasure center. Oops.

Lavonne went into continuous orgasm mode, coming intensely, constantly, endlessly. This was great for her but rather boring for the rest of us, except Leon, who didn't care, so long has he had holes to stick his prick into. But we couldn't really care for her in that state, so we sent her on to the retard hospital in Spadra. Yeah, she was just another spad now.

[NOTE: Locals didn't think highly of the "mental retreads" in the hulking institution and preferred to refer to them as 'spads' rather than idiots, morons, imbeciles, etc. People are cruel. But you already knew that.]

"Don't you feel any responsibility for what happened to Lavonne?"

Not really. She was with us voluntarily, consciously. Well, mostly consciously, anyway. She could leave at any time. She liked the ear fucks, the mouth fucks, the pussy and ass fucks, and she liked tonguing and fingering. And she seemed to REALLY like cumming 24/7, even though she couldn't communicate well afterwards.

Or, I could just say that Leon fucked her brains out, and leave it at that.

*****

"Enough already. Why are you aiming a drill at your forehead?"

Give me a few minutes, I'll get there.

The neighbors started complaining about the loud noises coming from my place. I left. I'd had lots of fun with my lovers, but after a few months, even *they* started becoming predictable -- not enough surprises. So I left them behind, packed up a few things, and moved east. I found a nice little place in New Orleans. Lots of brain-damaged folks around town, for sure.

New Orleans is where I met Miguel. He had been a boxer who took too many punches to the head. That made Mike interesting at first, but he quickly became routine. And when I showed interest in more excitement, more people, he got all territorial and possessive and macho, a real asshole. And a dangerous asshole.

Enough was enough. I packed up and took a train to Austin.

Austin, Texas, across the alley from the Alamo, is where I found Jaylen and Kamille, another half-brother-sister team -- same black mother, different Mexican and Indian fathers. They were totally unique in my experience. They had tried many consciousness-expansion techniques in their search for total mental clarity.

They found an answer, a procedure that worked for them: trephination.

Trephination (or trepanning) is an ancient practice, used since the dawn of time by shamans and healers to release the demons within a human head. Just drill a little hole and let the bad vibes flow out, along with any excess intracranial pressure.

Jaylen and Kamille had drilled holes in each other's heads -- right between their eyebrows, disguised as

bindis

, Hindu ceremonial dots. They freed their third eyes. They were never stoned but always high and alert.

"Trepanning increases our brain blood volume," Jaylen said, "so our circulations feed our brains more oxygen and nutrients. We get more blood in our genitals too. That's great!"

"We think better and deeper and faster," Kamille insisted. "We see the world with utmost clarity and precision and complexity. All our sensations are like synaesthesia --' we taste colors and sounds, feel light and words in our extremities, and see flavors and ecstasy."

"And we are nearly telepathic," Jaylen continued. "It's as if our neuro-psychic energy readily oscillates between us, transcieving messages, and also acts as a force-field to capture details of our ambient universe. We think it has something to do with Reich's conception of orgone energy, the eternal power of orgasms to bind reality together."

WOW!

I had thought my life a search for new thrills, for novel and extreme experiences, for relief from the tedium of normal mundane existence. But this was much better! Clarity! Orgasms! Total enlightenment! Nirvana!

Jaylen and Kamille and I had sex together. No, we made love, No, we JOINED every square centimeter of our physical bodies, and every erg of our mental energy. Cock and cunts and mouths and butts intermixed with heat and light and sound and dreams and completeness.

I felt enmeshed in an infinite web of cosmic love and extrasensory ectoplasm. I felt my third eye trying to open in the middle of my forehead.

I felt incredible. Jaylen and Kamille, their deep red and cocoa bodies layered on my caffè-latte flesh, seemed to glow and vibrate and radiate and

transcend

. Fuck, THAT is what I wanted and needed, an endless transcendent explosion of joy and pleasure!

Just imagine: the continuous ecstasy of Lavonne, but with the control and clarity of Kamille. A ticket to heaven, without that messy dying stage interfering with the fun.

And that is why I am here with the power drill. Kamille offered to treppan me, but I want to control the transition myself. I want to take myself to the next level.

"Are you sure you are ready for this? And all its consequences?"

Yeah, that *IS* the question, ain't it? Here I am, talking back to a voice in my head, wondering which other voices might join in. Will it be a cosmic chorus? An eternal echo? Laughter?

There is only one way to find out. The spinning drill is resting against my forehead. Here goes nothing.

Bzzzzz... (click)

*****

"So, what's the story? Are you drilled? Enlightened? Clear?"

I chickened out. I didn't do it. I switched-off the drill and dropped it. I lowered my head to the table while my mind's eye soared high to look down on me. There I was, naked and alone, hunched over a battered table in a cheap motel room in a bad part of Austin, crying softly into my crossed arms.

Why was I crying? Because I could not face Jaylen and Kamille, not in my un-drilled condition. Because I could not face myself; I lacked courage to make the transition. Because I was a coward. Because... just because.

And something happened inside me, something quiet and fateful, like a switch softly sliding into a new position.

In the switch's old setting, I could do anything. I could control my life. Everything was possible if I just tried hard enough. The sky was the limit.

In the new setting, I saw the walls, the limits. There were places I would not go, things I would not do. I saw the boundaries around me -- lines I would not cross. Lines I drew myself. Walls of my self-imposed prison.

That is the moment I grew up. Or the moment I started to die. Same thing.

I had a flash of mental clarity. Not like what Jaylen and Kamille promised, all spiritual and transcendent and joyful, but totally material and pragmatic. I saw myself as I truly was: a user. And I was okay with that.

Yes, I saw my role in the world. I was here to use people, just as I always had -- for my pleasure more than theirs, but they got their rewards too, of course. Using people was my career, my calling. I was good at it. Use them for sex, for money, for power, and just for fun. People were my tools. I was the highly-evolved tool-user.

And I saw what to do next. I packed again. Nothing much -- I always traveled light. I rolled my luggage to the Amtrak station. I caught the train westward, always westward. My destination, my fate: Los Angeles. Lots of head cases in Los Angeles.

Yes,

lots

of head cases in and around Los Angeles. I would have fun. And if L.A. got boring... well, there was always San Francisco.

"So that's it? You're just going to run off? It doesn't end here, you know."