"Deeper"
The story of a man who gave everything.
Before I tell you my story, you should know a bit about my father. And how he died.
This is the story Mother told me when I was young.
Mother told me father was a lustful man. A lazy, lustful man. If he did any work at all, he only did it in the hope that his efforts would be repaid with sex.
Father craved sex. Craved it like fluid filled lungs crave air. His libido was chained irrevocably to a primal need for love that went unsatisfied in his childhood. A need unfulfilled by his father- who he never knew- or his mother, cold, stony, and uncaring.
When father was a young man, young and pompous and filled with youthful bravado, he met mother.
Mother was everything father ever wanted. She was the cold granite onto which father projected every warm fruitful fantasy denied to him in his childhood.
They say we fall in love with people not for their admirable qualities but because they hurt us in familiar ways. And if this is true, then my mother was a stand in for his mother.
Mother loved not, not even back then. She wasn’t a bad person, per se, she just wasn’t born with the capacity for affection. Much in the way some people are born blind or deaf or legless, mother was born without a heart.
And where her heart should of been, mother only had a gaping black hole. A black hole with an intense desire to suck in everything inside.
And even though it sounds contradictory, this was the only sort of person father really wanted. The only sort of person father could really love. Some people, people like father who have never known real love, can only believe love is real if they’ve squeezed it from a stone.
Squeezed it from some impossible fruit utterly incapable of being juiced.
I suppose, in some subconscious way, father saw mother as a means of getting the love and acceptance he never got from his own mother. That if he only tried hard enough, stretched himself thin enough, that if he only gave himself enough, mother would finally love him.
And when mother loved him, REALLY loved him, that love would somehow travel back, back in time, back to father’s painful, lonely childhood and heal retroactively the gaping wound that loveless childhood left in his heart.
But loving is hard for people like father. It is a cruel, perverse irony how love evades those most desperate for its warm embrace. Maybe it’s because those who grew up with nothing are so eager to give everything. To give too much of themselves. Even to those who will give nothing back.
But mother, unloving as she was and born with a black hole heart, would accept nothing less that father’s everything.
She demanded father kneel in worship before her, before she gave him that thing he most desperately craved.
The thing, she knew, she had nothing of to give.
Love. Or something like it.
But father knew this not. Easy it would have been to observe. Deaf ears could hear the coldness with which she spoke to him. Her loveless gaze could be seen even by the glassy milk gray eyes of the blind.
But in mother’s presence, father had naught for thought. No thought for his senses. No eyes to see. Nor ears to hear. No nose or any other sensory organ… save for one.
One organ that felt. That ached. That lusted. And craved. That stiffened and pointed like a dowsing wand.
Only this wand didn’t lead father to a well, but down one. Down down down, to where the air was moist and musty. Down to the place from which there is no escape.
And when his wand finally found moisture, when it entered into mother’s loveless void and touched her blackhole heart, when it came into contact with that terrible gravity, he couldn’t pull away.
He didn’t want to.
He wanted to go deeper. And deeper. Compelled by the horrible weight of her heart upon his loveless childhood. Compelled to give all of himself in tribute to mother. In tribute to that ineffable altar to which all men pray.
Now, according to mother, what happened next was not her fault. No more than gravity is culpable in the death of a man who throws himself off a building.
Father just wanted her too much. Too badly. He couldn’t stop. He buried himself deep inside of her.
He couldn’t stop.
Deeper and deeper he went. Impossibly deep. And no matter how deep he went, still he wanted deeper.
He couldn’t stop.
He came inside of her.
He couldn’t stop.
His erection throbbed, beating in time to the rhythm of his pounding heart.
He couldn’t stop.
He came. And he came. And he came.
And still he couldn’t stop. And still he wanted deeper.
And when he had no semen left to cum, when she extracted from him every last sperm from his wrinkled empty testicles, he came the testicles themselves.
And still he came.
He came blood. Just a trickle at first and then a torrent. And even as he turned white and his features became gaunt and skeletal, still he wanted more. He craved more.
He couldn’t stop.
And, that black hole inside of her also wanted more. So more he gave.
He couldn’t stop.
When he had no more blood left to give, he came his muscles. His biceps pumped into her, then his triceps, his latissimus dorsi, his deltoids, glutes, and pecs. Then he came his sinews and tendons. And all manner of ligaments and cartilage burst through his cock inside of her.
And still more she craved. And still more he gave.
Through his cock came his kidneys, his liver, and miles and miles of intestines. In orgasmic ecstasy, he came his eyes and his tongue and his brain and his battered, broken heart.
His boner stretched and split to spit his bones inside of her. He came his femur, he came his ribcage, his spine, and with one last final convulsion, he even came his skull.
His cock became a funnel through which every part of him poured into her- and still she wanted more.
And still he gave, withering away inside of her until he was nothing but a wet, sweaty husk of skin and matted hair being slowly sucked through his own cock hole. Until even his cock inverted and sucked itself out through its own meatus and the entirety of the man who had been my father turned inside out, deposited inside of her, and disappeared.
Mother always said father was hard to digest. Said it took her nine months and that her stomach swelled with the effort.
But there was one thing mother couldn’t digest. One thing mother could not stand to have inside of her- father’s persistent, unquenchable, undying need to be loved.
The feeling burned in mother like indigestion.
And since she couldn’t digest it, and since she couldn’t live with it and couldn’t love it, she gave birth to it. Like the bits of hair and bones a snake gives birth to when it takes a shit.
Only snakes don’t name the shits they take.
But mother did…
And the name given to that little piece of shit… was Nobody
She named me Nobody.
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