Death. The noose tightening around my neck. The act of strangulation as I’m coming. A leather cord constricting my cock, the blood swelling and making it hard. If I’m lucky, it’ll just fall the fuck off. And then these voices will be gone.

One makes me money. Another, the Loser, takes it away. Another is hopelessly profane. There’s the sensible one. And then there’s Zelma. Tonight it’s Zelma who won’t shut up. She longs to be female, begs me to get the surgery done and take the hormones. I’ve gone so far as to make the first appointment. Sense made me cancel just in time.

I was in junior high when they first started, I mean when it first started. When my body hit puberty. Hair. Pimples. And my voice. It used to be this high tenor. I sang solos in the choir. Ave Maria. Everyone loved it. Until it changed. I hate the sound of it now. Deep. Nasty. Hateful.

We’ve never been to this club before. It’s full of queens in spandex and cross-dressers in what looks to be their mothers’ 1950s housedresses. Zelma has insisted on lipstick for the occasion. A ruby red. Sense drew the line at nail polish.

“Zelma has to interrupt this right now. What are you doing telling our life story? Do you think anyone is interested in that, Mark, you insufferable egomaniac? You’re best as Zelma. Zelma is the only you.”

Her high voice grates on my nerves, all shrill and jangly like Glinda, the good witch of the north.as played by Billy Burke.

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” Olives. I dash to the bar and ask the bartender for olives. Zelma’s howl makes my head pound as I shove a handful of pitted pimento stuffed green olives down my throat, almost vomiting.

As usual, thanks to Zelma, we’re kicked out of yet another club. Sense makes us go home. Money keeps us up late, watching our stocks. Money would trade in anything at all, has no ethics whatsoever, but Sense wants green funds only.

The Loser is quiet and that’s never a good sign.

“You are a cock sucking motherfucking little prick.” We’ve woken up Profanity who wants to surf for porn. My body agrees. We end up chatting with some chick with big tits. At first she’s confused and doesn’t understand why we’re all chatting to her from the same profile.

Zelma compliments her red hair. Money wants to know how much she charges. The Loser says nothing. He has his whisky now; he’s getting soused. Profanity wants her to take off her top and he’s not the least bit subtle about it. I type as fast as I can. All this blather.

Then the red head realizes just what she’s dealing with and logs off quickly without saying another word.

“Did you see the jugs on her, tit fucker?”

Obviously I have because my cock is erect and needing to be stroked. I hate touching it. Zelma does a fine job, her hands are the softest of all of us. She spits on them, wraps them around my cock, gets it slick and wet. So hot and tight, cupped between her slender fingers. We stop for a minute, winded. Turn to our favourite fucking machines site. We all love that one.

There’s a woman strapped down to a board and a steel phallus jabbing itself into her like a jack hammer into concrete. My cock feels like this. Far away from my body, not part of me.

Even Money doesn’t mind us using our credit card to see more of this stuff. Money takes over, rubbing his hands back and forth over themselves in glee and licking his lips. We’re all going to come at the same time. The Loser stops drinking for a minute.

The next video shows thick glossy lips distorted over a massive dick. Zelma wants it up her ass. We race to the bed. I reach into the drawer and pull out our fat black dildo, cover it in lube and slowly pump it into Zelma’s asshole.

Sense cries out in pain and then moans. This is the one thing we have in common. We’re all so fucking horny all the time. This puts everyone but me to sleep.

When the sounds in my head are finally still, I am calm enough once more to think about death. I have to be careful not to wake them up. I head for the drawer and slide it open. There’s the rope. I walk toward the chair.

Then, I hear an old familiar voice. My tenor. It wraps around me, sings something, Ave Maria. Tells me it’s been waiting for me to call out for it.

The Tenor has woken Zelma now. The two of them are arguing. The Tenor’s voice is stronger, much stronger than any of the others. Zelma is soon drowned out. I feel my throat choke, The Tenor’s hands press around Zelma’s neck and she’s dead. I’m sad briefly, then its voice lulls me once more. I can hear it arguing with the Loser and Money. It convinces the Loser to drink a few bottles of whisky. I’m light headed now. Sick. Money is bribed into silence with the thought of promised riches. All that remains is Sense.

I’m too sick now. It has given me pills. Says they will make me better. I can barely stand on the chair. I’m not even here anymore. I throw the rope over the ceiling beam and tie the noose.

I see the cord around my cock, so distant from me now. I pull the end of the rope. I step out.

The Tenor’s voice is the only one I hear now.

Tho we, by men, outcast, reviled;
O maiden, see a maiden’s sorrow –
O mother, hear a suppliant child!
Ave maria.

© 2006 Amanda Earl. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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