Fucking Daphne
One thing you might not know about The Sarge is that I like to fuck famous people. The Sarge is not, however, a star fucker. There’s a difference. The stars I fuck are on my schedule, on my whim, and all about my desire.
I saw Daphne on her LJ. Now, unlike you
writers corporate office drones the Sarge works for a living. And I take pride in my work, I don’t sit around all day on my butt pretending to write my little memos and office e-mails while really making pithy comments and cleverly ironic posts about how scary the world is outside your little artistic bubbles. Boo hoo look at Bush. Wah wah the government says every woman is a potential incubator. Oh no, I must wring my pale and scrawny hands, more bombs blew up in Iraq.
Snivelers.
There was something about Daphne at least that doesn’t snivel. Or at least, doesn’t snivel for just anyone. And I do like myself a girl as tall as me.
When she made a post about editing an anthology of writing by people who’d fucked her I thought to myself, "Sarge, this slut is asking for a little lesson in humility."
Supposedly she’s some kind of poet but it’s not like I’ve ever read her work. I mean, The Sarge might fuck men but he’s not a fag. The plan took shape in my mind while I whiled away a few hours on my route, in between dealing with the walk in cooler cheese snobs and the Bay Area roads filled with never-been dirty SUVs.
I e-mailed Daphne under a fake name and told her that a last minute judge was needed for some youth poetry slam competition. I felt dirty just typing those words. And when The Sarge feels dirty, everyone will soon feel dirty. I also told her we had grant money to pay for her time so she accepted. Artists are so easy.
I gave her the address of the old abandoned rennet factory outside of town. I wanted her in her natural element. Treasonous cheese snobs in the walk in cooler, snotty Goths in cemeteries, punks in old factories or warehouses, you get the idea.
Anyhow, like I said, I’ve never read her work. But I can survey a landscape and tell what’s going on. It’s one of my skills. Context told me that
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
postmaudlin, her alias, came from some horror movie. The Sarge has simple pleasures but Dairymen aren’t the only thing cheesy I like. I also like cheesy movies. I could tell she was my kind of gal.
Most of you have never been to a rennet factory, I know. Generation X? Ha. Generation Soft is more like it. A whole generation of people who have never killed their own food. Just like hypocrites who eat meat but have never skinned a deer, you all are a bunch of fancy cheese eaters who’ve never scraped your own rennet. Once, when the Sarge was just a little Private, I asked my Daddy if we could have some cheese on top of our chili. No sooner had the words left my mouth, without the mandatory "Sir" I might add, had Pop dragged me from the table into the backyard, through the cow dung and the thistles. We stopped in front of the baby calf pen. He grabbed Duke as she tried to get away on her wobbly little legs.
I had a lot to learn in those days. I had given a name to a meat animal. But Duke wasn’t going to be around long enough to turn into steak and burgers. Daddy picked her up by the scruff of the neck and slit her throat. Blood dripped onto the dirt forming mud that looked like red clay. Daddy gave me the knife and told me to take out her stomach.
"If you want sissy food, you can make it yourself. But you can’t take the easy way out. You have to make it from scratch. The rennet’s in there. Get cuttin’"
Like all workplaces before this country stopped working, the old rennet factory had a less personal relationship to the finished product than I had with old Duke. Once you could hear the buzz of freon keeping the freezers cold, the grumble of men doing manly things, the buzzsaw-rumble of the industrial grinders making useless calf stomachs into something men could use. They make a fake version of that stuff now. In a quiet, stifling, temperature-controlled environment. Made by people wearing white labcoats. Nothing is real anymore in this country.
I had it all planned out for the Final Girl. I told her that the judges would arrive early so she shouldn’t worry that no one was around when she got there. She got out of the cab (which I told her "we’d" reimburse her for.) and looked around warily. She was even taller than I thought she’d be. And I bet those hair-clumps, dreadlocks, whatever, will come in handy later. Her tattoos peeked out of her skimpy outfit as if saying, "I’m here, fuck me". As the cab drove away I was ready to make my move.
I had been watching from a broken window in the old manager’s office. I crept downstairs to await her entrance. I could picture her already, taken by surprise, at my feet or bound to the remnants of an old conveyor belt. You don’t know the Sarge yet, Poetry Star, but you will soon.
It’s not that Sarge wasn’t in control. Sarge is always in control. But Daphne never opened the front door. I don't know how she did it but suddenly she was behind me. I felt a sharp shock as she put something black and boxy to the base of my skull. I fell forward, felt something snap around my wrists, and soon the Sarge was in a position he hadn't been in since boot camp. And never with a girl.
Daphne seemed to sense this. She had unbuttoned her pants just enough so I could see she was packing a cock as big as mine. She started rubbing hers. "I am a boy when I hold my gun," she said.
Then she leaned down and whispered, "But I fear like a girl and so do you."
Sarge has always done the things he’s needed to do. Fear was never an option. I’d been ordered around before of course, The Sarge was in the service and followed orders without question in the field or in the bunk. But the Sarge is scared of nothing and no one issuing orders before had ever had the nerve to suggest otherwise. I struggled against my restraints and got another shock to my brain.
There are certain things that real men don't talk about so Sarge isn't going to recount what happened next but in about the time it takes cheddar curds to set, Daphne did many exhausting and discipline-instilling activities to the Sarge. Let’s just say that the Sarge performed his duties as instructed. Feelings don’t enter into such things.
Which is why I felt anger bubble up inside me when Daphne knelt down and untied my hands. She whispered, "It’s ok Sarge. We do things in the dark and we will never talk about how it scares us."
The Sarge was not scared! I wanted her to stop saying that. I would have told her that but the ball gag was still in my mouth.
