Ultra Fucked (Part 3)

My landlord has indeed noticed I haven't paid the rent yet this month. I was in the middle of making a deal, trading motorcycles with a with a friend of a friend, when he found me and asked if I had any money for him. I told him I would, but it would take me a little while to catch up and square off with him. He accepted that, and I'm very grateful. I made the trade and got a new motorcycle.

Tonight I brought some friends into the art studio, and we made ourselves drunk, stoned, musical and we became motorcycle mechanical. After they were all gone, I watched ten minutes of the American State of the Union Address, which was such a sack-of-shit buzz kill. Barack Obama filled everyone's ears with misleading dribble and poppycock butt-tickling. I shut it off and opened this block. Instead of talking politics, I want to finish the story I started telling a few weeks ago so I can move on to sharing more horrible adventures in my life with you beautiful people.

Let me continue where I left trailed off of Ultra-Fucked (part 2).

I wandered around the after hours club, over by the darker corners in the back. By darker corners, I mean not only was it pitch dark, but the only people in there black. I am not racist, nor do I discriminate, profile, or judge. However, there were thirty or forty black men in the back, sitting in shadows, smoking weed with big-bootied bitches on there laps, and they only stood up to make a shot on the pool table or go sell someone drugs. I walked into the group, drunkenly sliding my feet and one of the guys if I could take a hit off of a burning marijuana blunt he was smoking, to which he replied, "Yo, you got any money?"

"Yeah, I've got money," I said, "but I'm not going to pay you cash just to take a friendly hit off your blunt. We're all just hangin out, man"

"Naw," He said. I drug my feet and moved back other direction towards the bar to get another drink. I went up to a woman that looked like a hooker, and asked if she wanted to go to the bathroom to do some blow. She got a real big smile and looked me over head to toe. It looked like she wanted to fuck me just for asking.

I went to the bathroom and she followed. I pulled out the little bag of cocaine from my pocket, tore a fresh piece of paper off my cigarette pack and made a scoop out of it. I scooped the entire contents of the bag onto the paper and with one good SNOOT it all went right up my nose.

AGH! I felt great. I turned the bag inside out and gave it a little suckle so all the miniscule remnants could numb my mouth, and I looked at this sad, haggard looking woman. She couldn't have been over thirty, but looked like she had lived sixty years of hardcore street life. "Well, that was all of it; there's no more, but I'll give you twenty bucks right now to suck my cock."

The woman looked absolutely bewildered and a little frightened. A little bit of excitement must have boiled back up into her head, though, because she looked me over once more and said "I'll do it for forty."

"No," I told her. "Twenty bucks.That's all you're getting." Her opened wide and locked into mine. She was bewildered before, but now she was just plain baffled. "Okay," she said. "Cash first." I dug out my wallet and thumbed past the couple of remaining hundreds, the fifty, and found the twenties that were left. I pulled one out and handed it to her. "Thanks," she said, and dropped to her knees, and slid her hands up my legs. They made their way to my zipper and while one pulled it down, the other dove into the opening and pulled out my cock. Her mouth opened up and it took me in like I was a bug and she was a vacuum.

It didn't take long for my blood to rush from my big head to the little one. I molested the girls face with force, and she kept taking it like I was giving her what she had been wanting and thinking about all night. Eventually, I offered her another twenty bucks to fuck her. "Fifty," she said. "Yeah, you go it, but I'm going to fuck you in the ass."

"Well..." She started saying something but I reached into my pocket to pull out my wallet and it fell on the ground. "Hand that to me I said." I watched her pick it up, fumble with it and hand it back to me. I was too drunk to focus on what she was doing. I had become... Super Loaded. When she handed it to me, I opened it up to get her money. There was only a couple twenties and a fifty left in it."I dunno how much cash you just lifted out of here, but I know you don't need any more, and you can be damn sure I'm going to fuck you in the ass now."

She dropped her pants and turned around to offer her ass to me. From there, I grabbed her hips and pulled myself into her. I wasn't in her ass, but I didn't care. It was wet and warm, and her hair was sprawling down her back for me to pull on. That's all I needed.

We got some rhythmic motion going between us, and with one hand pulling her back and neck up towards me, and one hand wrapped around her throat, I used my hips to push her into the wall. There was violence in our sex,  and I was thinking it was worth every penny. Or thousands of pennies. Tens of thousands of pennies, is what it actually was, though.

I could feel the pressure building, and I was going to explode, so I pulled out of her and pushed myself right up to her sweaty, probably slightly soiled little asshole and left a gooey mess for her to tend to on her own accord. I turned around and stuck my dick under the faucet, rinsing it off the best I could. Shoving myself back into my pants and giving her a kiss on the cheek, I tried to pull my mind together as I stepped out of the bathroom to get another drink. I was already Super Loaded, and now my rent was spread around town between various bars, strip clubs and their employees, drug dealers, hookers and this weird after hours club, leaving little in my pocket for food, booze and/or cigarettes in the coming days. I had no idea when I would get more money, my income from my art studio was, and still is, almost zero. I see why they call us "starving artists."

After that, I remember leaning against a table, laughing about god knows what with the bondsman and his big, black friend. Then, the next morning, I woke up in my hammock in the art studio. I looked around. My head felt like an egg constantly being cracked on an iron skillet. I shuffled over to a mirror and looked into it. That's when I had known, I had been Ultra Fucked.

Yes, Ultra Fucked seemed to sum the night up well. I Ultra-Fucked myself financially, I Ultra-Fucked my mind with a combination of drugs, booze, and purely self-indulgent hedonism. I had been Ultra-Fucked by a prostitute in a skeezy bathroom, and I Ultra-Fucked her right back. I had Ultra-Fucked my self respect with all of the above, and looking back, I'm perfectly alright with all of that. Sometimes, being an artist, an outlaw, an asshole, an alcoholic, you have to mix all that together, explore your weaknesses, let the beast off the chain, and Ultra-Fuck yourself to find some inspiration. I had been feeling artistically stagnant for awhile before that night, and now every time I set down to get a little creative, I have no trouble finding inspiration to write, paint, or create/record music and videos. I am Bill Nomad, and I will forever find myself Super Loaded from time to time. Hopefully, I will not Ultra-Fuck myself again for awhile, but there really is no way to be certain about what will happen in the future. I invite you to horribly indulge yourself vicariously through my twisted, helpless adventures. I don't know what end any of this may bring, but together, we shall all find out.