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The Ugliest Flower

Dated: 8/12/07

And tonight is just like any other night. I’m at another upscale club in the heart of the meat packing district, drunk as fuck, dancing with some girl—no older than seventeen—dressed in a bulky maternity smock that makes her look more corpulent than she actually is. Truth is, I have a feeling that her frequents to the bathroom involve self-inflicted acts of regurgitation followed by a shot of Listerine.

She is bent over in a chaotic fashion; her ass thrashes violently against my masculinity while I hopelessly try to sip on my watered-down Vodka and Redbull. My efforts are futile and end disastrously as I spill half my drink onto her vile yellow dress. But she doesn’t even care; she’s too drunk from the apple martinis and too hot from her hankering for techno to give a fuck.

And I’m looking at my friend, Chester, who’s sucking on some unconscious girl’s areolas. I’m looking at the promoter who joyously dances over to our table with another complimentary bottle of Grey Goose, wearing a black V-neck t-shirt and dog tags that he bought from Ed Hardy over a year ago. I’m looking at the custodian—possibly a distant relative—who’s mopping up my accident. I’m watching the DJ—a friend of mine—spin a mix that sounds exactly like a Girl Talk song I was listening to on my iPod this afternoon while picking up a new pair of Prada loafers.

There is no better way for me to describe the pretentiousness of the city. And it all means nothing. We’re all so full of shit that everyone in this place is in dire need of a colonic.

As the beat grows faster, so do my bumps and grinds. And the girl, unable to keep the pace, stumbles to the floor, knocking over the chasers on my table. That stupid, graceless bitch. But I still want to fuck her, so I grab her by the arm and help her to her feet. There is no such thing as a selfless act. Once she regains her balance, she continues to dance as if nothing ever happened. My friends at the booth are laughing hysterically and I realize there will be no gratification if I fuck her.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I shout over the somewhat infectious house music.

She doesn’t respond. As I am walking to the restroom, I look back to see if the girl is still waiting for me. I watch as she wipes beads of sweat off her forehead, fixes her soiled smock, grabs another drink, and dances with some guy in a flamboyant Etro collared shirt. Slut.

When I enter the bathroom, I head straight for the stall. My mind is itching to know whether the yip I bought from one of the promoters is even worth entering my nasal passage. I break up the llello in the gram bag and wonder if there are any other feasible uses for manufacturing these pouches. Yip-lock bags.

I lick my finger, pick out a small amount and gum it. My mouth grows numb and the blood from my body starts to pump with a caustic intensity as I realize the cocaine is legit. I dip the butt of a Parliament cigarette into the bag, scoop out the bouncing powder, and proceed to bump it. I place the bag back into my Dolce & Gabbana jeans and exit the stall. I give the bathroom attendant two dollars and tell him his bathroom is great for snorting yak. The foreigner shakes his head and smiles; he has no idea what the fuck I’m talking about.

As I exit the bathroom, I notice a change. The world is slightly more blithe, more euphoric. Everything has a beat. And I’m dancing to the tune of the world using gyrations that seem to divulge my true, deep-rooted intentions.

I swagger over to this beautiful, slim figure—object if you will—wearing a multicolored bandeau dress that ends slightly an inch above its knees. In the midst of the chaotic environment, it sways like a water snake, creating its own balmy ambiance.

As I approach it, she materializes and I can feel the world silence around us. The bass booms and my heart bumps, yet she remains collected. Once our bodies touch, everything bursts back into action, exploding into a million little pixels and retracting to create a frenzied sketch that mimics a Kandinsky painting.

And I too can see sound as color.

I feel her tight grip on my forearms. I feel her sultry stare seep its way into my dilated eyes. I feel the warmth of her body tug fervently at mine. I feel it all. It feels like lust, pure unrefined lust.

And I’m closing my eyes and dreaming about all the dirty things I will do to her—whips, chains, and knives—anything my sick mind can envisage. I’m dreaming about busting a Peter North sized load all over her naturally unnatural breasts.

But before I can collect my thoughts, I notice my hands are steadily rising up her dress. I notice as my fingertips slowly inch their way past the band of her seamless thong. And there I am, fingerblasting the shit out of this girl in the middle of Tenjune. The sweet stench of desire permeates the sultry air as her moist rosebud respires to the rhythm of the music. Her head tilts back savagely, hanging low like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. As her head moves forward, a torrent of vomit spews from her mouth with such deep-rooted intentions, attacking my new white Ermenegildo Zegna button-up in an anarchic fashion.

Horror invades my countenance as I push the stupid bitch out of my way and shout, “Are you fucking serious?”

The look that’s on her face is one of childlike innocence and remorse.

But I’m a heartless dick so I persist, “You dumb fucking cunt. Learn how to hold your fucking liquor. What are you twelve?” I take off my shirt, throw it at her and continue, “This was a three hundred dollar shirt and now it’s worthless. I can’t even wipe my ass with it. You stupid, stupid bitch. Do you know how many dicks you’d have to suck to pay for this? I hope you die a slow, painful death. I’d do it myself, but you aren’t worth my time.” And she tries to mutter something that sounds like ‘I’m sorry’ but I interrupt, “No, please—don’t speak. You smell like dick cheese. Enjoy your night.”

And I leave her there to bask in the grisly stench of Mojitos, sushi and bile. I leave her there to sulk in her obtuse actions. I hope she goes home, downs a bottle of Xanax, and dies. I know I’m being melodramatic, but sometimes it’s hard for me to control my emotions.
I exit the club, knowing it’ll be almost impossible for me to find a girl to fuck when I reek of vomit. I know I’m a catch, but there’s a limit to how much a girl will tolerate. And considering my narcissism, malcontent and guile, I don’t believe there is any room for the miasma of some girl’s insides.

It’s two thirty at night (or morning depending on whether you are out clubbing or inside watching Fresh Prince reruns) and I desperately need someone to deceive: an ingenuous woman eager to feel loved—even if it is only for the night. Despite my apparent misogynistic tendencies, I need women. I am hopeless without them. They complete me. My temperament is what prevents me from ever truly loving them. Contrary to what you may believe, remorse is something I feel constantly. I consider them objects, not because I think they are insubstantial articles undeserving of any mortal compassion and benevolence, but because I am incapable of providing such luxuries. I need to objectify them in order to quell the insecurities that plague my own existence. I look for girls that are even more subjugated by their emotions than I am. I feed off their dejection. I need them for sustenance. I love women because I hate myself.
That being said, I digress. And I’m walking aimlessly down the streets of New York supremely inebriated but still bumping from the coke. The brazen and deplorable summer breeze relentlessly howls, sending chills that travel from my toes to my fingertips. It births this incessant feeling of loneliness deep within my soul.

Can anybody find me somebody to lust?

Just as this feeling of perpetual isolation calcifies, I stumble upon some helpless soul begging for change on the street. She is a young woman—possibly too young—dressed in tattered garments that compliment her soul quite nicely. There is an overbearing stench of piss and must; it conquers the stench of vomit that emanates from my clothes with such ease. She looks like salvation.

I approach the vagabond as she keeps repeating, “Could you spare some change, kind sir?” I bend down and look her directly in the eyes (blue). She continues, “Please sir, please could you spare some change? I’m so hungry. Please—”

And I interrupt her foolish pleas, “You look hungry.” I smile at her with the hope of quelling her anxiety. “When’s the last time you had a nice piece of meat in you?” And as I say this I notice that she’s salivating. She really is hungry. And I do plan to feed her. “Come with me,” I say while giving her a wink. “I’ll give you a nice meal and a warm place to stay for the night.”
At first she seems hesitant, but necessity precedes everything, even pleasure.
For me, my necessity is pleasure.

And she agrees to get into a cab with me. During the drive, neither of us says a word. I’m thinking about all the things I’m going to do to her. I can only imagine what she’s thinking. Food. Shelter. Clothing.

We get to my apartment and the taxi driver tells me the ride costs $13.75. I look at the homeless woman and say, “Do you think you can get this one? I’ll get you back tomorrow.” She blankly stares at me; she doesn’t know what to say. I look at her and laugh, “I’m just fucking with you.” As I hand a twenty to the cab driver, I can see through my peripherals the young woman admiring the bill as if it were a papule on her labia. “Keep the change.”

I am such a gentleman: I open the door for her, help her out of the car, and slip a dollar into her jacket pocket. When we enter my apartment, she heads straight for the refrigerator. “Hey, what are you doing?” I ask in a noxious tone. “Relax, there’ll be plenty of time for you to eat.”

I survey her body—the way her long, unwashed hair travels down past her 32A-cupped breasts, the way the ash graces her elbows and knees like light snow on a windowsill, the way her emaciated frame compliments her bony, gaunt face, aged by the effects of affliction and turmoil. And I continue, “But first you’ll have to do something for me.” I look over at my bedroom, trying to be discreet; but I decide, fuck it, and I tell her to get on top of my bed. And due to her current circumstance, she complies. I am the God of plenty she has been praying to every night.

Since I’ve already had a bottle of Goose to the face, I am prepared to fuck anything and everything. This stack of negligible matter actually looks like a prepossessing Mona Lisa to me. And there she is, posing elegantly on my bed as if she is waiting for me to paint her. Her pain-plagued eyes follow me around the room, but she never moves. I am an artist and she is my canvas, something I shall paint my torment upon.

And in my drunken state, I’m as graceful as an elephant; my moves are not smooth: they are heavily, but poorly calculated. And in one swift motion, I jump on top of her, and then fly off my bed and onto the floor. She laughs. I don’t think it’s funny; but I’ll give her something to laugh about.

I hop back onto the bed, placing one leg between her coarse thighs, rubbing one knee against her stale mound. She moans. Her head tilts back feverishly as she spreads her legs wider. I glaze her pillars with my palms, tracing the grittiness with my fingertips. And she wants it so desperately, just like everyone who has been in this bed before her. Her breathing elevates, and as she exhales, the pernicious gas of affliction swims its way past her chapped lips.

I push up her skirt with my eager hands, blessing every moment with prodigious suspense. Her threadbare underwear is inundated with withering flowers and grey-haired bumblebees. Sparse hairs eject from her mound and pierce her panties in a chaotic fashion. I’m drunk with desire and everything spins in a frenetic manner, but whatever images my glazed eyes capture are reminiscent of a Picasso painting—ugly shapes that fuck each other in such obscure ways that the end result is pure pulchritude.

Yet, my other senses are not as pleased with my choice, not like sight and touch. I peel off her panties and begin to kiss around her peach. But the taste is not as sweet as I had remembered. My lips get closer to her flower, inching in like worms, without any regard for time. But the stench is not as sweet as I remembered. Disgusted and drunk, I act out of pure whim by grabbing the Febreze bottle on my nightstand. I begin to spray it generously into her pink sheath. The mist billows from her Amorphophallus paeoniifolius swelling outward into the caustic air. I cough.

The stench of corpses is too much for me to bear, so I throw a towel at her. She gets the hint and enters the bathroom. She seems unfazed, as if this has happened to her before. Maybe she really is that hungry.

The shower screams rape as she enters the tub. I can see her through a crack in the bathroom door rubbing down her sunburned body with a bar of soap. I can see the dirt and grime swim down her skeletal design, unveiling the beauty that was underneath her ghastly shell. She was a swan in duck’s clothing.

She leaves the bathroom in nothing but a towel, her hands at her sides, waiting for me to bark my next order.

I stand in front of her, looking straight into her eyes, marking my territory with my stare. I grab her shoulders and guide her to my bed. She sits down with her hands on her knees. The towel unravels.

And there she is, exposed, vulnerable. And there I am, my jeans around my ankles, fucking her with a fury that burgeons into a vehemence that explodes. She fucks with such desperation, such deep-rooted destitution. Once you fuck for food, every other sexual encounter you have just isn’t the same. And I thrust chaotically, trying desperately to fill the well. Her flower blooms, breathing heavily around my swollen stamen. She writhes. I’m spent.

Beauty really does come from within.

And she’s hungry, but I’m tired.

“I think you should go,” I say, thanking her for letting me borrow her body for the night.
I grab her clothes and put them in her hands. She barely has her torn, sullied dress on by the time she leaves my apartment. Regret graces her countenance and she hangs her head low like an anemic flower.

Now I know that some of you may think I’m a callous, insensitive fuck, but don’t worry; I throw a Nature’s Valley granola bar at her once she’s in the hallway. She seems grateful. She eats like she fucks. And I am content.

This is Manhattan. This is man.

1st Hayden Santiago Recording

Monologue:
“My name is Hayden Santiago—” I begin, but the stupid bitch sitting in the passenger seat interrupts me. “Shut the fuck up, bitch!” And I continue to shout into the recorder, “My name is Hayden Santiago—” And I’m interrupted yet again by her senseless screams. “I said shut the fuck up! If you don’t, I’ll stab a hole in your throat and fuck your voice box!” I’m not sure if that’s possible, but apparently she does because she doesn’t speak a word after that. And I persist, “That is who I am, but not what I am. My desire to burn and destroy, rape and pillage anything beautiful is rooted so deep that I no longer see the world as abject, ugly, but rather measure everything along a spectrum—a wavelength of beauty. I am not something tangible—flesh, blood, muscles, tissue, matter. Though I try, I cannot define myself using generic labels—father, son, brother, artist, prophet, martyr. I am not the protagonist. I am not the hero. So what am I? I am defective. I am pure, unfiltered emotion. I am total, unabridged control. I am a wicked, wicked orgasm. I am the germs of every human quality. I am the screams between satin sheets that pervade even the thickest of air. I am the desire that festers beneath your gossamer tissue. I am the fire that burns in that hollow mosque you call a soul. I am the cancer that invades the very hub of your existence. I am the very definition of Western decadence. I am the yoke that weighs down your shoulders, carrying buckets of life—life— pain and despair. I am the blood that artistically drips from your wanting, lonely wrists with such malicious intent. I am shade without color. I am salvation without hope. I am death without life. I am pain without purpose. I am here. I am now. I am you. Consider this…dying.”

Chapter 1- Adam & Naive

This is the very first story in his collection. I assume this is his first journal entry since each story is dated, and this is the earliest narrative recorded.

07/13/03

CHAPTER 1

Adam & Naive

The high was kicking in…that intense rush of whatever. My tongue was numb from the shots of rum and my mind from the White Widow. Each arduous step was another accomplished endeavor. I could feel the itinerant weight traveling from my legs to my stomach, gallivanting past each vital organ with such joie de vivre. I was gelatin, a shapeless orb morphing up countless stairs with great difficulty. For someone so empty inside I felt ineluctably laden with this brand of misguided, opaque apprehension. But she exuded brilliance. Her physicality seemed to muscle aside any anxiety that may have materialized as her long, sleek legs battled each step with ease. She was graceful, elegant, depraved. I was clumsy, gauche, carnal.

My naivety swooped in like a gust of wind as I reached the top of the staircase. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be up here,” I said with such juvenile hesitance.

She just looked at me with those beautiful green eyes…blue eyes…possibly hazel. I can’t remember, but the recollection of someone's eye color is merely a trite nicety. Now her name was truly vital information, but it had fleeted my mind along with inhibition.

We floated into one of the rooms, a small but tasteful setting. It emitted a disastrous stench of senile cigars and senescent potpourri, yet there was something calm and reassuring about it. It reminded me of my father’s office, that overwhelming aroma of mahogany, that subtle, yet thick fragrance of lingering sex. A light haze seemed to swim across the dimly lit room until it billowed out around us, enveloping our bodies with its crude delicacy.

And I began to notice a change. My breathing was suddenly spiced with a dash of urgency. My eyeballs did back flips and my spine tickled. She reeked of cloves and red wine—my favorite combination.

Sprawled across the bed, she beckoned me using the same finger motion that one uses to tickle the necks of babies; the same finger motion I would use in a couple minutes to make her feel immortal.
Infinite.

I sat down next to her, my body movements wrought with scant hints of adolescence.
I might as well have been sitting in a fucking Indian position.
She took charge. She grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me towards her. Our lips met with such force, such unwavering intent. It was a kiss that declared, ‘I am going to fuck your brains out!’

The way her taste buds felt against the roof of my mouth was divine. I was about two grams in and I could not help but discern this inexorable feeling of immortality. I felt as if I were a part of everything in the room. My arms were the bed, resting against her back. My torso was the covers, providing warmth to her body. Atoms clashed and ions shifted. I was aroused. She was vapor, seeping into my pores and permeating my veins. I was fucking high on affinity.

This drug called desire: it is a domineering force that drives you straight off a goddamn cliff. It takes away your control and leaves you naked and bleeding on the side of the fucking road. Yet it breathes life into your very essence. Inhale it; swallow it and then exhale. Feel it move to your fingertips. Feel its power overcome your inhibitions. It is life.

And for that brief moment you realize, ‘She is going to fuck my brains out!’
And you want it.
You need it.
You’re willing to do whatever it takes to get it—whatever it takes. If you have to give up your wife and family for it, you will. If you have to sacrifice your job for it, you will. You can lie to yourself all you want, but you will never be strong enough to evade its effects.

To deny our desires is to deny the very thing that makes us human.
At the very cornerstone of life it’s all about control. And I take what I want.

And as this desire plagued my dithering body, I placed her on her back and began to kiss her frame. I started with the neck: sucking and pecking and nibbling and biting. I licked my coarse lips and allowed them to grace her neck with a zoomorphic fervency that is reminiscent of the intimacy only seen on the Discovery Channel. I seeped my teeth into her nape and marked my territory. A light discoloration matured into a profound contusion that stretched across her scruff. Manifest Destiny. Once I was done raping her collar, I began to work my way down.

Every inch of her seemed to beg for attention. Her breasts were firm and gregarious. Her skin was soft and inviting. She was foreign, but none of that mattered. She was slightly older than me, but, again, I did not care. We both flew past these nets without looking back at those souls whose bodies clung to these seines in the sky like flies on spiderwebs. Nationality, language, religion—none of that ever mattered to me.
As long as she isn’t packing, I’ll be snacking.

I continued my descent; my fingertips steadily glazed the small of her back. The faint moisture from my breath percolated her smooth skin. My hands hovered over her quivering body, yet I did not touch her. I merely grazed her thin hairs, guiding my fingertips along her hills and valleys. Her hips beckoned me. Her back arched as her body, ravenous and insatiable, palpitated.

My finger motions and taste buds got her in the mood, but I was unaware of the cataclysm that awaited me.
“Do you have a condom?” she said.
My hands were no longer steady. I no longer felt—
Infinite.

The peculiar thing was I did not fear the theft of my virginity; I just wanted an Oscar-worthy performance. I wasn’t looking for a moment of bittersweet love, but rather a flash of pure ecstasy. I wanted to know that I could feel something with someone without the imposition or involvement of any emotions.
I was always taught not to talk to strangers, but what about fuck them?

Despite the compulsion to be a man and attack the hole, there was a slice of hesitation in my moans. This just wasn’t how I had imagined it would be. I didn’t write poetry about sharing fluids with some Delphic interloper. In my dreams there had been an exchange of love, temporary or not, that wrapped the gift of intercourse. I didn’t even know what name to scream if I experienced pleasure. I was utterly confused and drunk with apprehension.

My dilemma: Do I whisper no and continue my tongue twister? Or do I say yes and prepare my jimmy for battle?

I didn’t say anything. And before I could grasp the delicacy of the situation, I was in. I was at this sexual point of no return, my penis just casually basking in her flower’s spores. I felt the warmth slowly inch its way into my flexed abdomen. I felt the soft, velvety walls begin to strangle my masculinity.

Yet, I remained still.
I was too afraid to move. I didn’t know whether to push or pull, thrust or ram. I was the meat as my anxiety slowly consumed me. It carefully sliced me into several pieces, taking into consideration my most tender appendage. It chewed with such rhythmic mastication. It sucked at my bones and hawked them without compunction. My miniature-eyed beauty saw that I had been devoured by Apprehension and decided to take charge.

With her on top, I finally felt that rush—that intense rush of whatever. My pelvis was pulsating; it seemed to be in rhythm with my breathing. I couldn’t even focus on her; I was too overwhelmed with pleasure. I could feel the blood pumping feverishly through my veins. My body tensed and I quickly realized that this exchange of fluids only elevated my high. We were celestial beings. My brain was at its zenith, while I was at the nadir of her canal.

A few screams and contractions later, I was flat on my back, naked, and smoking a cigarette as if I were James fucking Bond. The anxiety that had nearly consumed me quickly dissipated and I was left with a feeling of pretentious satisfaction, my smug conceit pervading the sultry air.
The stranger, satisfied, quickly put on her clothes and vacated the room, and I was left to share this puissant moment with myself.
You always remember the first time you felt empty.

Eventually, I got dressed and returned to the party, leaving only my virginity and a sullied piece of evidence in the room.

I left the party that night feeling brand new, as if my previous coating had shed from my body leaving me with an intricate design that I can only describe as being on the bleeding edge of composition. I never saw that horny, brown/blue/hazel eyed girl again. Perhaps I see pieces of her in other partners. Perhaps my perception of her is skewed. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember much about that night. But I have learned to espouse this sexual lie because it is all that is left. It succeeds deception and despair, murder and loss. It precedes every other tragedy in my life. I like to think that it all went downhill from that point. I like to think that my first sexual experience came straight from the pages of one of Shakespeare's enigmatic comedies. For all I know, it could have been no different then the lay I had two days ago.

After years of fucking my way through life I have come to realize that Sex changes everything.

List of Chapters

Hayden's List of Chapters
1. Adam & Naive
2. Bloody Mary
3. Chilling Procrasturbation
4. We All Walk the Streets
5. Liminality
6. Exit 17
7. A Deathguard for the Atlantic
8. Perspective
9. Genesis
10. When Harry Fucked Sally
11. Fuck Bitches, Get Money
12. The Sun Queen
13. What's in a New York Taco?
14. The Invisible Woman
15. An Intimate God
16. Mrs. Robinson
17. Fuzzy Cuffs
18. Hooker in Vitro
19. A Turning Point
20. What it's like to be the Sun
21. If this is fading...
22. A Mockingbird
23. A Needle in a Haystack
24. All the Best Cowboys have Daddy Issues
25. Mary-onette
26. The Frat Pack
27. Operation Nag Woon
28. Babylonian Captivity
29. Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams
30. Revelations- Apocalypse of Hayden

Now I will keep posting excerpts from these chapters along with other stories that Hayden has written/experienced. Feel free to request anything. And don't worry, as soon as I get this tape recording onto my computer I will put it on the site. It's the most disturbing thing I have ever heard. Hopefully, you'll agree.

Letter from Hayden

To Know On e:

If you’re reading this, then you’ve probably already found the bodies. I’m sorry. I want to apologize to you; you shouldn’t have to C such mutiny, such pure, unrefined emOtion in the form of a humaN cadaver. That waS never my Intention. But here we are, living. And there they are, Dying. And that is how the S(u)n wanted it to bE. I have oveR sevenTy entries within tHese notebooks. Now that you have found them, I need you to publiSh them for me. I want the worlD to know mY plight. I want them to find perspective. The casualties from writing this book are great. I don’t want those who have died to die in vaiN. The proper chapters have been carefully chosen and are listed on the last paGe of the third notebook. For your reading (pleasure), I have encrypted this letter. Enjoy.

Insincerely,
Hey Don Saint Iago

P.S. I searched for hours, desperately looking for those "bodies." I have yet to find anything. Read his stories to find out what he means by "bodies."