Sunday, January 20, 2013

Excerpt from 'Ensemble': KC Kotton in 'Are You Watching?'

On my first 8th birthday, Mojo the Friendly Clown shoved his hand up my skirt and smiled. In all my short time on this dumb planet, there's really only one truth I've learned, and it's been a hard lesson. Men are perverts. Straight from birth, these swinging dicks have it in their minds that they're going to poke their dong in anything that'll receive it. A vagina is always nice, from what I've heard, but a warm baked pie does the trick just as well. It's always better if us bitches agree to do it, but consent isn't always mandatory, as we all learn. Just by nature, our other halves are bigger and stronger than us, they can take what they want, really. It's taken us thousands of years to convince them that, you know, we have feelings too, we feel pain everywhere, inside and out. It's taken an entire social movement to convince men to treat us as well as they treat their pet dogs. You know, feed us, pet us, play with us, take us out every once in a while.

On my second 8th birthday, Slick Willy the Magician asked me if I could help him make one very special part of him disappear. You see, us females have to find ways to reverse this power structure, to empower ourselves in the defense against penetration. Every girl has her trick. Whether it's to switch sides and be a lesbian, put up insanely thick emotional walls, carry around pepper spray and a rape whistle, keep every guy stuck in the 'friend zone', you have to have a strategy. Some girls call themselves 'feminists' and men don't want to have anything to do with them. Simply just existing and hoping for the privelege to choose your own lover just isn't enough these days. Personally, I surround myself with gay guys. They're smart enough to just cut all the bullshit and stick it in each other, I can appreciate that. For the straight ones, my trick is just to make it really easy for them, too easy. Now, for some of these dicks, this is a dream come true. The starfish girl, just spread em and close your eyes, it'll be over in no time. It's been my experience that most men hate consent, though. They need to trick us, to feel like they're manipulating our panties into sliding off, like they're somehow smart for getting us to do what women have been doing since the first vagina ran into the first penis.

On my third 8th birthday, I walked right up to the caterer and said 'You gonna take advantage of this, or what?', he dropped his tray of jumbo shrimp and nearly pissed himself. Trust me, try this line on the next guy who won't stop staring at your tits. Most will cower at the sight of you and all that manly mumbo jumbo will shrivel up along with their balls. See, we aren't supposed to want sex, we're just supposed to take it. We sure as hell shouldn't like it, just ask those Japanese perverts who are wanking it to crying schoolgirls. It should hurt because you're so big. It should be forbidden because my daddy wouldn't like it if he knew. It should make me feel guilty afterwards because I lost control of myself. I'll tell you right now, I've never done one damn thing in my life that I didn't want to do.

My solution to this whole annoying pervert problem is market saturation, over exposure. Forget following my childhood dream of being a dramatic actress, let's get my own nonsense children's show, and let's air it three times a day and double that on weekends. Let's put my cute pink pigtails and short-short skirt all over the television, let's put my big bright anime eyes all over magazines and billboards, let's exploit my oh so tender body with dolls, video games, a line of Kotton brand panties. Let's tour the globe and act out my ridiculous show live, for the kids, but really for their dads. Over-sexualization is the way it goes for preteen stars like me, but what the idiots behind the desks don't realize is that we're scaring men away. They want to see the nervous innocent princess who's never seen a cock, not the penis-weary chain-smoking 8 year old who's seen it all. I walk the line between innocence and hypersexuality so that I can control both sides. The naive angel and the world-wise whore, both useful parts to play for the right audience. Men are afraid to stare me dead on, but I notice them looking, out of the corner of their eyes, through their sunglasses, with their SafeSearches off and their internet history deleted. All these ways for men to watch, all these ways for them to hide their little fantasies and cover their tracks. All these socially accepted forms of voyeurism. Let's put the girl on talk shows, in commercials, let's have her release a pop album, put her in a movie, put her in another movie, get her trained for an altogether different type of film that she'll inevitably resort to when people stop calling her after her 16th birthday, let's get the girl's name on lipstick, handbags, miniskirts, sneakers, let's make every other girl a clone of KC Kotton, so that there's just a million versions of me walking the streets and scaring men in their peripheral vision.

On my fourth 8th birthday, I signed a multi-million dollar contract and officially became KC Kotton: Child Star. It's all I've ever wanted. I want attention, I want money, I want accessories, I want fame, all so that you're afraid of me. I want to choose my man, not be chosen. I want to control my audience, not be controlled. I want to be watched. Even if it crosses the line. Men in trees with binoculars. Hidden cams. Shrines of my buried away in secret rooms behind bookshelves. I want a thousand men jerking off to me while the one I choose gets to have me. I've seen girls fall prey to the danger of psycho-stalkers. The girl I took over for on my current show was one of the lucky ones, he just straight up killed her. No psychological torture, no rape, just took her life. Most of us don't get out that easily. For every hundred guys who just keep their weirdo behaviour to themselves and think about it in the safety of their own delusional mind, there's one that thinks he can really have you, that doesn't see distance or legalities or locks as any kind of barrier. Those are my favourite, because those are the ones you can really use. Sure, I'll roll over for the panty shot, but you owe me one. And honey, as time flies by, the amount of favours I've collected is almost more than what's in my bank account.

Let's be honest here, I'm not afraid of the tabloid bullshit, the stalkers, the perverts, the murderers. That's all publicity, and if I play it smart, there's enough mileage in potential tragedies to keep my cute little ass relevant until I'm at least 25, and that's a million years away. No, what really scares me, more than the idea of being unaware that someone's watching, is the idea of being certain that absolutely no one is watching. If I'm the only witness to every second of my existence, well, that just won't do. There needs to be a record, words, video, collectibles. I need to be sure that others know I'm out there. Because if it's just me, if I'm the only audience I have, then what does it matter when all my memories die with me? So follow me, film me, stalk me, fantasize about me, just never stop thinking about me or I may just cease to exist. On my fifth and final 8th birthday, I received a letter from some nut who is convinced I'm his vanished daughter and wants me to come back home to him. That's when I began to wonder if this being young and beautiful thing was getting old and ugly.

(End of Excerpt)

This is original writing from a novel-in-progress titled Ensemble. Please credit this work to the creator, Chessterr Hollowberry. Thanks!
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