As I walked up the stairs of the 6 train exit at Astor Place, I saw her sitting
in  Starbuck's furiously scrawling away into a little notebook. She was probably
the ugliest girl I ever did see-- stringy black hair that looked like it
hadn't seen a comb since I don't know when, big bulbous nose, bleary eyes, a face
so bloated that it resembled nothing else except maybe a jaundiced Pillsbury
doughboy. Her clothes were dumpy, unwashed and everything about her was dirty and
disgusting, yet I could not stop looking at her. I suddenly realized that I'd
stopped halfway up the stairs and the mass of humanity climbing up from the
platform was emitting a collective sigh of annoyance as they stepped around me
and into the path of the opposing mass of humanity coming down the stairs.

Minutes later, Latte in hand I lowered myself into the stool next to hers in the
window on the world at Astor Place. She continued to scrawl, filling page after
page in a matter of seconds. I wondered if she really wrote anything, if anything
comprehensible could be spewed at the rate she scribbled. I stared at her, she
didn't notice me, she didn't notice anything. There were 4 emptied paper cups
lined up neatly next to a book and a Walkman she'd placed on the counter top, but
the cup closest to her was still mostly full, barely touched. Just as I noticed
the undrunk coffee she looked up from her notebook grabbed the cup took a sip,
wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looked around briefly and that's when
she noticed me staring at her. I quickly looked away from her and out the window
but it was too late, I was busted. She swiveled around in her chair to turn her
back to me and protect her notebook from my view. I wanted to say something to
her, I don't know why, something about the way she turned away so instinctively
defensive, so protectively, made me want to tell her I meant no harm.

"Are you a writer?" I stuttered.

No response from the girl. She flipped the notebook over and continued to fill
another blank page with whatever it was she was discussing with herself. What
secrets did she divulge? What was behind the constant flow of her pen?

"I'm a literary agent. Are you a writer?" She stopped writing looked at her left
hand and bit part of a hangnail off then turned to me and fixed me with an angry

"I asked if you were a writer. I'm an agent"

She gathered up her various papers, books, notebooks and other possessions and
began throwing them into a large plastic shopping bag. She slid down from the
stool and started to walk off. I reached out and grabbed her arm.


She stopped, tried to yank her arm away, but I would not release her from my
grasp. The girl stared straight into my eyes but it seemed more like she was
looking right through me rather than at me.

"Come home with me." I said, letting her arm go gently and with as much
tenderness as I could muster.

She shrugged her shoulders and followed me out the door. The girl walked the
entire way without speaking or even looking at anything but the tops of her shoes
where it seems her gaze was just about always fixed.

In my apartment, she sat on my couch writing and blaring her Walkman. I
wondered...why did I bring her here? Is she mute? She was totally wrapped up in
whatever world it was that she created for herself in that notebook. The more I
watched her, so completely oblivious, so totally detached, the more turned on I
was.I thought about fucking the homely girl until I
made her scream, until I made her acknowledge me.

She was naked on the couch, her body covered with scabs, scars, and bruises. I
fucked her from behind so I didn't have to look at those eyes--lost, vacant,
empty. She did not move, she made no sound. I fucked and fucked and fucked her as
hard and as violently as I'd ever wanted to fuck anyone, yet there was no
response. I came in her scabbed over, puss-filled body and I felt sick,
vaguely nauseous from my cruelty.

Later when I walked back into the room, she still sat there on my couch, naked,
scarred, bruised and hideous but still writing in that notebook, scribbling to
the beat of her Walkman. I fucked her again. It was a mind-blowing fuck. I'd
never felt as alive as I did while I was slamming her on my couch. I wanted her
to say something, do something, anything. Move, cry, I didn't care. I slapped her
face. Nothing. Just the sound of my  flesh pounding hers. I bit her tits, twisted
her nipples and still nothing. I started throwing punches right and left, yet she
did not so much as flinch. Pushing her body  to the floor I kicked her, jumped on
top of her and all I heard were various grunts and gurgles, but no sound or
movement to protest my blows. My hand smashed into that ugly bulbous nose and
flattened it. I knocked teeth out and thrashed and tore away at her but she
offered no resistance, no protest, no screams of terror. There was nothing to
stop me, so I punched harder.  I kicked her some more,  jumped up and down on
what was left of her now  bloody, ever more dirty and smelly body. Her eyes just
stared straight ahead and off into space, blank, empty, pointless. Blood oozed
from every orifice, she was even more bloated and discolored than ever. She was
dead maybe, I didn't  know. I rolled her up in a throw rug and lugged her over to
the window in my bedroom that opened onto an air shaft and heaved her body into
it. The body landed with a crash among the piles of discarded chairs, cribs,
appliances and assorted other unwanted crap tossed there over the years.

I'm sitting on my couch. I start to jerk off when I
notice her notebook. I start reading--"Today I met the devil. He will kill me
because I am ugly."

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