Hirsutus Puella

A Swing Set for My Batibat

One afternoon, I ventured out to My favorite papaya tree to pick some fleshy gems. On the climb down, I clumsily slipped and sprained My ankle on the landing. As I writhed, squirmed, and agonized about pitifully, I heard a taunting chuckle emanate from the mango tree beside Me.

"You stupid boy," she muttered.

Apparently, the Batibat that resided among it had awakened during the cacophony. It actually surprised Me, since she always ignored My existence–nevertheless, My anger seethed.

The following evening, I returned, not with an axe, but with a wooden board and some rope.

Many had tried to cut into her impenetrable exterior, but their efforts were in vain–I had other plans though.

She looked at Me with apathy, as she always had, while I got to work. Half an hour later I was swinging joyfully from her branches. You see, rather than inflict My vengeance in a direct, yet predictable blow, mine was more insidious, like a formless vapor that filled a confined space.

My retribution wouldn't be seen, only felt. I would use her for My own personal pleasure from now on, and there was nothing she could do about it.

The Cruel Sensuality of Hirsutus Puella

It was the late afternoon, and I was sitting at the base of My favorite tree, admiring the lush tapestry of interwoven wolf lichen that adorned its aristocratic exterior.

I enjoyed closing My eyes and feeling the velvet-green, fungal textile in-between My fingers–it possessed the lifeblood of the immemorial, with a simplicity of anatomy that was designed to endure epoch upon epoch.

When I opened My eyes she was reclining before Me, inviting My essentia into her ribcage, tempting Me to grasp at her heart. Our gazes interlocked, and I felt a cruel sensuality whisper into My right ear–My Otitis Externa was gone, and so were My inhibitions.

A Delirium From Disillusionment

A mournful aura suspended the promise of tomorrow, and I could see Hirsutus Puella grieving the loss of feminine independence.

Lamentations asphyxiated the oxygen in the surrounding air, as the grey mass of Lasciva Libido’s words contorted into parasitic larvae that consumed her peace of mind with gluttonous diligence.

I stood there, bereaving not only the disillusionment and death of a cherished idol, but the disillusionment and death of an unlived future kneeled before the altar of My desires.

Whether I liked it or not, My sojourn was redirecting My gaze, away from the delirium of that comfortable corner of life.

I was set free, and what was most unsettling, was that I knew it.


At that moment, the foreboding microvibrations of unraveling plumerian petals pitapatted throughout our eardrums, like a flood of baby rats scurrying across hardwood floors at night.

It was Hirsutus Puella, and she was abloom with bursts of magentas, pinks, and reds. A noticeable arctic mist hydrated the chakras that grounded her passions.

Her gaze was unrelenting and transfixed on us, like a shadow sin that follows you throughout a lifetime. 

The Blooming of Hirsutus Puella

I continued to watch, in oozing stupefaction, while Hirsutus Puella continued to stroke neighboring ovaries with her fertilizing tongue.

Up and down it slithered, engulfing entire anatomies in her mouth at times. This proceeded indulgently for 27 minutes, that is, until she bloomed from her comatose.

They interlocked gazes, and I could feel a premonition start to lick behind My left ear as the wind began to seethe in the cloister.