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Posted March 24, 2011 by Fairy Cake in LOVE-LIFE
 
 

Dokter Dykenstein, Scourge of All Heterosexuals : Part II

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The second part of our anonymous emailer’s neo-gothic lesbohorror.  Hold onto your undercarriage ladies…

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Dokter Dykenstein, Scourge of All Heterosexuals : Genesis of a Supercallivagilist

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The windows of the North Wing shatter loudly, a noise only surpassed in its shrill horror by the rhythmic, guttural sounds of the angry mob that briskly follows.

In the echoes of corridors and stairwells, bitter voices shriek plaintively like seagulls over the fetid landfill that is my private life.  The sounds of smashing and breaking are the only percussion in what is to be the bloody swansong of my disastrously successful career as a nationwide blight on heterosexuals everywhere.

My shoulders slump uselessly with the indignity of it all; in happier times I had imagined I would meet my maker having been scissored to death to a Tegan and Sara album.  At the very least, I thought I might be angrily singing “Te Amo” to myself on the precipice of some glass-and-steel skyscraping phallus.  Alas, twas not to be.  My death, it would appear, would be just like my life; not quite how I had planned it to be.

Brothers, who will light a candle for me in the gothic toilets of Candy Bar?  Who will pour booze into the concrete of Dean Street in memory of your loyal Dykenstein?  Who will cry for me in the hallowed gloom of First Out?  Nobody!  Dykenstein is alone, brethren!

A sudden serenity washes over me and I recline calmly on my undressed, heavily soiled mattress; scene of so many of the crimes I would soon be forced to violently atone.  If there is one last wish I have, it is wisdom.  How did as gentle a soul as your faithful Dykenstein become accursed with the sort of romantic pedigree that makes Shane look like a 3-dimensional character by comparison?

Finally, it comes to me…I have never been out with a lesbian.  NEVER.

How did this never strike me as a problem until now?  My heart pounds with insight for the first time as I begin frantically flicking through my old diaries.  I must find out how this has happened… how I’ve been so blind, so stupid!  Then I find it.  The first strike of my curiously hypnotic vagina,  more foe to me than the baying brutes who come ever closer with each smash.

Yours In Christ,
Dokter Dykenstein, Scourge of All Heterosexuals

JUNE 1992

I was the sort of hapless goon who was too pathetic to bully; bullying was a flattery I simply wasn’t worthy of.  I was the sort of child who considered teachers to be my friends and you can imagine how successful that was; even the paedophile “music tutor” found me too tedious to groom.  Still, I was a safe pair of (clammy, trembling) hands in the classroom and for this reason I spent my Year 6 form time seated next to Clare, the naughtiest, most popular girl in school.
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Presumably the teachers hoped that I would dilute her sassiness with my tepid, saline personality, but alas their schemes backfired and I turned rotten and bad in the sunshine of her wonderful mischief.  Within a month, we ruled the roost together.  All the boys wanted us, every break and lunchtime we spent snogging every boy within a 3 mile radius.
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One night she came for a sleepover.  It was summer and she wore denim shorts.  We walked to the shops and on the way there, I said something that made her laugh until she pissed her pants.  Literally.
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Needless to say she was mortified and we returned in shame to my house.  I ran her a bath and she loomed beyond the bathroom sheepishly.
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“Bath’s run,”  I said “there’s towels out” as I beat a retreat to my bedroom to wait for her.
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“Where are you going?” she asked, surprised.
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“I’ll wait for you in my room!”  I said.
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She looked around nervously and spoke in a low, hushed voice.
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“You can’t leave me” she said “Come in.”
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As Clare’s obedient lapdog, I unquestioningly followed her instructions and soon stood awkward and terrified at the foot of the bath whilst she lay soaking luxuriously.  I trembled with my back against an icy radiator, having no idea where to look.  I stared hard and earnest at the splashes on the carpet.  Soon her voice interrupted my steely and bewildered mask of composure.
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“This isn’t fair,” she said “you seeing me.  You should take your clothes off if you’re gonna be in here.”
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With slow and silent obedience, I did as she asked.  I just stood there against the radiator, in the buff, determined not to look at her.  After a time she got out and got dried.  We both got dressed in silence and went to the bedroom.
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“I think I want to go to bed now” she said, matter of fact.  It was bursting summer sun outside but we drew the orange curtains and got into bed where we made out for hours.  I was 11.
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The next day at school she told everyone I was a massive lesbo and I was swiftly deposited back to the ruins of adolescent obscurity where she had found me.  She was right, of course, I was a massive lesbo.  But now I had a taste for blood…
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To be continued…