Tip, her date, had left and she sat naked on the toilet lid with a comb, looking down at her light curling hair. Grooming it, she had found, gave her a small thrill, so she got in the habit of combing and trimming her bush when things got her down. The monkey often got her down, but that night she thought positively, she knew that it was her burden to live with, the test of her life, as other people's monkeys were their tests and burdens. The monkey had been particularly vicious, taking a dime sized chunk out of Tip's forefinger. She had offered Bactine and Band-Aids to him as he ran around her small room putting on his stray clothes and finally his shoes and coat but he refused them. He called her crazy, but she thought it was probably the pain talking. Tip bled. That couldn't have felt good. She did, however, give him fair warning as he moved his hand down her belly.

Clipping a stray long hair on the inside of her thigh, she thought of the half-hope that the monkey would be on good behavior and let her have a little fun. The odds were against her and Tip. The monkey was against her and Tip. In truth, the monkey was simply against the slippery friction of friendly penetration. It was possible it poked the monkey. It was possible that when a penis was present in her crotch that all the light was blacked out (although she did tend to keep her legs together) and the monkey grew frightened. It was possible the monkey was allergic to spermicide. Many things were possible, but ever since she realized she housed a monkey in her crotch, copulation was not one of them.

There were times when she thought it was all in her head. She had the sensation of going crazy because people called her crazy. In her jiggling inner kernel she knew once long ago she had felt like she needed teeth on the inside of her to ward off, keep out, defend, and lightly nibble when needed. The big bang of life was kept there, she knew, beyond vaginal lips, slowly moving blood, beyond any manmade sperm-killing chemical. The big bang... not to be discovered by radio waves. Not to be discovered but by one who would eventually coax the monkey into allowing passage through the tunnel of light it kept.

She found out the monkey had moved in when she was nineteen, after she'd managed to have sex a few times and gotten the hang of the vaguely promising affair. At first it was a temporary set-back. Something to be dealt with and overcome. Perhaps she could force it out with flea repellent or loud noises or by acquiring a yeast infection. None of these tactics worked and when she tried to implant the anti-yeast suppositories, the monkey nudged them back out. The burning of her sexual bridge came the same day the monkey had popped out her tampon during her philosophy class. Lying in bed with a young man from that same class after a half hour of awkward foreplay, the monkey began to chatter. This hadn't happened before. It never spoke, whispered, squeaked or squawked. The shy kid gingerly asked what that noise was and in answer she whapped her naked crotch hard hoping to make the monkey behave. The whap made a smacking noise. It might have been the noise that unnerved him but he immediately lost his erection and rolled off her twin size bed.

"You've, ah, got something down there," he said.

"Its nothing that will bother you," she replied, hoping the night was not lost.

"Um, ah, oh, pants, I can't-- there is something… I gotta, I'll um see you in class, 'k?" he said. Not stopping to tie his shoes, he left her room.

She laid there naked except for the sock on her right foot that the boy had ignored in the post-adolescent steam of the moment and began to cry. No one else ever talked about having a crotch monkey. Was it one of those taboos like talking about how chunky your menstrual blood was on some days? There had to be others with crotch monkeys. She thought about consulting a doctor, but what could she do? Pull it out with forceps? It would only follow her home and crawl back in when she was asleep; it had already proved to be an expert lock-pick.

The inner teeth tore into the dick and bit through. Blood gushed in heartpushed spurts, almost familiarly. Blood in a place that was familiar with blood. Familiar. The teeth closed upon themselves as he screamed, and as he screamed, they chewed, thoughtfully, she felt, through the
tissue and the quickly emptying vessels. He had fallen during this chewing, he was on the ground writhing, a prick there in the alley, in the bushes, in the frat house, on the floor of the father's bedroom, on the altar of the temple, all of the places he should have never been - there in front of the woman. The teeth spit the dick out. The dick was uninvited and unwanted.

Deciding to face her crotch, she got up and got her small mirror and a flashlight. When it first settled, she had glimpsed it while wiping herself on the toilet and let out a small scream. She had been avoiding looking weeks, but in the light of the possibility of never having sex again, she leaned against the wall by her bed and looked at the reflection of her vagina.

There it was. Quite small, it had dark brown fur and deep liquid eyes that peered out at the bright light. It met her eyes in the mirror. It had small hands, or paws, with small, rounded nails. Her mouth fell open slightly at it looking at her so intently and it opened its mouth in mimicry. She showed her teeth and it showed its own. They were sharp. It was amazing how it was curled up within her inner lips knees to chest, tiny head turning around for a better view of its host. It seemed cozy, probably very warm, and looked clean. Probably not much to do all day but groom itself, she though to herself.

Seeing it so perfect there and at home, she dropped the mirror and began to cry again. Her burgeoning sex life was on its death bed.

The dream and knowledge began to come to her, waking and half remembering, believing in lost temples in Ankor Wat and what the thousand flying angels there really did, where they flew, who they protected. Angels with hands bent back, whispering 'chocolate', 'women', 'habenero'. Her mind was in Cambodia-Kampuchea, in India, in Nepal where it is quieter. She didn't know these things in the front of her head, only in the iridescent lining of her retina could she see fading reflections.

Several years later, the monkey was still there. Never interfering with her basic functions, it still kept her from the enjoyment of a pure fuck, and she had yet to find the man to meet the challenge of cunnilingus with a monkey watching, and perhaps participating. She had yet to find the man up to a crotch challenge at all. She had a trusty vibrator that she kept by her bed for clitoral satisfaction and the monkey seemed to enjoy it, so much that if she skipped more than a few nights it would keep her awake when she laid down to sleep. Perfunctory masturbation then lulled it.

Men passed by her not second glancing. With a monkey within they were out of reach and not worth the bother. Women passed by her and slowly the men faded away, deep voices in the world. She felt a huge black-hole resting between her legs, nullifying any codes or rules learned. Women she became aware of; they sat back, knew the gig was up, watched her pass with curiosity. Saw her own curiosity rise in question, answer the question, find the question first. Women smelling her, she feeling the drug take effect, some touching her sleeve in passing. She recognized the pull too late, would jerk in fear or surprise.

She wondered what she had done to invite it in. Was it the wrath of god that visited the monkey upon her? No, if god existed, it certainly didn't have time to deal with her petty problems and beset a crotch monkey upon her. It could be explained as one of the synchronicities of the universe that the monkey chose her. But how does the monkey choose to homestead her inner labia? Did it stake her out, weighing her lifestyle versus her looks? Did it somehow know that her vagina was larger, smaller or cozier than others'? Did it hate her? It showed few signs of malice except the anti-sex thing, and really, she couldn't blame it, being poked and prodded by a latex covered, non-oxyl-9 soaked prick.

The monkey rebelled, it rattled the uterus, calling up cramps, and bit her cervix. Look, stupid, it said, don't you see what you need? What I'm here for? You're so pure and innocent and boring. Why don't you go out and get a decent fantasy life? Your masturbation doesn't visit fantasyland, it's based on played-back faded movies, a dry routine, an anonymous tongue licking you and bam, there you go, shudder, shake, no sounds no nothing, no lingering making it last, you're off to the bathroom then to sleep or work. Ever try it in an elevator for once? Ever stop and think a little longer about that tongue you imagine down there and who is behind it? What is behind it? There you go, its almost as if you wish you could be into bondage but just don't have the guts. You like to be spanked but nothing more, how pathetic. How
loathesome
to lie to yourself.
Think about that tongue down there, think about the last person that was down there, before I came, before I bit you where you wanted to be bit. When he was there, paying very careful attention to you, and you didn't care, you didn't really even notice him, because you were with someone else's tongue wiggling on your niggle knob, in your mind for this person you cried and screamed and were forced to beg for more and they gave and they knew exactly what you needed, and gave it to you in no uncertain terms, she knew how to FUCK you, she
she

she knew how to fuck you.










dangerous words, all revolving around a monkey that might not even be there, maybe it is all a paranoid delusion, maybe it means I have sewage rotting somewhere in my cerebral septic tank, maybe I fear being fucked, maybe all I really want is to be properly licked by a woman for once (admit, ADMIT the WANT, sixth or tenth or thirty-thousandth time when do I get) maybe this is a queer monkey, a bleeding monkey, a guilty monkey, this fucking monkey that I can't keep out of my head, my belly my crotch,
oh g*d
this truth
should be denial

She woke up one morning to find her vagina empty and the monkey gone. There were faint scratch marks on her inner left thigh and that was all. She spent an hour looking at her beautiful free crotch in the hand mirror, marveling at how wide open and glorious it was. There was a knock at her door and she pulled on pants and answered it. It was Della from next door. She invited Della in, although she had never done so before. She made Della coffee and sat down across from her. Della talked about playing guitar and iguanas and chocolate and habeneros and women. They talked about women.

"Have you ever had a crotch monkey?" she asked Della in a moment of warm silence. Della smiled and shook her head laughing.

"No, but I know girls who have, and had a hell of a time getting them out. What I had was a greased weasel with sharp claws."