Coral Hull: Prose: Work The Sex: Roxanne speaks: Barnacle Bill washed up onto my shoreline ...

I MACKENZIE KNIGHT I A CHILD OF WRATH A GOD OF LOVE I FALLEN ANGELS EXPOSED I

CORAL HULL: WORK THE SEX
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Roxanne speaks: Barnacle Bill washed up onto my shoreline from down the track. Sometimes I feel like this game is washing me away and I can't break free. The night hovers in from the Darwin harbour like a humid wing and I am swept up under it. I am seaweed sucked into the jagged side of a shipwreck from the Arafura Sea. All the little fishes flick their colours in the current and ask me to feed them with my body. But so often with the body comes the heart, dragged along by its sad anchor. I give my touch to the wreck of this man while trapped beneath it. Tides of weed and salt wash back and forth through the flaky wood. I cast my hookless line with my teeth and silent scream. Weariness is a dangerous state to be in, especially whilst on a booking. I gently massage around the hand warts and skin tags, ask about the scars, tattoos, hairy backs and necks, the sweat pimples on the thighs and arse, and rashes and fungus between the legs. These varieties are waiting to jump ship like fleeing rats and drunken captains. They want to sail across and join the cleanness of my body. Sharlena was sick. She went to the house of a monster - 'Jabba The Hut' - in Karama. She said, 'Roxy, my God! I couldn't fuck him. He had eaten twenty-five chickens that morning and hadn't been out of his bed in two years!' She said, 'He was so fat that I couldn't find his dick!'

It was shrivelled, dropping and trapped between a layer of fat. It was like he had three vaginas. There was a tremendous rash covering his back. He wanted Sharlena to lick him all over his body. He hadn't reached his arsehole to clean it in over six months. He needed a nurse, not a fuck. When Sharlena saw him she thought, they'd have to knock a wall down to get him out. 'Now listen here, honey, I've been on the game a long time, but I'm not that good. He was rotten. I couldn't even go there. He pulled it out like a fifty cent piece from a folded wallet.' He offered her a strong liqueur. As Sharlena took the cap off the bottle she 'accidentally' spilt the crème de menthe all over his bags and cock. This was a blessing in disguise. She took half an hour to clean it up with a small packet of tissues, and when he farted in the bathroom she got the fuck out! He wanted to rebook her, but Sharlena told him that she was leaving the country! Jackie said, 'He's enough to make a gum tree leave the fucking country!'

Barnacle Bill frightened the daylight outa me. He had barnacles of skin growing underneath each arm. A rash appeared around his throat and choked it like a necklace. Okay, I'm pretty tough, but I get stressed out. My lips have lost their permanent smile, and they're turning blue. I need an oxygen tank secured to my back when diving into the wreck of his body. He's gigantic, a tragedy full-speed ahead in a dark and treacherous ocean. The tides pull me under him by the legs. He's gonna swallow me like a whale. Tonight I'm anchored to the bed. The layers of bright red moles look like hundreds and thousands, glued to the fairy bread of his triceps. He said, 'They aren't catching.' Well, make my night, why don't you, fatman. He sensed my repulsion and gave me a fifty dollar tip to make me tolerant. I thought, this is the hardest rent money I've ever made, and I still had to get my bikini line done. He said, 'Hey, you're a real natural at this job. Keep up the positive attitude, Roxanne, if that's your real name.' Then he laughed.

The sweaty barnacles shifted under his arms. He said, 'I should have them removed, but the doctor said they'd drop off in a few years.' I was scared some would drop off into the sheets, like a packet of runaway Jaffas falling into your cleavage. Throughout the hour booking with Barnacle Bill, the ghostly ships, wharves and a deep green sea came slowly in to capture me. I heard gulls cry outside the cheap motel, the big spring tide of East Point washing up into the Rapid Creek. I grew very weary in the washaway of his titanic form. He covered the entire double bed like a big grey slug from the reef, his barnacles hanging from beneath each arm, which flapped like crusty sails when he spoke or laughed. Or when he said, 'Roxanne, you shed more hair than my Labrador!' As if he had the right to stroke my long dark mane. By this stage the only thing I could think of was him fucking his dog. I went down on him for as long as I could, sheltering my face from the fungus on the inside of his legs with my hands. It looked like I was saying a prayer to his cock. I was praying to time and to stay awake and to not be washed out with the big tide, and into a weariness that is no longer myself or my life.

    

This website is part of my personal testimony that has been guided by The Holy Spirit and written in Jesus' name.

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