Despite her face caving in on itself decades ago, the hometown boys still lined the killing floor to have their venereal chambers emptied of the sick by a trailer hag named Claw Lady. Their erections endlessly stimulated by a nose that looks and pecks like a broken chicken beak. Its breath warming the meat. Testing, teasing. Then she takes to it like a horse on its feed bag. Unfurls her cyst lined tongue. Runs it up and down shafts thick with tufts of buggy, unwashed hair. Doesn’t care how the penis looks. Enjoys them all. Fat ones. Skinny ones. Even cocks with chicken pox.
Engorged on snack packs and pig sick, she takes on the appearance of a being that’s just shed its first exoskeleton. But she’s wanted. Claw Lady finds most of her men at the bar where she tends part time. It’s one of two that line the main street of my little town in North Dakota. Population 330, but always ready to grow another when a girl ages out of grade school. A place where an afternoon of entertainment too often means watching trees get sawed down by the dozen.
The boards that form Claw’s saloon are nailed together just blocks from the K-8 where in daylight hours she moonlights as a lunch lady. Cooking meals no trough pig could stomach. But her drink mixing skills and social banter better demonstrate a trace of competency. These traces cobble themselves together and become actualized in her sexuality, on a mattress that doubles as a dining table. A place to eat seminal eliminations.
After closing down the bar she takes that night’s penis back to her $4,000 trailer just up the street from the Catholic church. In the living room she gets down on her busted, cocksucking knees. With her top plate out she unhinges her turkey jaw so it may work its miracles. The man gets milked and milked and milked. The udder never runs dry.
When her jawbone tires she uses a device of her own creation. The kitty pole. It allows her to work a cob to completion while sprawled atop the marital bed, watching programs beamed in from a satellite bolted to the roof of her home. The pole is a four foot flag staff with a kitten duct taped to its extremity. She dips this living stick in the waters of her washtub until the thing ceases its wet and desperate thrashing. Stops screeching the lonely cry. It hangs loose and heavy. The tape always holds.
Claw Lady tilts and twirls her contraption in one hand and works a remote with the other. Reruns of reruns cast light on her disinterested face, a naked man’s hardness. He feels the fur against his genitals. A tickle of whiskers. The dead animal’s little tongue hangs out. Ready for a taste. Even in death it knows its job. Lick until the feeling comes. Keep working ’til the squirting’s done.
The guy usually pulls his sweats back on before stepping out. “Thank ya, Claw Lady.” Stumbles toward the door. His steps lazy, body still woozy from draining it.
“Careful not to fall through the floor,” she calls out in a voice pitched through goiters. Lays the oozing pole in a soiled litter box. Changes the television to something new. Taps the remote for hours on end with her dirty claws.
Claw Lady is Claw Lady because her fingernails are overgrown, thick, and discolored. Through care and malnutrition she’s extended them to feral lengths. Tendrils slicked with a cum yellow crust. She stands short. Incubates fat. Casts pale. An escapee from the hog finishing barn. Her uneven brown bangs hang over eyes set wide, bordering the temples. Further down are beakish nostrils. Lips and stomach both distended to grotesquerie. Coochie cutters slapped around a gelatinous ass with varicose veins seeping from the cuffs. Yellowed feet. All signifiers of a being ready to mate with those desperate enough to plunge into its nethers.
That region is a carp’s mouth which induces the brain to dump serotonin by the gallon. Having never been hedged, curled hairs crawl over the gut and past a bellybutton circled by thick and bulbous parasitic worms. Deep within this primal fur are the wet bits, her pussy rumored to have taken on the appearance of day old goulash. Its hole a sewer lid ripped open. Forever wet and hungry. And with tubes scratched apart from years of plunder by scabby cocks, it hacks up blood soaked venereal goop then snorts at you to spoon it back in.
Claw charged me and the other lunchroom kids $1.50 to eat what shed off her body. Skin flakes mixed with gravy. Spit on lettuce. Hair pressed into patty buns. She lit cigarettes over tomato soup and ashed off into the mix. Used her hands to stir it up, picking through the red as if searching a pig’s entrails for notions of the future. Would see piles of men who’d fallen through the rotten floorboards of her trailer. Naked and decomposing on each other. Screaming for her to lower the kitten pole so they could scale back up. She spun these visions away with a flick of her wrist, an exhale of breath. Clouding the pot in a vapor of tar. “Good riddance to you, ya fuckers.”
The food she served was low quality. Peanut butter came in industrial sized tubs and was slapped on bread with spatulas. Ham sweat pooled over the edges of plastic trays. The milk was either room temp or heavy with ice. But us kids ate it up, not knowing better. We’d make each other laugh until a pee shot out someone’s nose. Dare someone to eat it. Have one person yell “FU” followed by another bellowing “CK.” All sucking down bite upon bite until only residual slop remained.
After scraping the trays we could go outside for recess where the elderly monitor stood by a tree in a trench coat, never moving, always blowing the whistle hung around her neck. If someone was socked in the gut, thrown in dog shit, that was fine. Reporting it meant repercussion. Stop being a baby. Go play somewhere else. But if you wanted to skip recess, the swings and slides, fights and hid away cigarette circles, you could shoot your cum into a willing mouth.
Claw drove a large semi and parked it in front of the brick church across from the school. On the small town streets this rig loomed over children, buses, houses. Hauled no trailer. Rumbled deep and loud. Shook the elementary. Caused chalkboards to fall off walls and sitting teachers to cum. Rattled the handle of each urinal. On a stall door of the boy’s bathroom, scrawled in permanent marker, lay Claw’s invitation:
I NEED COCK. LOOK FOR SEMI WITH LIGHT ON AFTER LUNCH BE SERVED.
The school was notorious for letting child rapist’s run about willy nilly. There was a set of portables off the main building divided into two classrooms. On one side a group of kids played with Claw’s pet rat that she brought for them to raise. On the other was a kid porker who cracked a Pepsi everyday and teased the children with it by elongating an Ahhh after each sip. He was a basketball coach and made one of his player’s suck him off for test scores. Though he was discovered and let go, for years he came back to the school halls to visit old teachers, to compare numbers with Claw Lady.
When she wasn’t blowing kids in her semi, she did it in the shitter at recess. I once was taking a piss and could see a double set of legs in the stall. Claw’s unmistakable varicose tubes etched ’round two of the four limbs. I heard jeans unzip. Seconds later she exclaimed, “You’re much bigger than my ex-husband.” Lady dropped to her knees on the stained tile as my piss flushed away. She didn’t mind a bit. The work fulfilled her.
Summer meant a possible escape from her meals. From her mouth. That overactive tongue. The last meal of the school year was a slice of watermelon and a pale, footlong hot dog. She watched the girls eat these to see if anyone possessed the skills to threaten her throne. Killed those that did. My sixth grade class started with thirty three females but finished with fifteen.
But even in summer she found a way to infiltrate our lives. She had a DJ setup and rented herself out for weddings and town dances. Kids were never sure whether to be excited or scared when spotting a flyer advertising a summer party at the community center. Centered on each ad were the words MUSIC BY CLAW LADY. You wanted to go because it meant grinding cuties from class. You didn’t want to go because Claw was in charge of the entertainment.
Claw stuck to country songs and gimmick pieces that had their own dance. “Macarena.” “Thriller.” “Chicken Dance.” Occasionally mumbled into the mic that more people needed to come to the floor and shake it all about. Always ended with a May Day jubilee around the kitten pole set to her a capella rendition of “Ring Around the Rosie.”
I once was chosen to hold the stick as my classmates skittered at the reaches of its circumference. The cat had been tied as a decoration for far too long. Became a loose bag of maggoty fur and bones. The wet larvae littered down on me. As Claw screamed the final lines, the animal flung loose and glopped onto the face of an eighth grade girl trying to flaunt what she didn’t have. I dropped the pole and it clanged against the altar our DJ perched upon. The lights came up. The dance ended. Claw seemed pleased.
Despite working with children, she never wanted any of her own. Felt there was no miracle in birth. Each child just the end product of a pair of tits sucked and enough goo hanging on, growing like mold in a dirty pot. Billions of ejaculations. So many chewed up tits. Didn’t consider blowing a load in someone to be the pinnacle of humanity’s achievements.
Claw briefly considered pregnancy so she could grow her own rape slave, but decided against it. She instead took on an abortion fetish. Purchased the legal rights to a vial of cryogenically frozen cum from Norway and wore it strung around her neck as a charm. Tapped out a sample each time she was ready for nine months of arousal.
Grew things in her tummy because she found she came hardest with a fetus inside her. Double genitals. Took it to nine months then used her claws to self abort. Stirred them deep in her uterus until she’d plucked the next day’s food like plumbs from a pie. Immediately started the process over. Tap tap tapping on the vial. Anticipating once again the powerful release she could only get at the bottom of the ninth. When asked what she enjoyed most about a late term cum she replied, “I gotta get my grease changed just like anybody else.”
Her fetish for death manifested itself as an opposite for the small town folk. She was a revered healer despite her grotesque ways. Many couples who were expecting had Claw bless their unborn by running the kitten pole tongue up and down the pregnant belly. Lick, lick, lick. Claw uttered the old prayers and felt secretly delighted, knowing she was helping to summon another cock she could suck. If anyone ever asked her how to make their own kitten pole she’d respond, “Well, first ya gotta run kitty through the dishwasher a couple times.” Hers was always the only pole in a six county square
Despite her precautions, Claw gave birth after falling into a cum induced coma a couple weeks before she was ready to pop. She stirred from her sleep in the middle of labor. When the child slid out she orgasmed so hard that her pussy contracted at the baby’s waist and snapped its legs off. Her wetness swallowed the limbs back inside. A week later they used a shovel to scoop out the afterbirth.
I grew up and started working at the local gas station in high school. Before this I hadn’t seen Claw in years. She’d quit the bar after injuring her shoulder and now tended till at the store. Kept a phone clipped to her bra strap and fished it out in front of customers each time it buzzed. Regaled me and anyone who would listen with stories of her sexual conquests. About how her trailer was flooded with toilet water that caused the floor to rot. About the thousands of condoms plugging the pipes that connected her house to the town’s limited sewer system. About how the men didn’t mind. That they knew the risks and rewards associated with stepping through her front door.
I began to realize that everyone had their own Claw story. She was a force in all our lives. The townies tolerated her because she gave back so much — brokering peace among the drunks and washouts by trying to keep everyone happy, entertained, and fully drained. I recognized characteristics in her I was never able to pick out as a child. It seemed her ultimate reach was for good even though her methods were filthy, often disregarding the boundaries of an ever shifting moral line.
When I began at the store I was told there was an initiation ritual involving Claw Lady’ claw. That I wasn’t to worry. The ceremony usually wasn’t lethal. She told me, “Nolan, I never got to fuck ya when you was a piglet. Now I’m gonna ride the whole hog.”
When her pussy dropped anchor I felt a rush of pleasure. My first time. But she didn’t go easy. For several years after, until I did a touch of home surgery, girlfriends went ouch when I entered them because of the scars she raked upon my genitals.
I still mostly hated her but was magnetized by her talents. In my adolescence I didn’t know how to reconcile these feelings. Once before work I asked her if she’d ever had sex in the trunk of a 1998 Mercury Tracer. We went to my car and did what was a first for both. Our trunk fucks soon became routine before starting a shift. She was always a beast in bed.
My need for her was reoccurring but I rarely enjoyed the pleasure. Began to think of my cum as a poison that’d overtaken my body. The mechanics of releasing it were necessary, but how it happened engendered shame and self hate. Despite my reservations, a stirring somewhere deep down caused me to be secretly thankful for what she was doing. So many new and invaluable life experiences. I figured Claw was bad for me, but my body didn’t stop regenerating the sick. My poison. She was always happy to drink it down.
She forever had a dribble of my tadpole broth leaking from her mouth. This caused some customers to linger, talking her up in hopes of slamming in her trailer ’til the whole thing tipped over. She’d flirt and pull down her shirt just enough to glimpse her fried egg titties, then make jokes to the men about us fucking. “So I says to Nolan, suck on these for a lunch ticket.”
Women in line at the till would grow impatient with the flirt, screaming out, “God dammit, can I buy my cigarettes and aspirin already?” The dribble would slip further down Claw’s face, her conversation never hurried.
She was petty and territorial about the menial work this place required. Took pride in it the way only an old person working a high schooler’s job can. I worked with her for two years and grew tired of the stories. When emptied of my sick I couldn’t stand this hag. Tried to be away from the till as much as possible so I didn’t have to interact with her until my urges came back. I washed shelves, filled the cappuccino machine, and changed rain soaked garbage outside.
One shift I decided to weed whack out behind the station in a ditch my boss piped raw sewage into. Standing in the marsh I realized the motor’s vibrations against my crotch were arousing. Went inside and asked Claw for a Ziploc bag. In the men’s bathroom I put my dick inside it and sealed the thing. Got back to work, now revving the device. I became overwhelmed with waves of pleasure as Claw’s now adult son drove by in his handicap van. He waved as I shot my goo into the plastic. I huffed from it but never got high. She smelled it on my breath and never let me do outside work again. That night I biked by and threw my bag in her son’s yard, hoping to shift her attention from me to him.
Claw’s son, Spiller, had turned out bad. A legless freak, he grew obese and developed his own set of fetishes. Liked to be put in a box and have lady’s wearing high heels walk over his wart laden genitals. Adopted so many dogs that the Humane Society cut him off. When he asked me if I eat animal cum I told him no. He seemed shocked. “You’ve never even had a taste?”
He often used me as an audience for his soliloquies of sickness. Told me how he was fond of orgy videos, masturbating over and over into the same pair of underwear until they grew crusty. Until they were ready for him to microwave. Hot food for puppies. Confided in me his nighttime visions. “Dreamt I fingered my mother as I jacked off. When I came it shot on my face in thick, syrupy blasts.” Spiller seemed hopeful this would become a reality.
He expressed remorse in never having performed public cunnilingus on woman or beast. Once forced on me stories about his pussy eating habits as I rang up pounds of Twix bars and Dr. Pepper.
“Several females have died under the watch of my tongue burrowing through their salty nethers. Before I lick a woman to death, I stick my hand into her sexual blood, then smear it across my face.” He banged his wheelchair against the counter over and over as he spoke this opening volley.
“That’s $17.59, Spiller.” He pulled out a wad of dirty money clipped together. It smelled like my cum. He continued.
“Don’t really care what a bitch’s diet be. My palate never discerns the difference. Just depends from girl to girl who I’ll eat.”
I started bagging his things, trying to not acknowledge what he was saying.
“There’s too many sour tasting specimens out there to just dive in willy-nilly. Some aren’t even aware. I’ve been asked a couple times by rank babes to bury my face down deep and I comply, but god damn does my skin stink afterward.” He laughed at this, rocking his chair from side to side.
His stories were gross and made me wish for his mother’s company. I had his stuff ready but he wouldn’t leave. He talked about facializing a gal, his taste for menstrual discharge.
“Thought I’d never actually gorge on a cutie cooked rare, but then I had a lick. Nolan, ya gotta earn your red wings. I already got my greens and purples.” He seemed so proud and unashamed. I let him ramble until he was done, until he’d worked himself into a state where ejaculation was imminent. He left the store, assumedly to blast one into his wife.
Engineered from a DNA sampling sapped from the shoveled up afterbirth of Spiller’s amputated legs, she resembled Claw. Worked morning shifts at Burger King in between the times Spiller hospitalized her from games of brutal sex. Seemed to be a willing accomplice in all his sickness, telling me she stapled bags of horse cum to their bedroom wall in order to get wet for him.
After work one night I walked back to the auto shop connected to the station so I could punch out. Populating the stained cement floor were Claw, Spiller, his wife, and a puppy chained to a car’s broken axle. Between them, impaled through the abdomen with a pole that rose three feet out its spine, was a body. This youngling, naked and headless, was propped on all fours. Its penis erect from death. Had Kraft Singles slapped across its back. Nearby, the youngling’s paling head lay bleeding out over an oil grate.
Claw was unclothed, kneeling at the anus with a plague doctor mask strapped to her crotch, a vibrating dildo half swallowed in her slit apart armpit. Spiller hung upright from ceiling chains. A swastika formed from blood was smeared across his chest. I recalled a piece of advice Claw once gave me: “The swazis can never be too bloody.” This one was huge and dripping. Spiller’s wife started pushing him as if he were a playground toy. The rafters creaked with every sway. She kept giddily muttering, “Vaginal imprint on my bladder swing,” as she rocked him back and forth. He became erect from her poetry.
Soon enough he grabbed hold of the pole rising out of the body and his wife pushed his mustered hardness in and out of the cavernous neck. His belly fat slid back and forth over the torso’s upper half. Claw, the beak of her mask pressed to the anus, looked over at the severed head and excused herself. “Pardon while I pump ya cunt full of grease.” I clocked out as she entered and left for home half wishing I was the youngling. The last thing I heard was Spiller’s voice. “Come for yours, Mr. Puppy.”
This time Claw had gone too far. The youngling belonged to someone who didn’t understand her ways. Security footage made her acts irrefutable. Women of the town fought through a gang of erect men barricading Claw. Using a pliers they declawed this pillar of the community. Her reign was over. She was sentenced to death and deported immediately.
Her absence was felt. For years I’d loathed her and the food she baked, but couldn’t deny that I felt an attraction. That her tongue had done things to me I’d never feel again. That she’d transformed my soul and helped shape my life. A guiding force of mostly good. I realized how much I missed her even though things were so wretched so often. I learned that even some of the jealous women felt sad to see her go. The landscape of the town changed after that.
It felt like an emptier place. The school dances ended. The gas station lowered its flag to half mast and kept it that way for years. Without Claw’s mouth to act as a valve of tension release, people squabbled more easily, closed themselves off from others, stopped experiencing joy. We’d lost a lady of great importance. I thought of Claw and all her menial jobs.
She was no great cook but could still stir the soup, mixing disparate parts, latching herself to the base of all. Social infiltrator. A drainage ditch irrigating the town’s sickness into one spot so good could thrive throughout. Her pussy forever sucking up the entirety of our hate, fear, and ugliness. In my small town she acted as the sinew strung between us all. And we broke apart without her.
Last time I saw her intact was as I was cruising along the interstate. It was just a few weeks after her sentencing. Someone was driving her semi down the road with a pig trailer attached. Her truck’s first ever load. I hurriedly pulled up. Through the grates I saw Claw stomping around on all fours with her kin. Covered in fecal matter and hay. She grabbed hold of the trailer with her claws. Pressed her snout to the metal and stared out. As her tongue flapped in the wind I finished myself off into a Netflix wrapper. Our last time together. I blew her a kiss goodbye.
After pulling forward I saw that it was Spiller driving the truck. He looked so sad. I didn’t want to make eye contact with the bastard. He’d pushed her to take things too far and now she was leaving us forever. And I knew he’d never be able to take his mother’s place. Yeah he was sick in his own right, but not in a way that’d translate to helping raise up the town. I looked down from his window. On the cab a door decal stated “The wages of sin is death.” I drove on.
Nearly a year later I was buying groceries and noticed one of Claw’s unmistakable claws popping out the tip of a link of pork. In the grocery store bathroom I amputated my own disfigured genitals and surgically attached this sausage. The claw retracted inside until I aimed it at my severed penis floating atop the red waters of the toilet bowl. Realized it would only peek out when cock was near. Gave it all a squeeze. My thickness. My sickness. I felt an overwhelming sense of peace. Knew it was only right to bring her back home. To share her with all. We needed the unity she brought: a hot fuckable piece that all could take turns on. I flushed the old bundle of pleasure nerves down the toilet and returned to my broken town.
Prior to my revelation the closest we had to togetherness was gathering around her gravestone and trading our stories. We tried to speak of her and the legends surrounding it all in the present tense, hoping her spirit still pervaded the town. Her bones came back in a bag and some former Cub Scouts pieced them together with kit glue. Her skeleton hung above the grave atop the kitten pole, forever clanging in the wind as if a Siren’s chime. Like good Catholics we’d each take turns kneeling, placing a light kiss on her skeletal toes.
I’d shake my head and laugh when thinking about her baked beans, how she once made me pop seizure pills and anally dose on twelve inches of a glass dildo. Knew it was now my turn to do the stirring. It’d be done my way, avoiding her mistakes. No children. No unnecessary killing. No Spiller. No gender or species exclusion. I would unite us.
I looked to her grave for guidance. It provided in ways I can’t communicate. I brought flowers to her stone in thanks. ‘Tis a beautiful hunk of rock. Carved on the front is a quote from Q of the Continuum that attempted to sum up what her body could do:
“It’s wondrous, with treasures to satiate desires both subtle and gross.”
I have a new job now. Whenever I’m not curled up in my trunk, licking the soiled interior, I walk the streets. Past the bar, the school, the church. Past her trailer where so many men united in a common habit. Where so many died falling through rotten floorboards after blowing off the best one ever. I will walk these streets until my legs break apart. Carrying on her legacy. My pants forever unzipped. Making people look. Not letting them forget. Hoping they’ll line the killing floor once again. All aboard, folks. Get that lunch ticket ready. You’re going to need it.
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For a more positive view of cats, read this story of mine: https://gabfrab.com/2011/11/06/cardboard-blankies/