Babalon’s Revenge

Lasara Firefox Allen

Content Warning: Explicit content and sexual assault

We’re closing the bar and it’s 2am and we’re drunk and I don’t remember his name because it isn’t important but he wants to fuck me and I pride myself on being easy and we’ve both invested an evening in flirting, so why not? He says he’s gonna get a room for us but all the rooms in town are full by some weird chance and after the third one we try he says, “I know a place.” 

He doesn’t tell me where we’re going and I’m riding into the dark of night outside of town with a man I don’t know in a truck no one knows I left in. It’s the early 2000s and I haven’t yet given in to carrying a cellphone around. In this pre-cellphone era, there’s no digital footprint left behind like breadcrumbs. 

We drive up a hill. There are no streetlights. He drives me out to a municipal water tank – one of those huge ones, sitting on a hill outside of town. We park by the water tank and get out of the truck. He does a bump of coke off his thumb, asks me if I want one. “I don’t do coke,” I lie. Truth is I want my wits about me. 

He says, “Let’s fuck,” and I acquiesce. There’s no real option to say no, it feels like. And I wanted to before, so what’s shifted? Well, I had imagined a bed, and a shower for after, not standing by the truck while he unceremoniously rams me from behind. 

He’s having a hard time cumming (probably due to the coke, booze, and cold night air on his ass and balls), and says he wants to fuck my ass. Again rather than fighting, I allow it. There’s no way to know what a drunk yahoo on coke might do with a woman who says no in the wee hours of the morning in a remote location, so tonight I am a woman who says yes. 

I embody the woman who says yes. I invoke Babalon, Mother of Whores, into my body. I let her take over. She works his cock like my life depends on him cumming – because you never know, maybe it does. Babalon writhes and moans, using my body to deliver his orgasm. She loans me her strength. 

In the night I hear a lone owl crying. The soft, breathy “Whoooooo” sounds mournful and comical at the same time. 

Just before the moment of his climax, Babalon turns 180 degrees at the waist, holds his head tenderly in my hands, and snaps his neck like it’s a twig. He falls away with a look of surprise on his graying face.

I pull my pants up, get in his truck, and drive away. My ass is sore but I’m alive. His corpse lies on the ground, preparing to feed the oak trees.

Lasara Firefox Allen (they/them/theirs) is a writer, Witch, and gritty academic. Lasara resides with/in the ancestral and contemporary lands of the Pomo people. Lasara is a Harm Reductionist, social justice activist, and co-conspirator for our collective liberation. Twitter: @FirefoxAllen; Insta: @lasara_firefox_allen; fb: /Lasara.wakerobin.firefox.allen; Website: