How Gina Got Her Groove Back by Joseph Ridgwell
reprinted from Savage Manners with permission

Gina was in a life rut, dead-end relationship, meaningless job, and virtually nothing to look forward to in life. Her one beacon of hope was that she aspired to be a writer. Her main areas of literary interest were mostly genre-orientated. Thrillers, ghost tales, horror stories, the more grisly and macabre the better, but every time she sat in front of a computer to get the word down nothing happened, zero, nish, de nada. Writers block.

Gina couldn’t understand why she was unable to write and pretty soon the issue began to dominate her every waking thought. For as long as she could remember she had wanted to be a writer and considered it to be her destiny and fate, even her god-given right. However, despite feelings of pre-ordained destiny, the words refused to come.

Then, one day as she surfed the web she hit upon the answer. An article by the famous underground writer Joseph Ridgwell caught her eye, and whilst reading it Gina experienced an almost Joycean like epiphany. The article was, entitled, Live First, Write Later, and espoused the strongly held view that writers need life experience before they can write. In fact Ridgwell’s exact words were, ‘In my opinion to produce anything of literary worth aspiring writers need to have lived a little, taken jobs, travelled, had a series of love affairs, shot a man in Reno. How can you write about life if you haven’t even lived it?’

To Gina the powerful words were like a revelation. The one thing missing in her life was real life experiences. After a somewhat dull, but comfortable upbringing in the leafy suburbs, her life had followed a clearly defined route; public school, university, and cushy public sector job. In fact when she thought about it, her whole life had panned out without her having any real say in the matter, and now it was time to spread her wings and fly.

Once the main thrust of Ridgwell’s article had been digested Gina knew what needed to be done. Despite a long-term relationship with a boy she’d met at Uni, she was yet to conduct a mad passionate affair, and hadn’t even had a one-night stand.

She picked up the phone and called Richard and gave him the bad news. It was over between them, the relationship was going nowhere and it was time to make a clean break. Richard was devastated, heartbroken, but strangely the more he whinged, the less Gina cared, and when he started crying all she felt was contempt.

With Richard out of the picture Gina embarked on her new life with gusto. She brought a smart set of trendy clothes and frequented some well-known pick-up joints. She flirted outrageously, drank heavily, took whatever drugs she could get her hands on, and went home with a different man each night.

The sex was wild and dangerous. She refused point-blank to take precautions and fucked the men in as many different ways and places as possible. One night she took two young guys home and experienced the particular delights of double entry, and on another she had an intense lesbian foursome.

At work people were able to spot the difference. She looked healthier, more vivacious, and her eyes sparkled with a reckless abandon. She fucked work colleagues, managers, even a cleaner from El Salvador who didn’t speak a word of English, but had an incredibly long cock.

This reckless period lasted for nearly a month and afterwards Gina felt like a new woman, reenergized, and revitalised. And when she settled down to write about her experiences of life on the edge, like a miracle the words flowed. But there was still a problem.

After each frenzied session of writing Gina poured over what she had wrote, and each time something seemed to be missing. It was mere biography, confessional, narcissistic, self-obsessed tedium, and ultimately it wasn’t enough.

After that Gina returned to her passion for genre writing, thrillers, ghost stories, crime and horror, but once again something wasn’t quite right. The words just didn’t ring true. Gradually Gina began to have dark thoughts. To write convincingly about murder she had to experience murder firsthand, she reasoned. And the same went for horror. How could she write about gruesome deaths, torture, and dismemberment, if she had never experienced any of those things in real life?

In the weeks that followed Gina spent most of her waking hours fantasising about murdering someone in cold blood. She imagined all sorts of scenarios. Pushing someone in a canal, killing them while making love, taking someone hostage and torturing them for several weeks, hot wax in the mouth, electrocution, cutting off ears and noses, gouging out eyes, and various other grisly mutilations. And she quickly discovered murderous thoughts were an extreme turn on, and could easily reach orgasm just by running the gruesome images through her brain.

Shortly afterwards Gina called in sick at work and stayed home, drinking heavily and obsessing on increasingly dark and insane thoughts. It was during this mad period that her ex paid a visit. At the time she’d been masturbating with a huge crucifix, whilst imagining decapitating an innocent man as he performed cunnilingus on her.

She flung open the door in a highly aroused state, her mascara smudged, and her eyes wild with wanton abandon. Richard stood there with a bunch of flowers, a box of Belgium chocolate, a tiny jewellery box, and an easily subjugated countenance.
‘Get the fuck in here you cunt,’ ordered Gina.

Richard was somewhat taken aback by his former lover’s demented demeanour, but being no mug he stepped inside, ‘I’ve brought you some…’ Gina grabbed the presents and then slapped Richard hard across the face with the back of her hand, ‘Shut the fuck up and get into the bedroom and strip, you embarrassment to all men.’

Once again Richard was taken aback, but since splitting up with Gina he hadn’t had the slightest hint of snatch so did exactly as he was told. As he undressed Gina stomped on his flowers, stuffed twelve chocolates into her mouth, and tossed the Tiffany key ring out of a window.

Gina marched into the bedroom, leering, and with melted chocolate dribbling down her chin. Then she tore off her clothes and positioned herself in the doggy position,
‘Fuck me up the arse, queer boy!’ She demanded. The bewildered Richard took one look at the brown eye, winking back at him, and within seconds was in it up to the hilt.

Minutes later Gina was salivating, groaning, and screaming until Richard hardly knew where he was,‘Oh shit, oh mother, I’m going to come, I’m going to offload,’ he grunted.
Gina looked over shoulder and licked her lips, ‘Not inside, but over my face you spineless fuck,’ she hissed.

Richard didn’t need a second invitation and yanked his pulsating cock out of the surprisingly loose hole, and stuck it into Gina’s sweaty face, ‘Pour it all over me, dick fuck freak, are you going to?’ Richard was ready to burst, the veins bulging on his forehead, his eyes closed. ‘Yeah baby, yeah,’ he gasped, but just as he was about to ejaculate, he felt a searing pain in his rectum,

‘Think I’d let you spurt your filthy peasant juice over me?’ screamed Gina, as she stabbed the kitchen knife three or more times right up Richard’s arse. Richard collapsed onto the bed in agony and emitted a long rasping death rattle, ‘Oh fuck, oh my god……..’


Gina awoke with a terrible hang over, but also with a certain sense of serenity, like all her ambitions in life had been fulfilled in one fell swoop. She grabbed a cask of wine left over from the night before and took a long, slow hit. Then she gazed at the body of her dead ex, the limbs stiff with rigour mortis. ‘Prick,’ she spat out languidly.

She grabbed the kitchen knife and began hacking off body parts. With nothing left of Richard aside from the torso she began cooking. Boiled ears and curried nose for lunch, a bit chewy, but not bad. For dinner she had rump steak with pepper sauce, fucking delicious, she reflected afterwards, whilst drinking a huge brandy and smoking a Cuban cigar.

After dinner Gina went straight to the computer and began writing, the words rushing from her mind like a mountain river after heavy rains. By late evening she had amassed eighteen thousand words, almost a novella, and she kept going. Her fingers were nothing but a blur, the sweat poured off her in torrents, and she stripped naked. Towards the end of her marathon session, she found the crucifix and shoved it up her pussy, whilst taking huge swigs of claret from the cask.

When the police broke down the door Gina was fast asleep on the settee with Richard’s head stuck between her thighs. There were five police officers, two of whom were instantly sick and two more who fainted. The one remaining officer, the old pro, rudely awakened her, ‘What the hell happened here?’

Gina opened one sleep-encrusted eye and looked all around the room, before hitting on the last officer standing, ‘What the fuck does it look like shit for brains, I just wrote my mother-fucking masterpiece’ she croaked.

The veteran officer radioed for assistance and calmly pulled out his gun, ‘Don’t move a fucking muscle!’ He yelled.

Gina eyeballed the officer with a look of sheer contempt. Then she rose from the settee with the bloodied kitchen knife, ‘Shut the fuck up, you…..’ But before she could finish the sentence, six bullets at point blank range killed her instantly.


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