If You Go Chasing Rabbits

WARNING: Alice In Wonderland Gets Dirty In This Surrealistic Strip Club Adventure For Grown Ups Only. Contains ANAL SEX, RAMPANT DRUG USAGE, RABBIT PORNOGRAPHY, AND INTERSPECIES SADISM.

You walk into the Wonderland Cabaret, casting a shadow through the red lit doorway like a black rainbow. Fragmenting. You scrape the ice off your black leather shoes on the doorstep and shake the snow off your black silk top hat.

Being an undertaker is a draining job. All day, it’s corpses, the tears of strangers and hothouse bushels of flowers bursting into the air like overdressed socialites slumming it in the ghetto. You am the mummy dresser, the shit-smooth talker, the mirror of death; like you are a fortuneteller or a savior. You are the empty receptacle of their endless pain. You do it with grace. You do it with a tender touch and a level head even though each day you feel less and less concern and more and more of a creeping numbness that is both comforting and terrifying at the same time.

You fear that your eyes show insincerity, and yet no one seems to notice that you are already going through the motions most of the time. The tears, the thank you cards, the wedding invitations just kept on flowing like rain on black ice. You are sliding and you are icing over.

You are glad it’s winter.

It suits your black moods.

You are grateful for strip clubs. At the end of the day you need to unwind.

It is warm inside. You sit down, order a Scotch, and focus your gaze upon the stage as Grace Slick’s spooky satin voice streams through the speakers.

“One pill makes you larger and one pill makes you small/, and the ones that mother gives you don’t do anything at all/ Go ask Alice, when she’s ten feet tall/ And if you go chasing rabbits, and you know you’re going to fall/ Tell them a hookah smoking caterpillar has given you the call/ Call Alice, when she was just as small.”


 Alice works her way across the chessboard of the stage, spinning round the mushroom pole. The room is filled with blue smoke but you can see her writhing through the haze. She dances like she’s made for the music. She’s wearing a headband with big white bunny ears over her long blonde hair that falls in cascades down the curve of her back. She rides that mushroom pole and flips upside down, with her legs spread high above her head. Her big blue eyes and red lips are innocence and corruption made flesh. Her curves are lush and youthful. Her skin is creamy and translucent. She looks like a fairy princess from the dirty side of town. She glows unearthly under these red lights.

She gets down to a white lace thong with a white fluffy bunny tail on the back. She wiggles her tail in your face and bends over all the way. She has a small white rabbit tattooed on her right ass cheek. You smack it and it bounces deliciously. You can see the sweat soaking through her white panties. You stick a 20 dollar bill into the side of her thong as she crawls past you and she turns around, all big eyes and curves and asks if you want to buy her a drink and get a private dance in the blue room.

 You say yes. You think yes. You feel that yes down to your bones.

 She grabs your hand and you follow her fluffy tail and bobbing ears to the back of the club. She downs the scotch like it’s nothing. You can tell she is already drunk but she still can dance and stay on her feet. She gets on your lap. She is grinding on you, making you hard.

You want to be inside her.

She gets down on her knees and unzips your pants. Her gorgeous mouth wraps around your cock. She sucks desperately and deeply, taking it all in.

Just as you feel like you are gonna blow, she stops and takes out some white powder and a silver makeup mirror with skulls and roses etched upon it. She cuts out a few lines and she does three.  You sit down beside her, stroking her beautiful blond hair as she powders her nose.

Then you do a line.

The rush hits you hard. Your nose burns. You feel the sickly sweet drip down your throat. Her eyes are wide with dark fire. You kiss her and it makes you hunger for the wetness between her legs.

She puts the coke mirror down on the carpet and keeps doing lines with her ass up in the air, teasing you, swaying it from side to side. You slide your fingers under her thong and into her dripping wet pussy. She moans and slides her hips towards you. You grab the fluffy bunny tail on her butt and tear off her white lace thong.

You thrust and thrust and the wetness surrounds you. Your cock—the needle, the cure. It feels amazing and she moans louder. She screams like she is being slaughtered but she tells you to fuck her harder. You fuck her until her whole face is covered in coke like a sexy pastry. You pound her pussy harder and harder. You feel like you’re gonna blow. You pull out, gasping for air.

She shoots you daggers with her eyes.

“What are you doing?” she asks you, breathlessly, wanting, and dazed.

“I’m getting really close.”

“Fuck me in the ass then. I like it like that,” she fires back, with a seductive and perverse softness dripping from her voice.


 Her ass cheeks glow in the dark like twin moons.

 Your cock slides in smoothly after the initial push against her dry outer skin.

The harder you pound, the smoother it goes. She moans and screams but she does not tell you to stop so you don’t. Harder. Harder. Harder. As you pound into her, the sensation changes.

You feel like you’re drowning in quicksand. You can’t pull out.

You are being sucked inside of her!

You are suddenly falling deeper and deeper into her until you are surrounded by mud and roots that drip with glittering green ooze. You try to grab onto the roots as you fall but they are slippery and cut up your hands. The ooze burns and the glitter fills your wounds.

Finally, you hit the soft ground with a splash. Your clothes are soaked. It smells like fresh earth and some kind of bitter herb. You crawl out of the stinking swamp and stagger towards dry land.

In between two giant trees there is an opening that glows deep red inside. Above the hole is a makeshift sign that reads: THE RABBIT HOLE.

 It is suffocatingly warm inside. You take off your hat and cloak. You sit down. You order a drink. A rabbit-headed cocktail waitress in a white vinyl bustier, mini skirt and thigh high go-go boots comes over to you. She smiles and her sharpened shark white teeth glisten. Her nose twitches.

“What would you like to drink?” she asks with a soft smoky voice, tilting her head coquettishly.

 You stare blankly at her.

 “Would you like the house specialty?”

 “Um…okay,” you reply, too dazed to ask her anything else.

 She walks off, her curvaceous hips swinging atop six inch heels, her long white rabbit ears bobbing up and down.

She brings you a green drink with a sprig of clover on top. It tastes minty and you drink it down as your eyes dart around the room.

White dominates the décor. A fountain is graced with three naked, rabbit-headed porcelain women, spinning slowly in the center, their asses against each-other, their heads tilted upward, as their open mouths and vaginas gush endless streams of bubbling milky liquid. The tables are round and white and the chairs are all covered in thick white fur. The tables are lit by neon crystal balls that spin at their centers.

There is a crowd of mean-looking jackrabbits sitting at a nearby table. They are laughing. They are hideous. They have human torsos but they are grotesque with huge ears and big noses twitching as they glance sideways at you with their beady eyes full of hate. They are puffing away on huge green cigars that smell like burnt asparagus. Their laughter sounds like manic shrieks.

One of them grabs a rabbit headed waitress. You watch them from the shadows. Two of them hold her down, another puts his giant paw upon her mouth, covering her whole face except her eyes. The other two grab her breasts and twist her nipples until they spurt milk.

They lick and lap at her full soft breasts and bite her nipples with their sharp teeth as she squirms and struggles, her large eyes bald with fear.

And then they look over at you.



I wake up naked, hung-over and alone. I look down at my legs and see blood.

Fuck. Not again!

I rush to the bathroom. My legs are shaking. The blood is coming from the bruise that is already purpling around my asshole.

I splash cold water on my face. I am so fucked right now. I don’t even bother looking for the man who was with me last night because I know exactly where he is right now.

This is not the first time that I have blacked out during sex. This is not the first time one of my clients has disappeared. Always with the anal.

For a long time I pretended it wasn’t happening. I assumed anything but the truth, because the truth is just absurd. But it finally became impossible for me to ignore the cold hard fact that my butthole is a portal to a strip club named The Rabbit Hole.

Of course no one would believe me.

Okay, I told myself, I just need to make sure not to let anyone fuck me in the ass.

Easier said than done. I really love anal and once the coke starts flowing, that is pretty much all I want to do. I would stop doing coke but it is the only thing that keeps me motivated to strip. It is a vicious cycle. Do coke, strip, so I can do more coke, fuck guys, make guys disappear, regret, do more coke, fuck, repeat.

I am gonna get fired if my boss realizes that I am making men disappear up my butthole. I could come clean but he would not believe me and I need the money.

Gross men aside, I really love this job. I love dancing to “White Rabbit’ and I love the rush of power I feel when I see all the men drooling over me. I got a tattoo of a white rabbit on my butt as a sort of reminder to myself of what is inside there, but I think the bunny is almost like catnip to these guys.

Thinking about the men and the anal just makes me wanna do more coke.

Coke makes me feel invincible, sparkling, witty, and amazing. Coke keeps me going. Every time I’m too tired or sad to dance, I do a few lines and then I feel the magic of the music in my body again.

I look up the name of the man from last night on my phone. So he was an undertaker apparently. Well, that’s ironic. He will be reported missing soon and be added to the list of the men who entered The Wonderland Cabaret never to be seen again.

I take a long hungover nap and then get ready for the night.

White thong. Bunny tail. Rabbit ears. Glitter pasties with tassels. Glass butt plug.

I start doing lines of coke as I do my makeup. False eyelashes. Glitter eyeshadow. Black lipstick.

By the time my dance is up I feel amazing. Grace Slick. That voice. Like an angel from hell. I am in love with her darkness. I swing my hips and my heart sings.

I might be surrounded by sweaty men, but in my head I am in The Rabbit Hole. My rabbit ears are real and my nose twitches with happy powder. My blood is electric and my breasts are brimming with rabbit milk. The jackrabbits are hungry for it. They want to drink it all up. I am their favorite drug.

I squeeze my breasts and spin the tassels. I can feel their rabbit eyes on me and it is making me wet. I jump on the pole and leave a trail of slime that I lick off before jumping back on the pole. I can hear the glass plug clanking against the hard metal.

I take off the tassels and suck my own breasts, picturing the rabbit men suckling them as they get massive erections. I start to finger myself onstage. I take out the butt plug and I throw it into the audience. I get right up in front and bend in a way I never thought I could bend. My back starts to stretch and I lick my own pussy.

The audience gasps. I keep stretching, craning my neck, magnetically drawn towards my butthole. My tongue reaches it and I stick it inside. Pleasure waves shoot from my anus all the way up my spine and into my brain—a full body mindgasm.

I am a closed circuit of ever-spinning pleasure. I keep licking my butthole and eating it deeper and deeper until I am falling and falling and falling all the way down into the depths of wonderland.

My rabbit heart pounds in my head and my pupils turn bright red.

I am inside the rabbit hole and you are the rabbit.



You see a glow on the horizon and you keep running, first on two legs, then bounding on all fours. Your feet turn into paws. You don’t stop and you can’t stop. You run and run and soon you are running straight off the ground up towards that glow. You hop through the air, weightless, as if through water.

You break through the sonic supernova of Grace Slick’s voice. You are inside the nothing of whiteness. Your head pounds. Your ears grow long and hairy as tribal drums bleed a river of sound into your ear canal. Your rabbit heart beats fast.

Run, rabbit, run. Run, rabbit, run. Run. Rabbit. Run.


Story originally published in Dynatox A-GO-GO by Dynatox Ministries, 2014

Leza Cantoral is the author of Planet Mermaid and editor of Walk Hand in Hand Into Extinction: Stories Inspired by True Detective. She writes a feminist column about noir film for Luna Luna Magazine called Shades of Noir and writes about pop culture for Clash Media. Her upcoming collection of short stories, Cartoons in the Suicide Forest, will be coming out later this year through Bizarro Pulp Press.

You can find her short stories at lezacantoralblog.wordpress.com

Twitter @lezacantoral

















About Leza Cantoral

Leza Cantoral is a human who lives on the internet. She is the editor of Tragedy Queens: Stories Inspired by Lana Del Rey & Sylvia Plath, host of Get Lit With Leza podcast, author of Cartoons in the Suicide Forest, & editor in chief of CLASH Books. She blogs at lezacantoral.com Twitter, IG, FB @lezacantoral

Leave a Reply