I
was eighteen and living on my own for the first time, drawing sidewalk
caricatures in a heinous tourist town. Every new acquaintance led to an
epiphany and every new apartment to previously unattained cynicism.
Cynicism was new to me. Since this was the first time I was in a
position to be taken for a ride by someone besides my parents, it was
occasion for me to step back and take notes. I noticed the airbrush
T-shirt artists made roughly twice what I made, so I took up
airbrushing along with the caricatures. I spray-painted portraits of
rock stars, copied album covers, drew peoples' cars, terriers, names in
bubble letters. But since I was the new guy -- and quite honestly, not
as good as people who had been doing it longer -- my shifts and
locations weren't so hot, and for that summer at least, I didn't make
any better money airbrushing than I did at caricatures.
T-shirt
row with Elvis and Ripley Museums, dozens of fudge shops that out
shined the quaint charm of sidewalk portrait artists. Gatlinburg was a
nut magnet, drawing fanatics from all walks of life, all of them more
than willing to give an eighteen-year-old geek like me guidance.
Artists who spent the day discussing Picasso while drawing pastel
portraits tried to convert me to the artist's lifestyle. Shop owners,
who claimed to have found a virtual gold mine in that disgusting little
cancer nestled in the beautiful Smoky Mountains tried to teach me the
merits of entrepreneurship. Then there were drug freaks, rednecks,
fruits and their fruit-flies, not to mention the Hare Krishnas and the
Campus Crusade for Christ.
But
they were already too late, because I'd already found religion, and I
found it in my own lusty mind: The worship of fat chicks. One thing the
Campus Crusade for Christ was good for was a busload of big-butted
cuties, with melon-sized boobs, and all the accoutrements that an
upstanding young lady should be equipped with: lacy bras, pantyhose,
often with garters, panties, of course, high-heels, and sheer summer
dresses suitable for church or giving a horny looser like me a solid
boner. Alas, I found faith.
Jokes
aside, though, what I also discovered that year was cynicism. All my
life people have been saying things like, "if you don't have anything
good to say, don't say anything at all." So not having the breadth of
vision of an 18-year-old, I didn't think it meant "be polite at the
dinner table" I thought it meant "don't be critical."
I'd
moved south from Chicago my last year of high school at the
recommendation of my mother, an ample woman in her own right who was
under the impression I needed a bit of discipline in my life. She sent
me to Military School -- no girls, the whole trip. But now that I was
freed from the command of a couple hundred Colonal Klinks, I was
determined to loose my cherry with one of these pleasantly plump
southern gals. Ah, big-titted cowgirls -- who knew they'd be so
friendly? Up north, girls treated me like shit. Down here I was an
Italian Stallion. Up north your typical Italian chick looks totally hot
skinny, with the full lips, long nose, dark eyes, full breasts and hips
and all that, but put an extra 50 pounds on her and she turns into a
monstrous sow fit only for breeding or cooking pasta. Down south, girls
put on fifty extra pounds and va-va-va-voom: Super Bees (Super Boobs,
Super Butts) -- 440 hemis and trick spoilers.
So
there was this Christian young lady, Bev, next to my caricature stand.
She was in a booth handing out flyers for some Christian wax museum
that has all these god-awful wax statues of characters from the New
Testament. Their eyes are always pointed this way and that like poorly
dressed corpses at an open casket funeral. In fact, the whole place was
clammy like a mausoleum with an astroturf foyer, white marble bricks,
nauseous air freshner, and plastic roses in every nook and cranny. But
you know Christians: Nail a guy on a cross and they'll flock in even if
you're serving shit in a dog bowl.
The
buying crowds on the sidewalk usually flocked in just after breakfast
or around dinner time, making the afternoons pretty slow.
Theoretically, they were all hiking in the mountains, or going to
Dollywood. (Dolly: a perfect example of a suped-up southern chick.) The
best way to make money during the slow time of day was to crack jokes
at the passing stragglers, or get someone to sit for a freebee. Many a
day I did the joke thing, and this helped me to get to know my
voluptuous friend next to me. Then one day, Bev sat for a freebee.
She
crossed her chubby legs so her hose made a sexy swishing sound. Her
beige polyester church dress hiked up to the bottom of her ample
buttocks. She combed her hair with determined vigor while I watched her
fair face, neck and breast meat flush from the exertion. Her lipstick
was totally overdone, a huge turn-on considering that at this point in
my life my sexual history (sex defined as achieving orgasm with a
partner) comprised of two blowjobs and coming on some girl's chest when
I worked at a Wendy's, so a set of female lips may as well have been
bare-naked pussy. She was wearing what I think were false eyelashes --
that or the mascara was so thick, her lashes looked fake. For a second,
I realized she resembled Miss Piggy, but I always found that puppet
kinda cute anyway. I was hard as a bat and short of breath when I
started drawing her.
Her
nose was easy. Pug, all the way. "So where do you Campus Crusaders stay
up here anyway?" I asked automatically the way I talked to anyone I was
drawing in order to sneak topical information about them into the
caricature.
"Oh,"
she sighed in a twangy drawl that turned any vowel into a two or three
syllable project, "We hay-ave ou-rah compay-ound up aw-on Ree-idge
Bay-ack Tray-ell." I won't spell out her drawl anymore. You get the
idea.
"In tents?"
"No, cabins," She smiled politely. Mmm: lips. Mmm: I wanted to bite her
pert little chin, and slide down her baby-soft neck, climb between her
boobs as if they were my own personal flesh sleeping bag. Instead, I
drew her chin-line, discreetly avoiding any semblance of a goiter on
the page, and sheepishly retreated upward along her cheek-line.
"Roomates?" Mmm. Tweezed eyebrows.
"Lord, yes!" she said rolling her eyes.
"I
take it that's not a good thing." Mmm. Those cute blue eyes they all
seem to have with that totally unreal shimmery eye-shadow.
"Well, we're all there for some kind of Christian Fellowship, but sometimes 6 girls in a cabin can just drive you crazy!"
Six
girls in a cabin? Shit! I'd nail myself to a cross if it meant having
six clean-as-a-whistle busty virgins in polyester church dresses
kneeling in worship around me. I tried not to pant too audibly,
absorbing myself in the task of indicating her hair texture in the
language of magic marker when -- Oh Jesus, what was she doing now?
Fuck, help me Lord, she's bouncing her crossed leg up and down,
clucking her high-heeled sandal against her heel. God, her panty-hose
have the most delicious seam running across her painted toes! Jesus
Chrysler! Her legs are making that swishy sound. If only I could
suffocate between her nylon thighs, that would do instead of going to
heaven. If you're listening, Satan, that's an offer.
A
couple rednecks smelling of beer, even though it was barely after
lunch, stopped, presumably to check-out the mystery concealed between
her meaty thighs rather than my caricature prowess.
"Ah, man," a skinny one with a Dukes of Hazard baseball cap guffawed at me, "She's way perttier'n'that!"
"Yeah,"
the other one with bucked teeth and a tattoo of a Harley eagle just
above his bloated navel chimed in, "And don't make her too small up
top, neither!"
"Hey there, boys," I said in mock redneck, "Let's keep this here family entertainment."
"The family that sleeps together. . ." The fat one started before the Dukes fan elbowed him in the eagle.
"You heard the man," he said, and with that they walked on down the street to bother the next vendor in line.
"You
know," Bev said rolling her eyes, "you probably think I'm just some
uptight Christian girl, but why do men say things like that?"
"Men? No, my dear," I said affecting a gentlemanly voice, "They're trolls!"
I
sketched some mountains and a couple Smoky Mountain bears whistling
cat-calls in the background before what she said sunk in. "Not an
uptight Christian Girl," eh? I repeated that to myself while drawing a
voluptuous cartoon one-piece swimsuit with a beauty-pageant ribbon
running down her shoulder and across her ample cartoon chest. On the
ribbon I wrote: Not An Uptight Christian Girl. I picked up a reddish
chalk, rubbing my middle finger into the cheap pastel and smeared color
onto her cartoon cheeks, chin, and cleavage, all the while, smirking at
her out of the corner of my eye and watching her smirk back at me. When
I finished, I held the drawing up to her.
"Oh,
my goodness!" she squealed putting her hands over her blushing cheeks.
"Oh, that's adorable." She shook her head back and forth. "I can't show
this to my roomates, but I love it!" She leaned over and gave me a wet
kiss below the ear, and a good view down the top of her dress on the
way to and from the kiss. I noticed she had freckles all the way down
her cleavage, and remembered I didn't draw them in.
"I
forgot something, I said taking the drawing and pinning it back up on
my easel. I quickly drew in a few cartoon freckles across her cheeks
and nose.
"There," I said handing it back to her.
"Thank
yew-ou!" she said nodding her head in a gesture of endearment. "I'm
sending this to my cousin. He'll get a kick out of it. He did this
Campus Crusade thing a couple years back."
"Do him some good?"
"I
-- " she started, looked up at the sky to try to think out her
phrasing, then, " I don't think he's a practicing Christian these days."
"You know this cousin pretty well, eh?"
"As
well as I could know someone and still be a virgin." She raised her
eyebrows like a true seductress, "he's somewhat of a distant cousin."
"Arg!" I said slapping my own face, "Don't make me blush!"
As if an act of God, thunder clapped, and I felt a few drops of rain. The formerly sunny sky turned gray.
"Uh-oh," I said looking up, "Better pack up."
I
folded up my drawing easel, samples, sun umbrella and two lawn chairs
that comprised my stand, and with Bev's help hauled my stuff into the
store that rented the sidewalk space to me.
"You need help with yours?"
"Not
really." I walked to the front of her booth and watched her take a pile
of brochures from the counter and place them under the counter.
"There!" she said with a silly smile and gesturing with her hands to
her shiny-clean counter.
"Wanna play pinball?" I asked with my heart fluttering just under my adam's apple.
"Pinball?"
"Uh -- " Hmm, maybe it was the wrong thing. Oh, well, "yeah, pinball."
She
poked her left forefinger into a dimple on her left cheek as if to
pinball or not was a major life decision. Then, "Pinball it is."
We
ran through the streets feigning terror at the raindrops. I couldn't
help but keep an eye on her jiggling fat girl parts. She had a nice
smile, too, a childish face that seemed to lose itself in our silly
little run through the rain. We ducked into the awning in front of the
pinball parlor. There was a Corn Queen, corn dog stand facing the
street next to the arcade entrance that this wierd kid Skeeter worked.
It stunk like rancid grease. I shook my head, letting the water fly.
Bev rung her hair over my soaking sneakers that I tried unsuccessfully
to pull away from the stream of water falling from her chubby hands and
rope of brown and blonde streaked hair. When she finished, neither of
us had anymore silly gestures or anything to say. Legs of water ran
down Bev's neck which I chased with a smile into her cleavage. Her
polyester dress was soaked. Her nipples rose under the shear garment. I
felt the urge to kiss her swell inside me, but I felt embarrassed
experiencing this sort of pregnant moment in front of Skeeter. I often
refer to him as Skeever, because he skeeves me out, like I imagine he
grew up fucking his sister, or a rooster in the back yard for that
matter.
"Hi,"
Skeeter said. Gross. What was it about him? He was skinny and freckled
with blonde and red streaky hair that seemed finer than the fibers of a
feather, all of sixteen, but there was something so awful, whether it
was greasy skin, bug eyes, or bucked teeth, I couldn't put my finger on
it, but he came off more as a lecherous old man than a horny teenager.
Like someone you might find peeking under a toilet stall at little boys
peeing. And it was so perfect that he worked Corn Queen, because it was
a rip-off of the more successful Korn King down the block. What a dork.
"Hi." I grunted.
"Hi, Skeeter," Bev said more personably than I did.
"Here," Skeeter said handing a corn dog to Bev, "On the house. Want mustard?"
She shook her head yes and he squirted yellow goo from a squeeze bottle.
"Thanks,
Skeeter." She took a bite and held it out to me. I took a bite. It
tasted like rancid grease and burned my tongue, not to mention how
wierd it felt sharing Skeever's phallic gift, but it also seemed
pleasant, like the thing to do after getting caught in a summer's rain
in a hokey tourist town.
Inside,
the air conditioning was all the way up. Bev's nipples stayed frozen at
attention under the slick, wet sheath of polyester church dress. My
dick was frozen, too, as it extended it's one-eyed face into my briefs
through three or four games. Each time we switched places to take turns
our bodies touched giving off small electrical charges within that part
of our brains that triggers horniness. Wetness makes you a better
conductor if horniness. We both noticed the door to the back alley was
open. We smiled at each other and slipped outside. It was warm as a
mother's breast as we listened to the rain patter steadily against the
corrigated fiberglass roof of the make-shift veranda. I pulled her to
me and we kissed. The wetness of our clothes conducted our body heat as
if we weren't wearing anything. Just as we took our first breath,
Skeeter, with his Corn Queen corndog hat came out of a wooden stall
they'd built for the garbage. We straightened up and looked across the
alley as if we were genuinely interested in workings of back alleys.
Skeeter gave us a skeevy smile and went back inside.
"I'm nervous about him seeing us," she said. "I don't know what they'd
think back at the Crusade. I mean, Skeeter's dad runs the place."
"What?" I said in disbelief, "Skeeter's dad's a preacher?"
"Yeah," she said as if I was a total ignoramus, "and I think Pastor Ed
would chuck me out of there if he found out what we were doing."
"Well then, let's hide," I peeked into the garbage stall then motioned
for her to join me. It smelled a little funny, but I shut the dumpster
lid and it smelled OK.
"Better?" I asked.
"I'd rather have a room at the Mariott," she said with a big grin, "but it's kind of exciting."
There were a bunch of broken down boxes stacked around the dumpster
that we laid against, kicking our feet up against a row of 25 gallon
buckets they used to dump the used grease from the corndog fryer.
Before my lips reached her, I took as much of her huge right breast in
my left hand as I could.
"Ummph!" she grunted on contact. At first, I fell over her, but then
she lumbered over me, dry-humping like crazy with her bulbous pelvic
phenomenon.
"Oh, God!" I shouted, as a geyser of cum shot out from under my belt
and onto my belly. She lifted her dress up and rubbed her belly over me
like a human sponge. My eighteen-year-old head was spinning, and one
orgasm was hardly sufficient to quench virgin horniness. I grabbed her
huge, rain-soaked buttocks and pulled her back on top of me. She
vigorously sucked my tongue out from behind my teeth while I slipped
one hand on either side of her left hip, under the dainty strain of the
elastic on her panty hose and panties. My left hand relished the
feeling of her big, slick ass, my other hand slipped into her
sticky-wet twat. It felt huge. Her clitoris must have been the size of
one of those pinballs, and nearly as hard. The more we pushed into each
other, the further down her legs I pushed her panties and those clingy
hose, until they held her ankles together while she slid up and down my
thin belly, moaning and squealing. Then suddenly she stopped, arched
her head back and let out a squeak of naughty joy.
"Oh..." I could feel her pussy and clit pulsing just inside my left hip-bone.
"Oh, oh, oh," she cried. That was it. That was the first time I
experienced a girl coming as a result of my presence. According to my
definition of sex, that was the first time someone else had sex with
me. I pulled her down on me and we kissed again, stacks of boxes
falling around us as if we were caught in an earthquake.
It was obvious that one orgasm was hardly enough for her either.
"Unzip me," she said reaching with one arm for the zipper that ran down the back of her dress.
I did what I was told, and she slid her tighter-than-you-might-think
dress over her large shoulders, her breasts flopping into what were at
least double D-cups in a tasty, wire support bra, see-through sheer
except over the nipple area where silky-white vegitation swirled in
baroque patterns. She looked down and smiled at me, then reached for my
belt buckle, unsnapped it and pulled the belt free from it's loops. It
burned my hips sliding out, and the pile of boxes slid to either side
pulling me deeper into the heap.
"You're so cute," she whispered, unbuckling my pants and licking semen
from my belly. I slid my T-shirt completely off, difficult as it was
being jimmied between those boxes, and having to crane my neck against
the side of the dumpster. She snatched my pants down to mid-thigh and
my half-erect teen-bean did a 360 across my pelvic area before swooping
upward into the air. Her chubby, finely manicured hand took hold of it
while her thick lips kissed it's underside, then slid over the top.
"Ugh." I couldn't do anything else. Seemed like all my blood left my
arms and legs and I was paralyzed. My balls were swooping upward to her
meaty fist ready to heave load through her lips, when the door to the
garbage stall once again opened, and our friend Corn Queen Skeeter
appeared. Bev fixed her gaze on him as if a snake eyeing prey in the
jungle.
"Ugh," Skeeter said holding a bundle of corrigated boxes, his eyes
bugged about an inch wider than usual, "I thought you might be lighting
a doobie."
"Look, Skeeter," Bev said with utmost seriousness, "this is your
chance. You'd just better not say anything to anyone, especially not
your dad. If you do, I'll beat you to a pulp and give you a Satanic hex
for the rest of your life."
Skeeter scratched under his Corn Queen hat dumbfounded. The stall door
slapped shut behind him and he winced, "Uh, what chance?"
Bev in all her fat-girl glory crawled on her knees to him, massaged his
crotch and looking back at me said, "fuck me." Then she undid his pants
in the same eager manner she did me. I was terrified but still hard as
a rock watching her butt wiggle while she went down on him. My dick was
going to have an orgasm -- no matter what. Not even a Corn
Queen-Skeever could hinder destiny. Then, I too, my cut-offs cuffing my
ankles, crawled on my knees to Bev's fat ass and started to reach under
her belly for her pussy.
"Don't put it there," she scolded, "I'm a virgin. Put it in my bee-hind."
"In your bee-hind?"
"Yeah," she said desperate to get the action going.
"I...I...I'm afraid." I stammered.
She moaned even though she was back down on Skeeter's dick, then with a
start she popped her mouth free. "OK. Skeeter you go in my bee-hind,
and yew-oou," she said with a lascivious crooked smile, "you lay back
and relax."
She pulled my torso to her face and pushed her mouth over to me till I
could feel her lower lip against my pulsing balls. I was instantly on
the road to cumming again. I had to see her tits. I tried to undo her
bra. She kept moaning. Skeeter grunted and tried to poke his skinny
dick into her buttocks. "MMMM!" She grunted with each of Skeeter's
thrusts. Each "mmmm" made my pubic area vibrate, and although she
seemed pained by Skeeter's attempted thrusts, his role appeared more
painful than hers. His thing bent against her anus like a crash-test
car striking a brick wall at 50 miles per hour.
"Hold on," Skeeter said suddenly standing. He tore off the lid to one
of the grease buckets, dipped two fingers into the muck, and I watched
in amazement as he stuffed his greased appendages up Bev's butt.
"God!" she yelped, her eyes bugging out.
But I couldn't divert my attention too far from that orgasmic goal. I
grabbed that friggin brastrap with both hands and vigorously wiggled
the snaps every possible way until atlast, Bev's bra came undone and
her wild breasts flopped over my thighs. Her nipples had to be nearly
as wide as my dick was long, which is saying something, one way or
other. Her bra slid halfway down her arms, the cups brushing my hips.
She let my dick bob in the air a second while she slid the thing off
her shoulders.
"Shit!" she yelled, unexpectedly jerking her head up so her boobs bobbed happily in my face.
"Ugh, UGH!" Skeeter grunted.
"Cum, baby, cum!" she whisper-shouted falling down against my prick with her huge wet breasts.
"Ugh, UGH!" I moaned almost exactly like Skeeter. She pressed her
gorgeous mammies tightly against my dick. Her downy blonde peachfuzz
tickled my shaft as it slid back and forth between her rain-soaked
boobs. Skeeter pulled out, and arching back, came against her
butt-crack so his semen shot up a foot or two, landing in spotty
dribbles across her spread butt-cheeks and lower back. I grabbed Bev's
head that was sucking my neck like a leech and came like a banshee into
her thick chest and neck flesh. Again and again I spewed, pulling her
body by her head back and forth over my dick.
"Ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah," and on and on I wailed, until it was through. "God," I said when it was over, "God."
Skeeter stood up, zipped his fly, covered one of his nostrils and
snotted against the wall of the garbage stall. "Thanks." he said, and
walked off with the stall door slapping closed.
Bev wasn't finished. Moaning, she rolled over on her back, her butt on
the cement, her head resting against a pile of boxes, her boobs and
belly glistening with my cum. I felt a little dizzy. She tossed her
head around while she masterbated. Her eyes were clinched tight, her
mouth rose upward from the sides revealing vampire teeth. Her breasts
flopped up and down along with the folds of fat from her torso as she
more vigorously paced herself for a righteous fucking of her fat fist.
She squeaked like a mouse when she came, arching her pelvis into the
air like some circus act revealing the pebbles that stuck to her bottom
from Skeeter's sperm and corndog grease. Then she let out a sigh and
laid flat on the cement rubbing my semen around her chest and licking
her fingers.
Suddenly the smell of the garbage and rancid grease hit me. I was skeeved.
"Bev," I said standing and zipping my fly, "I gotta go!"
I ran to the bathroom, puking my guts out, then dry heaving several
more rounds. I gargled a mouthful of water and walked out of the place.
Skeeter gave me a smile on my way out. "She's a goddamn hell-cat,
wouldn't you say, Mister God-Damn Yankee?"
I shook my head in disbelief, and wondered out into the rain. God! What kind of Campus Crusade was that, anyway?
***************************
***************************
Life Outside the Box
By Joey Amdahl
It
finally arrived. I had the UPS dude set it in the center of my living
room. A wooden crate the size of a small refrigerator. I have waited
eight months for today -- for what waits for me inside the box. After
trudging through my anticipation, my yearnings, my hunger -- I finally
feel in the present tense of my life.
I
want to relish this moment but my excitement makes me crazy. I twitch,
shake, pace and sweat. I touch the smooth wooden box, the crate --
what‘s lurks inside cost me forty five thousand dollars -- my
entire life savings. Relax, relax, I try and tell myself. I pop open an
ancient, half-empty, bottle of Kendell Jackson that’s been
sitting in my fridge for weeks and I take a swig.
I dial my old pal John Rigsby on my cell. Pick-up, pick-up, pick-up.
“John, it’s me bro. It’s FINALLY here.”
John mutters “I’m on my way and this better be good.”
I
shower, smoke a joint, do thirty push-ups, stare at the crate, check my
email, and then wait. John arrives wearing his black trench coat and
furry moon boots. He’s more weird than stylish. I met him at my
old Telemarketing job. He was my boss. I hated that job.
“I
brought a hammer. What’s in the box?” He accidentally steps
on an empty pizza box and crushes it under moon boot. “Dude, you
got empty pizza boxes, beer cans, trash -- you‘re filthy bro, you
should think about cleaning once in a while…”
“This is clean.”
John
scratches his fat head with his fat hand and then kicks the pizza box
across the room. “So what’s in the crate?”
“What’s in the crate? I never thought that question would drive you so freakin’ crazy.”
“Don’t
even know why I care man but you keep fucking building it up. If you
ever talked about anything else… Like politics or sports but you
just talk about... That.” He points to the crate.
I sit
on the couch, light a Parliament, and flip through the latest issue of
Harper’s magazine -- which I don‘t know why I subscribe to
because I never read it.
“Sooooo, let’s open the fucker, Barry.”
“Not yet. You can’t rush this moment.”
“Dude,
if you don’t open the crate in the next fifteen minutes,
I’m going to beat you into a little pulp. -Asshole. And quit
smoking. It annoys me.”
“Go home then! I don’t care if you’re here for this or not.”
“I’m not going home! Fuck off.”
“Then you better stop bitching.”
“Fine!”
“Fuck it, let’s open it.” I say while squeezing-out my cigarette in the overflowing ashtray.
I pry the claw-end of the hammer in-between two boards and I begin to
pull. Within minutes the lid to the crate is off. The moment of truth.
I open it. It takes about twenty minutes to unwrap the girl. They have
her in there good, protected -safe.
“Holy shit man! She looks real. She looks alive!” John takes three steps back.
We prop her into a sitting position on the couch. She wears a flimsy flower dress. She looks fantastic.
“The dimensions are like totally realx” He takes a cautious
step forward and stares at her face. “How do I get one of these
bitches?”
I sit next to her and flip through her flimsy instruction manual written half in Spanish.
“Well John. First you have to have about forty five thousand bucks. Do you have forty G’s?”
“No... Can I touch her breast?”
“Sure, but only over the dress.”
He gropes her but pulls his hand back. “She feels so good. So real.”
“Well John, that’s because there’s a thin layer of
silicon lacquer covering her body and it makes her skin feel...”
“Can I have about half-hour with her?”
“Get the fuck out of here. That’s gross.”
“Her teeth are like real. And her hair. What did they put her
together with?” He opens her eyes with two fingers then runs his
fingers down her face to her chest.
“She’s a high tech design, John. She’s the Rolls Royce of blow-up dolls.”
“I gotta get me one.” He walks towards the door. “Well, I’ll leave you two alone.”
Finally.
He turns “What did you name her?”
“I don’t know. I’m leaning towards Melinda.”
He opens the door. “You’re a sick fuck but I sure wish I
had one of those. No more lonely Friday nights, ehe?”
He leaves. I couldn’t tell John the truth. It’s one thing
to make sweet love to a really good looking blow-up-doll and it’s
another to make love to... I couldn’t verbally face up to the
fact that Melinda wasx built to last roughly three weeks in her present
state. Shit. See, Melinda had once been alive, had a family, had a
life. She probably had a string of boring jobs, a dog, a dream, all
those other dumb things that make us human. But now she was gone, dead,
her body immured under a layer of silicon and preservatives, her body
drained of blood and filled with a light rubbery foam -- stolen from a
morgue and essentially -mounted for the customer's pleasure.
For the next hour and a half I fondle her -- trying to get hard. But
nothing works. It’s ironic that now that I own her, I don’t
fully want her anymore. But sometimes an erection just takes a lot of
work. It’s layers and layers of fantasy, the right moment, a
sense of safety, a need. I had all those going. Just something
wasn’t working. My mind was getting in the way.
So I take a break. I sit next to Melinda, her brown hair messy and
covering her unmoving eyes. I move her hand to my leg. I wonder how she
died? The Jackie Mcobb Company doesn’t go into stuff like that.
It would ruin it to know anything about her previous incarnation.
“Melindax Sweet Melinda.” I brush her brown hair out of her
eyes and move her semi-stiff arm inches over to my pajama clad crotch.
Nothing. I’m limp.
So I stand, walk to the fridge, eat some cold KFC, sit back on the
couch and watch an episode of Golden Girls. I have no idea how this
works but my mind starts to construct a really twisted fantasy out of
Bea Arthur’s (Dorothy) image. Before I know it, my hand’s
down my pants and I’m harder than Easy E on Viagra.
I whip it out and slap her face with it then I grab the Johnson’s
and Johnson’s baby oil. It doesn’t take long before
she’s properly lubed and properly bent over the couch and
I’m in it. But something is wrong. It’s way too tight. And
it clamps. I don’t know how I got it in there and for some reason
it’s not coming out. I relax. I pull back. Nothing. I’m
freakin’ stuck. It must be the silicon preservative. Damn it! I
pull back again. My dick it’s completely submerged and stuck. I
glance down at her leg to see a lone drop of my blood slowly dripping
down towards her knee. My blood! “ARGGGGH! FUCK!”
After fifteen minutes of excruciating pain, I reluctantly pick up my
cell “John, John, please answer.” He doesn’t pick up.
I drag Melinda, heavy and stuck to my dick, to the kitchen where I pick
out a dirty knife from the kitchen sink. I drag Melinda back to the
bathroom and I begin to saw. And saw, and saw, and saw. I’m
breaking bones, the foam rubber is going everywhere. My dick is
bleeding and still clamped in. With every turn of her mangled body, the
pain increases. Soon I’m thrashing around. Breaking more bones
and reaching to the bathroom counter for the bottle of Jergen’s
lotion. I rub the Jergen’s on as much of my self as possible and
I pull. It’s excruciating. I scream. In mid scream I glance in
the mirror. My face now purple and my eyes large.
I scream until my voice leaves me. I fall to the ground--the imagery of
my life flashing through my head. All the good stuff. The birthday
parties, pizzas, movies, late afternoon naps, friends, the coffee, the
everything else that makes life worth living. But the pain is too much.
With one final gasp I try to plunge the knife down into my chest.
When I wake up, I’m in a hospital bed. Soon the nurse explains
that my neighbor Benny heard my screams, called the police and they got
there just in time to save my ass. I’m going to live. Anyhow
I’ve decided to lay off the dead girls for a little while and
maybe focus more on my dream of writing political speeches. Life has a
funny-ha-ha way of working itself out sometimes.
***********
painting collage of president ubu
by aka
**********
Mikhail Horowitz's
Old Joke
A response to the documentary "The Aristocrats"
So
this talent agent is walking through the agora when this shabby
Thracian comes up to him and says, “Excuse me, aren’t you
Gus Pelopidas, the talent agent? I do a really unbelievable act, and I
was wondering if I could audition for you?” So Pelopidas,
he’s a little skeptical, the guy looks like he was shat by a
chimaera, but he says, “OK, meet me tomorrow at my office two
stades from the Acropolis, at 9 sharp.” So the next morning the
guy shows up, 9 sharp, and he’s got his wife with him, and his
daughter, and his grandmother, and a really mangy goat.
“OK,” says Pelopidas, “show me what you do.” So
immediately, the guy, his wife, his daughter and his grandmother strip
naked, and the wife and daughter start lubricating the guy’s
dick, which is immense, with olive oil, whereupon the guy rams his
greasy dick into his grandmother’s ass, at the same time that his
grandmother begins jerking off the goat, and as he’s humping away
and humping away his wife and daughter begin pissing into a huge
amphora, and when the amphora is full of piss they lift it up and pour
it all over the guy and his grandmother and the goat, and they all
suddenly begin shouting that there are two dichotomies, matter and
form, and that the amphora for instance is the form or shape of one
possibility of terra cotta, and that development is the process by
which terra cotta or any other matter becomes form, and every form is
the matter for the next highest form, and at that point the goat begins
to come, and as it comes it begins to bleat and as bleats it begins to
shit, and the guy and his grandmother and his wife and his daughter
start rolling in the goatshit and smearing it all over themselves, and
the guy starts buggering the goat as the goat begins humping his wife
and the grandmother goes down on the daughter knee-deep in goatshit and
they all start shouting again, yelling that man’s happiness lies
entirely in virtue, the mean between two extremes, and that even if
happiness is not sent by the Gods, but is the result of virtue and
learning of some kind of discipline, it is apparently one of the most
divine things in the world, for it would appear that that which is the
prize and end of virtue is the supreme good, and in its nature divine
and blessed, and at that moment they simultaneously come and shit and
projectile vomit and collapse in a heap on the talent agent’s
floor. “Holy skata!” says Pelopidas. “That was the
most amazing thing I’ve ever seen! So, uhhh, what do you call
this act?” And the guy, who’s dripping with come and piss
and shit and vomitus, slowly rises from the floor, makes a delicate
gesture with his hand, and says, “The Aristotles!”
* * * * * * *
Women Poets: A League of Their Own
Collages by
Mikhail Horowitz
