Liars in Love*
*In tribute to Richard Yates.
“Oh! Yes! Pump it harder, doll-boy.”
You know, square pegs in round holes just don’t cut it.
“I love you. Yes. I love it, too. It’s so big. It’s the best ever! More! More of it.”
Whatever it is. Truth is I’ve never seen it. I have two dots where my eyes would be if I had eyes, whatever they are. But I’m not a walking confessional. Well, no. I am. I’m just not telling you. Or maybe I did tell you. God, I’m screwed.
“I’m your dirty doll-girl, bitch. Fuck me, wild boy-thing.”
Man, you have a smudge in between your eyes. OMG, you have a nose!
“I’m coming… um, could you wipe that stupid half parens off the lower portion of your head? I can’t concentrate.”
Oops! A slip. Wheesh, that was close.
“That’s better. No, wait, lower. Not that low. Um, thigh hole? Guess that’s okay. Yeah. Easy boy, easy. Giddy up. Ride ‘em, cowboy?”
You know what my mother said yesterday? “One thing about him is, he certainly isn’t neurotic.” That’s a compliment coming from her because what she really meant was, I was the neurotic one. Can you imagine saying such a thing? Man, my mother! And to think we’re not even real. We’re plastic, man. We don’t have hair or noses or uvulas. Here I am mulling existential questions in the non-existent space in my little plastic head and making up memoir about a mother I never had but somehow mourn. Hey, did I tell you that I married you to spite her? Now, I am. I’m making this all up. I’m a liar. Heheheheh.
“Turn over? For what? Why don’t you turn over? Sure, you can. I’ll help you.”
I’m going shopping tomorrow. Saw the cutest pair of Louboutin in the window at Lord & Taylor. Wait ‘til you get the bill. Wait until I put them on. Okay, I’m a liar in love. I could never get one of those dream shoes on my feet because I don’t have feet. Just a boxy thing attached to my lower torso, all in one piece. The best I could do is jump into the damn shoe. You know, that’s one of the regrets of my life. I don’t have a real body at all. I want boobs and hips and an ass. All I am is an assortment of interlocking bricks made of acrylonitrile butadiene styrene with little or no sensation and made for the express purpose of entertaining overindulged kids with dirty fingers and mouths.
“That’s it. How’s that feel? Good, huh? Lube is good. It’s all good, baby.”
Purgatory is nothing compared to this. I feel like The Little Dutch Boy after he stuck his finger in the dyke. Man, I’m going to go ask that witch in the castle to be my mother and tell her how tired I am of this kid playing fuck buddies with her dolls.
“Wait? What are you doing? That’s my foot. No, the slot under what would be a foot if I were… What are you doing with your head? That isn’t supposed to go, uh, um, there. Argh. Wait, yes it is! I’m cumming, baby!”
Holy Mo! How’d that happen? That’s incredible. I feel, really feel, relaxed, yet euphoric like I just reached nirvana! If I had tear ducts, I’d be crying me up a storm. Maybe that’s what I needed all along? A guy who cares enough to wait for me to cum? Who cares if I feel what he feels too? Who, now here’s a mind-blowing thought, cares enough to love me emotionally as well as physically? Maybe even love me as I am? A loud-mouthed, tender hearted, over compromising fool of a woman still trapped in an adolescent POV? Sigh….
“Have a cigarette, doll-boy? I really need a smoke.”
Lucinda Kempe’s work has been published or is forthcoming in the Summerset Review, Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, decomP, Corium, Metazen, and Metrofiction. Presently, she is an M.F.A. candidate in Creative Writing and Literature at Stony Brook University.
If you like this one, check out The Man Who Ate Cats
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