I'm taking a month long writing course via correspondence with Craig Clevenger, the author of The Contortionist's Handbook and Dermaphoria, and he's been handing out homework. Here's my submission, entitled Bear Trap Candy, for week two. It's supposed to be a little part of something much bigger so apologies for the lack of context...
I was getting in touch with my inner child, bent over her toilet and emptying the contents of my stomach. Ever since I finished my time on that fucking reality show this had been a habit of mine.
What are you doing in there?
Im checking my fucking bank balance you strumpet, what do you think? I let the last of this afternoons Caesar salad hit the bowl and wiped my mouth.
Nothing. Ill be out in a minute.
I could hear her lean into the door, listening.
It doesnt sound like nothing.
Why dont you go fuck yourself with a knife?
Why dont you go dust something, honey? Ill be out in a minute.
The food and my stomach bile fucked up the toilet so I had to fake a coughing fit and bail water into it from the sink until things were on an even keel.
When I got out of the bathroom she was on the couch, feet on the coffee table, reading a magazine. Oh wonderful, youre poisoning your brain with that magazine and now the coffee table has foot prints on it. I went towards the couch and she moved her feet to let me past. When I passed her, ready to sit down, she put her feet back on the table.
This is about the time I shouldve committed seppuku. Instead I clenched my teeth and sat down next to her.
Oh look at this, isnt it darling?
She pushed the magazine into my face. Ignoring the pictures of celebrities who appeared to be wearing death masks instead of faces and the fact she had just used darling as an adjective, I saw what she was referring to.
A cute little puppy dog, its fur a snowy white, was hugging a pink flower. She leaned into my ear and with that cute little baby voice that women do sometimes, offered up her latest pearl of wisdom.
Isnt that cute?
My life was a waking nightmare.
All I could see was a hairy mammal fucking a piece of flora. Apparently the marketing department for some tampon which had a name I couldnt remember and their target demographic didnt see the same thing.
I have to admit, its cuter than these pictures of the holocaust I was jerking off to yesterday.
The what-a-caust?
It was at that moment I realized that shoving my fingers down my throat and smashing my tonsils like they were buttons on an arcade machine and I was eight years old wasnt the only way to get myself to vomit. My girlfriend had just joined the exclusive club usually reserved for bulimia and drinking more than Hemingway. I threw up in my mouth a little bit and stood up.
Excuse me, I think I left my watch in the toilet.
Moments later, the bristles of her tooth brush were massaging my scrotum. If she wanted to make out later it was a clear sign that there indeed was a God and he was shouting Gutterball! and throwing rocks at me.
After pouring her birth control pills down the toilet my minty fresh scrotum and I once again found her on the couch, this time staring into the television with her dead eyes. Coincidentally, it was my fat ass she was staring at.
Wow, you were really fat.
I reminded myself that punching women in the face was not only wrong but would land you in jail and instead sat down next to her.
I guess I was, yeah.
How was it being fat?
The woman who had no idea what the holocaust was, quizzing me on the big issues. I saw myself in the tacky mirror next to the television. My face had gone a shade redder than usual. The doctor said that my blood pressure rising wasnt good for me. Heroin was probably healthier than this relationship, if you could call it that. It was more like a man that ran on fear and self loathing met up with a retarded girl for random bouts of domestic nesting and the occasional hate fucking. I changed the question slightly and shot it back in her direction. I needed to clarify she actually wanted to have this discussion.
What was it like being fat?
Yeah.
Her tone had changed. She was excited now and sat up on the lounge, corrected her posture. I took a long hard look into the television. A drill sergeant screamed into the side of my head as I gasped for air and sweat dripped off my heaving tits. If any orphanages had high definition televisions in them then they were no doubt just flooded with tears.
Its like wearing a John Goodman suit you cant take off.
Oh.
She looked down at the coffee table, her head dipped low. She picked up the remote, pointed it at the television, turned it off. What the fuck was this? Now I was starting to feel bad. I put my arm around her and pulled her close to me. She snuggled up to me and I smelt her hair. I shifted to the other end of the couch, lightly pressed her away. If she was going to cry I was fucking leaving. And her crying was a distinct possibility with the conversation I entered into.
Did you shower after the gym?
No. Not yet. Why? Whats wrong?
You smell like a dead hobo. I sniffed and considered my words very carefully.
Nothing is wrong, per se.
Come on, why are you sniffing? What is it?
Fuck. For a silly bitch she was quite the detective.
Oh, nothing. I think I smell gas, maybe?
I got up and headed to the kitchen, sniffing like a coke addict. She got up and followed me, just like any good DEA officer would. Luckily for me, she was a receptionist at a tanning salon. Not so lucky was the fact that I didnt have any money for cocaine and if I did I wouldnt know where to get it.
The kitchen was a fucking sty. I almost threw up in my mouth again but composed myself and went to the oven, going along with the masquerade of my own design, sniffing for the gas that wasnt there. I stopped in my tracks, shuddered, ran a finger along the oven door. When I decided that it was easier to simply open my eyes than to catapult myself out of the kitchen window I looked at my finger. It was caked with soot and food and regret.
I turned around to find her standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. I held up my filthy finger in her direction.
What the fuck is this?
What?
When was the last time you cleaned the kitchen?
I looked over at the sink and answered my own question. Apparently it was sometime around the Dark Ages. Plates stacked next to the sink, cutlery and glasses in it. A cockroach dodged cake crumbs on an unwashed spatula. For someone who had three percent body fat, she was a real mess. I wanted a time machine to show her how the femme fatales in the sixties kept a house. I felt my hand with no dirty fingers on it twitch uncontrollably. This time I measured my words before pouring them for her.
Its just a little messy in here, is all.
She rolled her eyes and I had images of drowning her in the sink flash before my eyes. She turned around and dropped her sweat pants to the floor, kicked them across the living room. If they landed in the laundry it wouldve been perfect. As it stood it was just fucking hot. She walked away in the direction of the bathroom.
Im taking a shower.
I followed her to the door, holding my dirty finger as far away from my body as my arm would allow. I was panicking now.
And then what?
She leaned out from behind the bathroom door, no shirt on.
Then were going to bed.
For everyone playing at home, that means shes going to climb on top of me and attempt a homicide. I have always thought that fucking someone to death was a perfectly reasonable way to kill them. And until I met this girl I thought it shouldve been legal. I tried to stay calm.
Okay. Ill be in the bedroom.
I nearly tore the skin off my finger I was scrubbing it so hard. Then I nearly tore the skin off my dick pulling it so hard. I was looking at a photo of her mother and trying to come before she finished her shower. The taps shut off and the water slowed to a drip. Thanks for never hugging me Dad, now I cant ejaculate when Im jerking off to a photo of my girlfriend's mother.
I pulled up my pants and thought of something weird to say when she came in.
I want to finger your dog hole with my tongue.
No, shes a masochist at heart. Getting her dog hole fingered with my tongue would sound like a good thing.
She walked in and dropped her towel. Naked and with a wicked smile creeping across her face she got down to brass tacks.
So what do you want to do now?
I want to leave the lights on so I can see the fear in your eyes.
She fucked the shit out of me. I didnt die, but I came close.
I was getting in touch with my inner child, bent over her toilet and emptying the contents of my stomach. Ever since I finished my time on that fucking reality show this had been a habit of mine.
What are you doing in there?
Im checking my fucking bank balance you strumpet, what do you think? I let the last of this afternoons Caesar salad hit the bowl and wiped my mouth.
Nothing. Ill be out in a minute.
I could hear her lean into the door, listening.
It doesnt sound like nothing.
Why dont you go fuck yourself with a knife?
Why dont you go dust something, honey? Ill be out in a minute.
The food and my stomach bile fucked up the toilet so I had to fake a coughing fit and bail water into it from the sink until things were on an even keel.
When I got out of the bathroom she was on the couch, feet on the coffee table, reading a magazine. Oh wonderful, youre poisoning your brain with that magazine and now the coffee table has foot prints on it. I went towards the couch and she moved her feet to let me past. When I passed her, ready to sit down, she put her feet back on the table.
This is about the time I shouldve committed seppuku. Instead I clenched my teeth and sat down next to her.
Oh look at this, isnt it darling?
She pushed the magazine into my face. Ignoring the pictures of celebrities who appeared to be wearing death masks instead of faces and the fact she had just used darling as an adjective, I saw what she was referring to.
A cute little puppy dog, its fur a snowy white, was hugging a pink flower. She leaned into my ear and with that cute little baby voice that women do sometimes, offered up her latest pearl of wisdom.
Isnt that cute?
My life was a waking nightmare.
All I could see was a hairy mammal fucking a piece of flora. Apparently the marketing department for some tampon which had a name I couldnt remember and their target demographic didnt see the same thing.
I have to admit, its cuter than these pictures of the holocaust I was jerking off to yesterday.
The what-a-caust?
It was at that moment I realized that shoving my fingers down my throat and smashing my tonsils like they were buttons on an arcade machine and I was eight years old wasnt the only way to get myself to vomit. My girlfriend had just joined the exclusive club usually reserved for bulimia and drinking more than Hemingway. I threw up in my mouth a little bit and stood up.
Excuse me, I think I left my watch in the toilet.
Moments later, the bristles of her tooth brush were massaging my scrotum. If she wanted to make out later it was a clear sign that there indeed was a God and he was shouting Gutterball! and throwing rocks at me.
After pouring her birth control pills down the toilet my minty fresh scrotum and I once again found her on the couch, this time staring into the television with her dead eyes. Coincidentally, it was my fat ass she was staring at.
Wow, you were really fat.
I reminded myself that punching women in the face was not only wrong but would land you in jail and instead sat down next to her.
I guess I was, yeah.
How was it being fat?
The woman who had no idea what the holocaust was, quizzing me on the big issues. I saw myself in the tacky mirror next to the television. My face had gone a shade redder than usual. The doctor said that my blood pressure rising wasnt good for me. Heroin was probably healthier than this relationship, if you could call it that. It was more like a man that ran on fear and self loathing met up with a retarded girl for random bouts of domestic nesting and the occasional hate fucking. I changed the question slightly and shot it back in her direction. I needed to clarify she actually wanted to have this discussion.
What was it like being fat?
Yeah.
Her tone had changed. She was excited now and sat up on the lounge, corrected her posture. I took a long hard look into the television. A drill sergeant screamed into the side of my head as I gasped for air and sweat dripped off my heaving tits. If any orphanages had high definition televisions in them then they were no doubt just flooded with tears.
Its like wearing a John Goodman suit you cant take off.
Oh.
She looked down at the coffee table, her head dipped low. She picked up the remote, pointed it at the television, turned it off. What the fuck was this? Now I was starting to feel bad. I put my arm around her and pulled her close to me. She snuggled up to me and I smelt her hair. I shifted to the other end of the couch, lightly pressed her away. If she was going to cry I was fucking leaving. And her crying was a distinct possibility with the conversation I entered into.
Did you shower after the gym?
No. Not yet. Why? Whats wrong?
You smell like a dead hobo. I sniffed and considered my words very carefully.
Nothing is wrong, per se.
Come on, why are you sniffing? What is it?
Fuck. For a silly bitch she was quite the detective.
Oh, nothing. I think I smell gas, maybe?
I got up and headed to the kitchen, sniffing like a coke addict. She got up and followed me, just like any good DEA officer would. Luckily for me, she was a receptionist at a tanning salon. Not so lucky was the fact that I didnt have any money for cocaine and if I did I wouldnt know where to get it.
The kitchen was a fucking sty. I almost threw up in my mouth again but composed myself and went to the oven, going along with the masquerade of my own design, sniffing for the gas that wasnt there. I stopped in my tracks, shuddered, ran a finger along the oven door. When I decided that it was easier to simply open my eyes than to catapult myself out of the kitchen window I looked at my finger. It was caked with soot and food and regret.
I turned around to find her standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. I held up my filthy finger in her direction.
What the fuck is this?
What?
When was the last time you cleaned the kitchen?
I looked over at the sink and answered my own question. Apparently it was sometime around the Dark Ages. Plates stacked next to the sink, cutlery and glasses in it. A cockroach dodged cake crumbs on an unwashed spatula. For someone who had three percent body fat, she was a real mess. I wanted a time machine to show her how the femme fatales in the sixties kept a house. I felt my hand with no dirty fingers on it twitch uncontrollably. This time I measured my words before pouring them for her.
Its just a little messy in here, is all.
She rolled her eyes and I had images of drowning her in the sink flash before my eyes. She turned around and dropped her sweat pants to the floor, kicked them across the living room. If they landed in the laundry it wouldve been perfect. As it stood it was just fucking hot. She walked away in the direction of the bathroom.
Im taking a shower.
I followed her to the door, holding my dirty finger as far away from my body as my arm would allow. I was panicking now.
And then what?
She leaned out from behind the bathroom door, no shirt on.
Then were going to bed.
For everyone playing at home, that means shes going to climb on top of me and attempt a homicide. I have always thought that fucking someone to death was a perfectly reasonable way to kill them. And until I met this girl I thought it shouldve been legal. I tried to stay calm.
Okay. Ill be in the bedroom.
I nearly tore the skin off my finger I was scrubbing it so hard. Then I nearly tore the skin off my dick pulling it so hard. I was looking at a photo of her mother and trying to come before she finished her shower. The taps shut off and the water slowed to a drip. Thanks for never hugging me Dad, now I cant ejaculate when Im jerking off to a photo of my girlfriend's mother.
I pulled up my pants and thought of something weird to say when she came in.
I want to finger your dog hole with my tongue.
No, shes a masochist at heart. Getting her dog hole fingered with my tongue would sound like a good thing.
She walked in and dropped her towel. Naked and with a wicked smile creeping across her face she got down to brass tacks.
So what do you want to do now?
I want to leave the lights on so I can see the fear in your eyes.
She fucked the shit out of me. I didnt die, but I came close.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
alibi:
You little sneak! I liked the other name
ivonne:
Thanks honey! ^^