Memorable (A Short Story)
The following is a piece of fiction that will appear in an upcoming short story collection of mine.
MEMORABLE
by Cody Clarke
“I want to be memorable,” she said.
It was the first thing she ever said to me. I was in the bar—the one everyone goes to. I had never been there before. It was all colors—there were sounds too, but they just sounded like static. The colors, on the other hand, were discernible—I could tell what each and every one was. They danced across everyone and every surface—but they didn’t dance off of her.
Everyone couldn’t take their eyes off of her. She reflected the whiteness of a thousand eyes. She was pure white in a sea of colors. I was right next to her, and she was talking to me—or maybe was talking to no one. I let seconds go by, wondering if I should try and find out.
“Yeah,” I said.
She didn’t look at me.
‘Yeah’ felt like a safe thing to say. It’s a thing to say that, in a pinch, can be passed off as said to no one in particular. But maybe that was bad—maybe it was too ambiguous and I had now caused her to wonder whether I was talking to her, just like I had wondered if she had been talking to me. But no—that could not be possible. She was too gorgeous for those sorts of insecure, internal goings-on or whatever to be going on in her.
And then she looked at me.
Straight up at me, her tiny self looking straight up at me—and yet, I felt ten feet smaller than her. I felt under her shoes. I felt like I’d need to know how to rock climb up and over a toe of hers in order to see any amount of her. But, somehow, I was looking right at her.
“Do you know what I mean?” she said—or asked, rather. The eye contact was palpable. The eye contact was palm sweat-able. I couldn’t believe she was giving me attention. All around I could feel all sorts of eyes, all of them wondering if I had said something rude to her. That’s the only thing a person like me could possibly say to her and receive any sort of response. Or maybe they weren’t wondering anything at all. Maybe thought is impossible around her—at least, typically. Maybe she was talking to me because she could sense the fact that I’m somehow, inexplicably, capable of thought around her.
“Yeah,” I said. A great go-to line. It’d gotten me this far thus far—might as well stick with it. In fact, maybe I could stick with it forever—maybe I could go to the grave just rising up and up in life with it and only it. Maybe it’s the secret to everything. Maybe I could teach others the ways of it. Maybe I could do a lot of things, just in general. Maybe I’m capable of something, anything. After all, she was talking to me.
“Let’s get out of here. What’s your name?” she said-and-asked. I could barely process the first sentence as it happened, and upon hearing the second, I felt like maybe I had hallucinated the first. Life suddenly felt so surreal. This is not how things go. Maybe her name, then way later in the conversation, hours later, a ‘let’s get out of here’. That’s the natural progression of things. Probably. I wouldn’t know. I am nothing. No one.
“Frank,” I said, even though my name is Francis. I had always wanted to be Frank to someone. I was always Francis to people. It was a shit thing to be to someone. No one is excited to meet a Francis, whereas a Frank is a classic person to know—and yet, most people don’t know one. So, to meet a Frank, it’s like, ‘awesome, I know a Frank now, I’ve filled that hole in my life’. I like to fill holes. Or rather, I’d like to fill holes. I’ve never filled a hole. My own hand is not a hole. This she-that-is-talking-to-me has a hole. Several holes. And she is giving me a possible shot at them. She’s handing me a golf club.
“I’m Alicia,” she said. UH-LEE-SEE-UH was how she pronounced it, but I could tell it was spelled A-L-I-C-I-A and not some weird other spelling. I could see the letters clearly in my head as she said them, and knew I was right. Others might have had difficulty with it, but not me, I didn’t. I almost wanted to tell her that, explain that to her, in that moment. She would probably have just been confused—and rightly so, as I was not even sure what I meant by the thought, myself.
She gobbled up the rest of her drink, which looked to be ginger ale but was probably something alcoholic, and took me by the t-shirt sleeve and gently dragged me out of the damn place. It happened so fast that I could barely do anything else but get a boner and watch as everyone watched me get dragged, my boner existing despite all the people looking at me. Maybe I did have something to me after all as a person. Maybe I would be capable of fucking her right there, in the middle of the bar, sustaining full erection the entire time. It’s possible. It felt possible, at least, while being dragged by her. But, the being dragged was over so fast.
We were out of the place now. The night air was cold as ice, but it was not winter. Her breath was straight up fogging in the air—or maybe she was vaping. Some people vape so quickly—they have really little ones and they’re really fast it. It’s a thing. She looked like maybe she might be the type to have one of those.
“Where do you live?” she asked. “From here,” she added.
It was confusing. It took me a few seconds of looking around at the outside world and thinking about what she had said in order to deduce what she had meant. At first, in some weird way, it had sounded like she had been answering her own question—but then, with a bit of thought, it became clear that she was instead clarifying her question. What she had meant was, in relation to this location or whatever, where is it that I live. Like, how far is it—is it walkable, is it train-able, is it car-able, that sort of thing.
“We can walk,” I said.
“Really?” she asked. “I don’t like walking,” she added. “Like, is it far?” she added to that.
She was right. Walking is relative. Definitely relative, definitely variable from person to person as far as what constitutes ‘walkable’.
“I live a block from here,” I said. I did, it was true—and I was proud of that, suddenly. I felt equipped for the situation. I felt ready for this, like I’d been ready for this opportunity my whole years of living at that apartment and it was finally time, time for me to be with a woman, this woman, who I might have been destined to be with all along, for all I knew.
Her eyes lit up. It was like she was seeing a really big dick, a dick much bigger than she had expected. Women always have a dick in their mind before they unfurl the dick, unleash it or whatever, from the guy’s pants and finally see it with their actual eyes and not their mind’s eye. It’s kind of like with a bonsai tree where you have the bonsai tree in your head and then you make it reality through your clipping of the actual bonsai tree that is physically in front of you. Not that women clip dicks into existence—more that they just imagine what a dick looks like, and then they see it physically, and it’s either like what they imagined, or different from it, or whatever. Usually women are disappointed and just hide their disappointment behind a straight face and continue along. Sometimes, probably, they are surprised to find a much larger dick, like as if they got everything all wrong measurement-wise when buying and taking home a couch. ‘This couch will not fit’, they say to themselves in their head upon seeing the dick maybe. ‘It’s a nice couch, but it will not fit. But, it’ll be fun trying to fit it. I will not allow it to stay here with me forever, as it is much too big, but it will be fun trying for a while to fit it, before, of course, taking it back to the store and abandoning it forever’.
“Cool,” she said. “Can we get stuff first?” she added.
It was very unclear what she meant by that. Maybe she meant money—money because maybe she’ll cost money, because maybe she’s a prostitute. Maybe prostitutes say ‘can we get stuff’ as slang for ‘you should withdraw some money so that you can pay me’. Or maybe she was not a prostitute, and was just someone who was hungry, just somebody wanting of food, and wanting of drink maybe, too. Maybe alcoholic drink—maybe she wanted booze. Or maybe she wanted drugs. Or maybe she wanted all of the above. Or maybe she wanted nothing of the above—maybe she wanted action figures. Action figures from a drugstore. To play wth by herself in the hallway of my apartment. Throwing them down the long hallway. Making them fly and slide and do fun stuff. Waking up the neighbors below with the loudness of the action figures against the hardwood floor. I don’t know. I don’t know anything.
“Yeah,” I said. That perfect word. That perfect word that got me all the way to this point in the first place.
“Awesome,” she said, and started walking in a direction. I squinted as best I could at what was in the direction she was walking as I followed behind. There was a corner store up ahead. There was a drug store up ahead. There was an ATM bank branch thingy up ahead. There was a project building playground where men where hanging out, presumably selling drugs, up ahead. God was playing tricks on me. God was reading my mind, my insecurity, my not knowing of things.
She headed into the corner store and as I followed her into it I sighed a sigh in my head of relief. A sigh for all time. But then I realized that maybe this could just be stop number one of many. Just one stop, in a series of neverending stops. Maybe she just wanted me to buy her a lot of stuff at a lot of places and then she’d get into a taxi cab and speed away, far, far away, back home to her place where she’d enjoy a night alone to herself, never not smiling, never not being proud as fuck at what she just did and got away with—her perhaps having always wanted to do this to someone—or her perhaps doing this sort of thing to men all the time, and it being her favorite thing to do.
She went right over to some wine. She ran her finger over a wine bottle and looked at her finger, looked at the dust there. She looked over at the guy behind the counter as if to say, with her eyes, ‘there’s dust there’. He stared back at her, and probably got the hint, but gave nothing back to her with his look. He wasn’t interested in her—he was interested in a cricket match on a small color television not far from his head above the counter, which he turned his head back to. I almost wanted to ask him what channel he was watching. I’d always wanted to see a cricket match. Who doesn’t want to see a sport called ‘cricket’? Who doesn’t want to learn the rules and the players and fall in love with it all? It’s something I’ve wanted to do ever since I was a little kid. In fact, whenever I hear the word ‘cricket’, my mouth waters a little bit. Not that I want to eat insects, just that I want to watch a cricket match by myself on a television in my own home and enjoy it thoroughly. I’ve always wanted to do this, like wanting to have a subscription to a pornographic magazine. To receive a pornographic magazine in the mail every month would be so beautiful. The pornographic magazine traveling to me, and it gaining importance through having done so. It almost being like a woman arriving. It being special and tangible, not like that ethereal internet crap shit.
She went over to the fridgerated section—the plastic and glass bottles part of the fridgerated section. She pulled out a tea—a plastic bottle of tea. A really tall plastic bottle of tea, but not too tall—a size that a small person such as herself would be able to plausibly drink all or most of by herself.
“Do you want anything?” she asked, and then looked my way.
“Yeah,” I said, even though I didn’t. I didn’t have much in my pocket as far as cash, and I hate using a credit card for small purchases, and I didn’t want to buy a bunch of stuff in order to make it a large purchase and creep her out by the amount of stuff I was getting, a grocery trip’s worth practically, and I also didn’t want to buy a bunch of stuff in general because I was really broke. Didn’t have a penny to my name, it felt like. Was in danger of being poor and alone on the street, it felt like. That’s what it feels like to not have as much money as you wish you had. It really feels like that, even though you do know that you can always just move back home to your mom and dad’s home and kill yourself. A gun to your temple, or maybe put in your mouth. Maybe put in your mouth so that your dad thinks maybe he ‘raised a faggot’, because ‘who else’ would put something phallic in their mouth in order to die when you’ve got a perfectly good temple to put it to inches away. Would be fun to troll him like that before going, disappearing. Fuck that guy.
“What do you want?” she asked. Did she want the long answer though, is the question. Did she want to know that I have a thing for navels, and that from the second I saw her, I could tell she had a nice innie without even seeing it. A nice, tight innie with no dirt or lint inside. A tight, clean innie. Sexy and kissable. Lickable.
“Just get two of everything,” I said, feeling like a baller, a rich dude, or something—but suddenly worried that maybe she might think I meant I wanted her to get everything, as in pay for everything, and not me. I don’t know. I don’t talk much—I don’t know what people think when hearing words.
She got another tea out, and in that moment it was tempting to make a Noah-related joke—something about the ark and the whole ‘two of every animal’ thing. But maybe the Bible reference would make her think that this faggot she’s with is religious. That’d be gay. That’d be lame. That’d suck. Suck the air right out of the room. Suck the cock right out of the cock. I don’t know. I’m dumb.
She brought the teas up to the cricket-watcher and set them on the high counter that she had to get on her tippy toes to reach. It was so hot in a not pedophilic but I guess kind of pedophilic way, because that’s what kids usually have to do, not adults. But whatever—her doing it was hot, because it was her doing it, not because kids do it. Fuck kids. Don’t fuck them, that’s not what I mean—what I mean is just forget them, dismiss them. They suck, they are bad. But they do grow up to be women sometimes, and that’s good. That’s worth it, I guess—kids existing and what not. Worth it, definitely.
“I got this,” she said, and I realized I should probably veto. She shouldn’t pay—she’s so little. Plus she’s a woman, and I’m, at least by age, a man. I should pay, I should pay, I should pay. It had been drilled into my head for as long as I’ve known what a man and a woman is. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it—I didn’t want to insult her. Clearly she wanted to get this, having said ‘I got this’, and so I should let her get this.
“Thanks,” I said. Though I didn’t think it took me a while to say it, by the time I had said it she had already paid and had the teas already in a bag and was walking ahead of me out of the store and I was following her. And now out of the store, she didn’t seem to know where to go. She was just there in the outside air, breathing visibly and looking in various directions.
“Where do you live?” she asked. She was really doing this. Really going through with this. Really seemingly wanting to go through with this. It was admirable. A nice woman like herself. Seemingly nice, at least. Going through with this, with this ogre. Doing something with him, and let’s be honest—for him.
“Around the corner this way,” I said as practically one long, weird word, and I lead the way. She followed behind, and could stop doing so at any time, just stop and turn and go in the opposite direction, abandoning ship whenever. She could do it. But she wasn’t doing it—I could hear her footsteps. She had loud footsteps for such a tiny entity. Maybe intentionally—maybe to let herself be heard so as not to be stepped on by people, run over, that sort of thing, her being so itty.
We got to my house and I was quiet as a mouse outside even though it was my house—no one else lived there but me. In that house, at least. That house at that time. I’d lived with people in the past, the past before that house, and after that house here and there. It happens. It happens to everyone. We don’t need to talk about it. Everyone knows how it goes. Poorness sucks cock. It happens. I should probably stop using the word ‘house’ by the way—what I’m talking about is apartments. I’ve only ever lived in apartments, not houses. Sometimes alone, sometimes with others. One of the things that sucks about living in an apartment is always having to use the word ‘apartment’. ‘House’ is a much better word. I like using it, even though it’s not technically accurate.
We went up to my apartment, and I opened the door and everything was so dark, and so I turned on some light, which she was palpably internally glad at. Women don’t like being in a dark house. For men it’s like, who cares, I’ll walk a bit into the darkness of a house, but women need to have light on right away. Darkness is rape, darkness is danger. Darkness is shit. Light is safe, light is good. If anyone ever wanted to rape a woman, they should do it with a lot of lights on. The woman would never suspect a thing, maybe. I don’t know. Who knows. Rape is bad. Don’t rape.
I walked forward into the apartment. She came in too. I turned and pulled the door closed. Then I lead the way down the hall towards all the good stuff, the rest of the apartment and whatnot, but I didn’t feel her walking with, so I looked behind.
She was just standing there by the front door.
“Wait,” she said.
Maybe she was having second thoughts. Maybe she was smelling the shit I had taken earlier. I was surely smelling it. No ventilation in this rat trap. No rats, though. No mice, even. No cockroaches. The occasional water bug—but water bugs aren’t cockroaches. There are centipedes in the apartment though, I will admit. Sometimes an ant or two. That’s about it. That’s really about it. But really, maybe she had just realized that she doesn’t want to fuck a fat fuck. Maybe she had just then finally realized that fucking a fat fuck is fucking fucked.
“I want to be memorable,” she said. The first thing she had ever said to me, and there she was saying it again. The words hung there, her not following them up with anything. Which is fine, but, we’re just standing there doing nothing, so how about some indication of what is meant by that, or of what is supposed to happen next. Say something else, lady, because I don’t know what else to say.
She turned towards the door.
Fuck. But, fine—boner is had, jerking off could be done. That would be fine. She got it up. She got it good and up—all tingly. The cumming would be a good cumming, even without her there for it. She was a good samaritan even just from getting it up from her presence thus far. A nice, good cumming would be happening soon.
She got down on her knees.
That was a weird thing. Maybe she was gonna cry. Maybe she was gonna pray.
She did neither. She lifted herself up a bit, not really on her knees anymore, kind of just awkwardly not on them in such a way where she probably wouldn’t be able to hold that position for long even if maybe she did yoga, was one of those girl that did yoga or whatever. Then she put her face to the fucking doorknob. She put her face to the fucking doorknob and started licking it all over.
She was licking even the part that attaches to the door—the rectangle that the knob sits on. All the lights were on, and this was happening clear as a bell, her licking it all over. It seemed like it kind of maybe could be erotic, but it was adding nothing to the penis. If anything, it was causing the penis to lose something—lose steam or whatever. Cock steam, or whatever it is that resides in the penis when the penis gets hard. I know it’s blood, I’m not a moron, but it feels like there’s more than just blood in there sometimes—it feels sometimes like it’s actually steam in there that is powering the cock.
She was licking it, and she was sucking it, and she was getting it good and wet with saliva, and doing all sorts of stuff to it with her tongue and lips. She was in love—she was full-on passionately making out with the knob. She was all up on it. She was doing it such that, were it someone’s fetish, they would probably be elated. But, it’s not anyone’s fetish. No one likes this—except maybe the people that do. There’s gotta be those people out there somewhere. They’ve gotta exist somewhere. Probably. Maybe.
She stopped and got up and turned and faced me, and she wiped a whole lotta spit off her lips with her forearm. She had produced a whole lot of spit from doing what she had been doing—more than one would expect to have been produced by such an action. One would think she’d have no spit from doing that—it’s not exactly an act that would generate a lot of spit, one would think. But, she had been quite into it maybe. Maybe this was her fetish. Who knows. Who cares. She was hot as balls, standing there, not doing it anymore. The aftermath was hot as fuck. All that saliva on her arm, some of it sticking to her little baby arm hairs. Not that she had a baby arm, a freakishly tiny arm or whatever, just that the hairs were ‘baby’—they were those little baby hairs that women have on their arms that are not like the hairs men have on their arms. Woman arm hairs don’t have strength or thickness to them—they’re just there, chilling out and being hot. Maybe women are self-conscious of them, but they shouldn’t be. They’re good. They look fine to me. They look fine to everyone—except women, maybe. Totally fine to us men, though.
“I want to be memorable,” she said again, then ran past me down the hall, my fat body pressing hard against the wall to let her pass. She ran into the living room and disappeared to the right out of my view to do god knows what in there. My fat body got off the damn wall and jogged off to the living room to see. Maybe she was sucking off some DVDs in there. She could be doing anything at all in there, after what she had just done, but she was probably just sucking something else off—a table, the couch, some DVDs, a VHS, who knows.
I entered the living room and stood there staring at her. She had one of the fucking couch cushions up off the couch and in her arms, and it was a big cushion, sizable, and she was unzipping it open. Then she had it open, and she was pulling out the inside of it, the inside part that’s really the cushion of it all. She dumped that out on the floor and then she was just holding the outside of it, the sheath of it or whatever. She had it like that and then she got down on the floor and she got into the sheath. Her tiny ass self got into it. She couldn’t possibly fit into it, no way no how, but somehow she did fit into it—she got herself fully the fuck in. Then she zipped it up with herself in it. Zipped it up carefully, yet easily kind of. Did it fucking well. And then she was just in there, in the fucking couch cushion sheath thing, it all zipped up, a ball of woman inside of it. And then she was rolling around on the fucking floor, rolling around like a ball. All over the fucking floor like a circus thing, some sort of circus act. She was tumbling and tumbling like a giant oblong weird ball that isn’t quite round but is still able to roll somewhat. She was doing circles. She was doing figure eights. She was coming this way! She was avoided. She did this for a while. Then she stopped and unzipped herself and came out—and she was fucking dizzy. Definitely palpably dizzy as fuck. But was able to stand without falling over. Was able to steady herself without holding onto anything. What the fuck.
“I want to be memorable,” she said again, and then went into the kitchen. I followed her to see what she would do in there, but did not stand close to her, because she was so weird. A safe distance was had.
She opened the fridge. She was still dizzy, and was kind of steadying herself on the door part, which seemed like a bad idea. Don’t steady yourself on the door part, lady— that’s stupid. The door part moves. Steady yourself on the actual fridge part, or the counter nearby or something. But, it worked out fine, she didn’t fall. So, maybe it’s fine to steady yourself on the door part, I don’t know. Maybe I had overreacted in my head to her doing that.
She selected a jar of pickles from the fridge and then opened it very easily. Women usually can’t do that. But the jar had been opened before already, so, forget that actually. Opened jars are easy to open. Anyway. She had the jar open, and then she drank the fucking juice. Drank it all. Drank it all down like it was a glass of water and she was thirsty as shit. She drank all of it. It was the kosher dill type pickles—the salty water ones, not vinegar pickles. If it were vinegar pickles, she probably wouldn’t have been able to do it. Fuck vinegar. And fuck vinegar pickles, while I’m at it. Fuck those nonsense pickles. Salt pickles—full sour kosher dills—are the only pickles worth a damn. Fuck all the rest. Fuck them all. She probably would.
She finished the whole jar, the pickles still inside but now naked, nothing briny to swim in as clothing. How the pickles didn’t come out at all, I don’t know—she had that jar almost vertical upside down on her lips, so you’d think one would have hit her in the lips at some point or something, but none did. She did it very well somehow. Maybe she knew something about physics that most people don’t. She must have, to have done it so well. Maybe pickles don’t come out when upside down in a jar in a certain way, with the liquid coming out in a certain way—some sort of physics thing like that due to the salt water. I don’t fucking know. There’s always weird science shit like that, shit that some people hear about as kids, or as teenagers, or as adults, or whatever, whereas other people go their whole lives never hearing of it. Always some shit like that. Living sucks. You’d think some president would just sit the country down and explain all the weird science shit to everyone. That’d be a good president—a really helpful one, for a change. No starting of wars—just teaching of weird science. That’d be cool.
“I want to be memorable,” she said again, and then went out of the kitchen, back into the living room, and over to the bedroom door. Straight to it and opened it, and went into the bedroom, and then pulled the door closed behind her. How she knew it was the bedroom door, I don’t know—it had been completely closed. Maybe the apartment was just that intuitively laid out, although, personally, it had never felt so to me. That apartment, specifically. That one always felt weird. Every time coming home to it felt like the first time. Hard to explain. Wasn’t that drunk, I swear. Most of the time I was not drunk when coming home at all. Weird house. Weird home. Weird place to live. Weird apartment. Weird thing. Anyway, she was in the bedroom now, and I was thinking what the fuck was she going to do in there. Let’s go find out or something. Let’s walk over to to her. So, I walked over to her in there, to find out.
I got in there, and I kept a safe distance in there from her of course. Gotta keep a safe distance from her, for sure. Then I realized—she’s made the bed. Definitely made the bed. The bed, I could remember, was definitely distraught, definitely dilapidated, definitely in disarray, prior to her being in there with it, because I never make a damn bed. Making a bed is for fucking fuckheads. Fucking stupid asshole dicks. Why make a bed? It’s so much more inviting to the body when it’s not made. Hard to want to sleep in a bed that is made. Feels like a sin. You feel like shit in there, like you ruined something. You can’t sleep. Hard to sleep when you feel like you’re ruining beauty. Ruining the world by being in it. It’s like that.
The bed was so pristine and nice from what she had done to it, and had done so fast. How did she do it so fast? How? All the time that she had been in the room was literally just the time of me walking over to the bedroom door and opening it and coming in, and yet she was able to do all that and without even being seen finishing doing it. But, what did she even do? She straightened some pillows, pulled up the sheets and comforter, flattened it all out, tucked shit. I guess it’s conceivable that she could have done it so fast. Maybe she had been a maid once, or currently was one. Maybe her mom taught her. Maybe her aunt taught her. Maybe her aunt’s hot. Maybe her mom’s hot. Maybe her maid coworkers are hot. Maybe she’s hot. She’s definitely hot. Hot and definitely talented.
“Thank you,” was said to her, in the mind but not aloud. Because, why say anything? She was clearly on autopilot with whatever she wanted to do here or whatever. This had clearly not been done out of kindness or anything, it was just her doing her thing, her thing of becoming ‘memorable’. She liked this life of hers she had built for herself where she did stuff like this, apparently. Or maybe it wasn’t her regular life—maybe she had suddenly snapped, and this was her first excursion into doing stuff like this. Maybe. Who knows. But, she was doing it—and it didn’t feel like she needed to be thanked for it.
“I want to be memorable,” she said again, and went into the bathroom that was attached to the bedroom, which was the only bathroom in that apartment. Yes, that was annoying. Yes, it was dumb that any company that came over would have to go through the bedroom in order to get to the bathroom. But, company was rare. Who even knows ‘company’? Who even has people they call ‘company’? Really, there was just Steve back then, who was fun to watch movies with sometimes, and that was about it. A couple other people. Not many. Who even knows many people? Who are these people, that know many people? Who? Tell me, because I want to know. I want to shit on them and then throw them off a mountain. They’re full of shit. Liars.
I went into the bathroom, and there she was, staring at herself in the bathroom mirror—the medicine cabinet mirror. You know the one. Everyone has it. It’s ubiquitous. That was a proper use of that word. Sometimes it’s hard to use big words right. That was a good, proper usage of that word. Yeah.
It looked as if she was having a sobering moment, staring at herself in that mirror. She was staring at herself with a look of ‘fuck—who am I’? That sort of a thing. Or maybe she was experiencing nothing. She could definitely have been actually experiencing nothing. Could definitely have been doing that. It was possible. So fucking possible. More possible than fucking her was, that’s for sure. Sex was clearly out of the question, and the boner, following that lead, was long gone. None of this, none of her, was sexual anymore—she was just some person doing stuff. A seemingly endless amount stuff, maybe. Just a neverending line of stuff being done. Unerotic and unbecoming stuff. But, impressive. Definitely impressive on some weird level.
Suddenly, she started getting the fuck naked. Getting naked as fuck. Taking off her clothes and shit, like women do in movies. She had her shirt off, and then her bra, and then her pants, and then her panties, and then her socks, and then her shoes. Or rather, her shoes and then her socks. Or rather, her shoes, and then her pants, and then her panties, and then her socks. Probably that order. I don’t really remember the exact order, but it seems most likely. It was all a blur. It all happened so slowly but went by so fast. It was like, boom, she’s naked. Fully naked as fuck. But it was so slow also. It was like molasses. It takes women a really long time to take off their clothes, because it’s a woman doing it, and women have a certain slow energy to them. I don’t know. But whatever—there she was, naked.
She had some cellulite. That was fine, that was whatever. She had some little hairs above her ass toward her spine. They were nothing, they were cute, they were whatever. She had a short scar on the middle of her back. Her nipples looked okay in the mirror. Kind of not very pink, kind of just flesh-colored, but whatever. Her breasts sagged a bit. Her pussy hair was that kind of sharp pussy hair that happens after shaving a whatever amount of days ago. It hadn’t gotten soft and nice again—it was intermediate between bald and bush. It was unbecoming. But she had nice hips, and not a lot of lines above her pussy from her jeans or panties or whatever, which was impressive. She must know how to dress really well to avoid that happening. Or maybe she just had really strong, impervious skin or something—if strong, impervious skin were a thing. But definitely, the best part about her was her face. Or maybe her ass, which was kind of tight, kind of appeared like it could make any dick, even a small one, look big next to it. Real compact ass and whatnot. Not one of those asses that dwarfs any dick and makes any man feel inadequate. Just a tiny, tight, cute, soft-looking, firm little butt. A perfect butt. It’s good to have something you can put your dick next to, or rest your dick on, and feel like a great, big man. An utter awesome perfect human being—that sort of thing. Makes all sex feel good, no matter how bad it actually may be. Makes life feel tolerable.
She just stood there, looking at herself in the medicine cabinet mirror. Is she going to do something more, or was this it, was the question running through my mind in that moment. If this was just it as far as this section, this specific memorable thing in the litany of them that she was doing, that would be fair, that would be fine. It was a good body. Definitely memorable. But not as memorable as the other stuff she had done. But maybe she was gonna do something more for this section. Maybe she was gonna open the medicine cabinet and reach in and pull out my toothbrush and shove the handle up her ass. I didn’t know what she was gonna do. Anything was possible. She had just been rolling around on the floor like a fucking tumbling jack or some shit just a little bit ago. She had just been making a bed like a fucking Japanese machine designed to quickly make beds just a little bit ago. She had just been licking the fucking doorknob to the front door like crazy just a little bit ago. Oh, and she had just been downing all that pickle juice like a champ just a little bit ago. Almost forgot about that one. So maybe she’d do the toothbrush-in-the-ass thing—that would definitely raise my cock again real good. Get it real good and raised again. Stuff with the butt where stuff goes into it and is just there hanging out of it is so hot. Narrow household objects and whatnot. But few girls are into doing that. Except for girls on the internet. On the internet, you can find lots of girls doing that—probably doing it for boyfriends that they think love them, bless their hearts. These naive girls help all of mankind to jack off, even though they only think they are helping one man at all. Very cool. Very sad, but also very cool.
She walked over to the shower and pushed the curtain open and got into the shower. She didn’t turn the shower on, just stood there. Then she did turn it on, and had it on for just a little bit before turning it off again—just enough water to wet herself fully, but barely. Droplets all down her body—streaks of water, that sort of thing. Then she took the shampoo and squirted a ton of shampoo in her hand, and then did the same with a ton of conditioner too, and rubbed the mass of goops all over herself like it was soap. And it was working like soap—it was lathering up like soap somewhat and getting her all slick. She was getting crazy slick, really insanely slick from head to toe. Very nude and very slick. Very visibly slippy. It was kind of hot, but mostly just hot because of her touching herself thoroughly, touching every inch of her own skin. The actual visual of the stuff all on her wasn’t that hot besides that. It wasn’t not hot, but it wasn’t phenomenal—whereas, her touching herself was phenomenal.
She got out of the shower and left the bathroom, not toweling off first, none of that shit. She was tracking watery, slippery shampoo and conditioner all over the floor, but whatever—it probably wouldn’t stain or be that terribly hard to clean up. She was having trouble walking, like a cartoon deer on some cartoon ice or something, but all-in-all she was actually walking quite well. She was not terrible at it. There are people in this world way worse at things than she was at this thing. A fine job, really, that she was doing, walking with such slippy feet. Not bad at all.
She made her way around the living room, looking around at all it contained. Hopefully she wouldn’t touch anything—particularly anything that’s valuable. That would suck. It would suck to have to clean shampoo and conditioner off some DVD cases, or some remote controls, those sorts of things. Or other stuff too, of course. But, those sorts of things would be really annoying to clean. Particularly any DVDs that were of high value, or in particularly nice condition. That’d be sucky.
She left the living room and headed down the hall towards the front door. Maybe she was going to suck off the knob again. Maybe she was just going to keep going in circles, doing her whole routine of stuff over and over and over again, for all time. Not enough pickle juice for that, though—she had drank it all already. She would have to drink something else instead, for that section.
She went over to the front door and tried to open it. And she was having trouble, getting wet shampoo and conditioner all over it, as she tried over and over in vain to get it to turn. It was not turning well at all, not cooperating with her performance art whatsoever, her statement she was making or whatever. Finally her dumb ass realized that the door was locked and that that’s why it wasn’t turning. She turned the latch to unlock it, and then she turned the knob, and it turned, and she opened the door wide. Nobody was out there to see her—it was just an empty apartment building hall full of other doors to apartments. Light bulbs in flat circle things on the ceiling. Some people’s doormats. You know the drill. Everybody knows the drill—apartment buildings are normal things that everybody knows about.
She stepped out of the apartment, and then she turned around.
“Goodbye,” she said. She stood there a moment, waiting for a goodbye back, waiting for a reaction to all that had just transpired maybe too.
“Goodbye,” was said to her. Stoically said, because fuck her, fuck this shit. Not gonna play games with her. If she wants to play games, I have a ton of fucking dice I could show her. A ton of fucking board games, a ton of fucking video games, a ton of fucking figurines, a ton of fucking whatever. That’s some good shit. Not this fucking shit. This shit is shit.
She seemed fine with the stoic goodbye. She gave a stoic look back, but she was not that good at it, because she’s a fucking woman, and women think they’re good at ‘stoic’ but they’re not nearly as good at it as men. Not nearly. Men have that shit down pat—so much so that it frustrates women hard and makes them hallucinate grand conspiracies, theories that men are actually behind everything bad in this world and are trying to keep women down. It’s hilarious that they think that. We have no interest in keeping them down, and don’t have much interest in them in general. They think we think about them all the time, but we really don’t. We have but a passing interest in women. We think about other stuff way more, like what type of cable a thing requires in order to connect to something else, and what brand of it won’t crap out. Always hard to pick the right cable. You want something cheap, but not too cheap, basically.
She then walked away down the apartment building hall and I shut the front door without touching the knob, and then I went down my hall and through the living room to my bedroom. I got a handful tissues from the beside table and brought them back out of the bedroom and through the living room and down my hall to the front door. With a handful of tissues, I turned the lock latch thingy to lock the door.
I went back down the hall and through the living room and into my bedroom and then into my bathroom, and tossed the tissues I’d used to lock the latch thing on the front door into the little garbage basket under the sink. They didn’t make it in—they landed behind it, where others have landed before and were there currently. Cum-y ones, snot ones, every type of ones.
I looked down at her clothes on the bathroom floor and picked them up and sniffed them. They smelled like nothing—like no woman had ever been in them at all. It was kind of a faintly man-ish nothing scent, though men you can kind of trust—this smell, you couldn’t trust. It smelled ever so vaguely like a woman gone faintly sour. It smelled like milk that had turned, but not turned enough to kill you—just thinks it can kill you. Arrogant, shitty milk. That’s what this bitch was.
I went over to the bathroom window and lifted it open, that window always sticking kind of, the paint on it always getting humid and sticky or whatever. The night air was cooling and felt pretty dope. I tossed the clothes out the window into the night air where they would likely land on the ground or a parked car or something. Maybe she’d collect them. Maybe somebody else would. Maybe no one would, and they’d just be there on the ground or a parked car forever. I didn’t care to look down at where they landed. I didn’t give a fucking shit.
I went into my bedroom. I grabbed my laptop from my beside table and got into bed. I placed my laptop on the left side of my fat body on the bed. I shook out of my clothes a bit, sliding them off a bit with my hands but mostly just rocking side to side to get them off—or rather, off enough. An ugly sight, but no one’s sight to see but my own. No one ever has to see it, and no one will ever truly know the sight but me.
I pulled up some internet porno on my laptop. A nice, good free site with lots of free porno videos. Millions, billions, maybe trillions of videos—and that same amount of people on the site at any given time probably, watching and whacking away.
I typed the word ‘petite’ in. A nice, petite chick is what I wanted in that moment. A nice, petite chick with a tight, compact ass. An ass that was small and good.
I hit enter.
So many videos came up. Some of them I’d seen before, but almost all of them I had not.
I hovered the cursor over some video thumbnails one by one, checking out the little slideshow of random stills from the video so that I could see what the ass of the girl would look like, and what the dick that will be near it or in it would look like, etcetera.
I selected a video that seemed okay. The stills showed a petite chick with a particularly great and tiny perfect little fucking ass, and a penis that wasn’t annoying looking.
I skipped around on the video. I pulled and tugged my penis to encourage a decent amount of hardness. I stroked the fuck out of it for a good few seconds while watching the video and had a pretty good orgasm, blobs and short ropes of cum shooting and dribbling all over the bed she had made and then never laid in.
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