I could have found myself at the bottom of a pile of dead, wreaking of rotting cunt,disassembling bodies and retained the arousal to find my lover’s cock somewhere on the other side of fifteen hundred pounds of anonymous human mildew. I wondered what a cop might say if he pulled me over; my fluorescent wig, my trench coat, my sopping, sheer panties, my clank-ety metal belt, my open container of caffeine and the barking scent of coffee on my breath. That cop might have thought I was a hooker I told my boyfriend after we’d attempted to make use of my surprising apparel.
I can’t remember how it all seemed to register with him when he opened the door to his apartment building and saw me standing there in high heels, a false bubble gum bob, sun-glasses, and khaki jacket with the cloth belt knotted tightly around my waist, like some vixen with mediocre gun handling skills in a Sci Fi flick. I might have wanted him to fuck me wildly, to look up from my tanned, toned, flesh where flesh should be, breasts bulging over my push up bra, from inside the synthetic wings of my purple wig and register for myself the pleasure of being a live action Playboy model for the sole audience, an older man, my lover. I suspect what I wanted was to live out a fantasy that dropped and hunkered down inside my stomach like an anchor when I first began seeing flashes of sex and mis-communicated truths via sexual advances, suggestions, and lingering jazzy notes with pronounced lingering quality revealed from the TV in my parents’ house when my mother forgot to change the channel to something more appropriate and I became very curious about this pleasure box; this house for feelings and ideas we didn’t discuss or witness on my block; a world out there, but in there; a taboo voodoo land of everything I never saw at home and had my mouth washed out with soap for mentioning.
Someone watching this night inside of a TV would think that I was in the mood for sex. But I wasn’t, I was in the mood for TV. I was in the mood to see who would win for his admiring, inspired, salacious, fuck-hungry stare: Me or the TV. I had stories and long thigh bones, advertisements for things nobody needs, laugh tracks to simulate different types of audiences, religious programming, talking animals, and remote control. Once he’d locked the door and returned to his shaded dent on the couch cover he hesitated to resume viewing the TV. It remained on as I paced slowly back and forth between him and the pleasure box, while his eyes zigzagged to capture me and the glowing images, how a football receiver dodges tackles while racing towards the end zone. As I draped my trench coat across the couch I felt I had him, nothing could compete with this amount of young human flesh, except hate. Eventually, I tired of prowling at the edge of my tiny cage, waiting for him to rise and unlock the gate and release me from this chest puffing saunter. It wasn’t the feeding hour. I had no intention to lazily gnaw at a torso sized hunk of red meat. I wanted out, to kill, to hunt, to choose my prey at least.
He asked me into the bedroom after I’d already taken my wig off and stood scratching my itching head while studying my body in his bathroom mirror. He wanted me to put the wig back on. I crouched beside the bed at his request and sucked on his penis for a moment. The wig had become irritatingly itchy, painful. I don’t even remember if we fucked after that, but I can remember the sound of the TV in the other room and the people inside of it laughing.
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