Or, Finger Fucking Done Right.
I need to buy spaghetti and a shovel and some candles and a tablecloth and a colander and brownies and an electric meat cutter and a chicken and rubber adhesive for the bottom of my shower. I wonder if they have that here.
They do.
I’m at the cashier’s now. She is wearing her apron inside out. She is cute, nearly edible. As I look at her, worms come out of her nose. Not earthworms, small ones, like maggots. She smiles at me and asks if I found everything alright.
“It took me awhile to find the candles,” I say. “I was looking in the wrong section. Tools, I was looking in seasonal. It was in home and garden.”
“Having a party?” she asks. The little bitch.
“No, just dinner,” I say.
“Well I hope you are having guests. Candlelit dinners are always best with company.” What a nosey little bitch this one is. A shame she is so damn delectable. Worms crawl up her face into her curly blonde hair.
She puts everything into bags and I pay with my mother’s credit card. She does not ask to see my ID.
“Have a good evening sir!” she exclaims, her small face nearly devoured by a smile.
“I will,” I say. “You’ve got worms on your face.” Then I go out to the parking lot. There’s lots to do and not nearly enough time.
On the drive home I think about that time in Disneyland when the crows pooped on our heads. We were waiting for the parade, my mother and I, and the only place to sit was beneath a towering Jacaranda tree. Before Mickey and the gang even had a chance to prance to our spot, an entire flock of crows landed in the leaves above us and began to shit all over our heads. Mother and I were resilient, however, and refused to move from our spot. We wisely used the park map to cover our hair and in the end our perseverance paid off. We had the best seats in the house. There was crow poop all over our legs, but that just washes right off.
I don’t know why I thought about that just now. Sometimes my mind wanders terribly. Like at the store, with the worms. I knew there weren’t any worms but my imagination insisted upon it. I can’t always keep my imagination at bay. That’s what comes from being brought up on Disney movies I suppose. And the Sound of Music. Mom loves the Sound of Music, both the film and the actual sound of music. Yanni. She fucking loves Yanni.
I read in an article once that people my age are called the “Beauty and the Beast Generation” . It refers to young adults whose childhood coincided with the early 1990s when the best movies of all time were being released. The Little Mermaid, Aladdin, The Lion King, and of course, Beauty and the Fucking Beast. That is my favorite movie of all time. After seeing it in the theaters, my mother purchased the VHS and I watched it until the tape ripped. I am really a lot like the beast if you think about it. I don’t go outside much and I’m fairly hairy. And all I want from life is to fall in love. That’s what Disney has taught me. Love conquers all. Even if you’re fairly hairy.
I’m home. I step over the pile of VHS tapes in the middle of the room and put my bags down on the counter. My mother refused to convert any of her collection to DVD. Even when her tapes got old and needed replacing. I begged her to keep up with the times and tried to elaborate on the benefits of DVD but her heart was closed. That’s something I’ll need to clean up before Veronica arrives. I can’t have her thinking that I live in the past. Besides, none of them have cases. The pile in the middle of our floor looks like a bunch of enlarged dominos. Or Hershey’s bars.
I season the chicken and put it in the oven. I arrange the tablecloth and set out our best flatware. After cleaning up the pile of VHS tapes, I change the kitty litter. Our cat is named Cat after the one in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Audrey Hepburn is probably my favorite person, alive or dead. Though I do like Bob Hope a great deal.
I have thirty more minutes until Veronica arrives. I met her at our Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Technically we’re not supposed to date anybody in the group, but I’ve never been one to follow rules and regulations. I’m a rebel, wild and free like the California breeze. I’m like Thelma and Louise if it was possible to combine them into one person, to put Thelma and Louise into a blender and woosh it all up and then pour the goo into a mold and let it harden. Then we could have cupcakes.
I liked Veronica from the very start. She didn’t talk much, which I appreciate. Living with mother, who talks almost constantly, I have developed an appreciation for people who are content with silence. But I could tell there was more to Veronica than meets the eye. Everytime anybody mentions sex, her eyebrows pop up. Mine do that too. I love sex. Well, I love the word ‘sex’. It’s harsh, like ‘conk’ or ‘faggot’. Harsh words that make you wrinkle your nose like a rabbit are my favorite.
I’ve never had sex but I imagine I will like it. We get Animal Planet.
Some may say I’m old to be a virgin, but I wanted to take my time and know for certain that she was the right one. Most girls don’t understand me. They can’t see past the fact that I wear glasses or that I have a little extra weight around my tummy. Or that I have a pony tail. One girl asked me if my hair was long for religious purposes. I met her on Match.com. I never had much luck with online dating. Girls who date online tend to be vaguely retarded.
Veronica, however, could be the one. She’s blonde and short, both admirable traits in a woman. And she is pensive, always thinking. She probably has a wild imagination. We could share stories of the things we dream up, the places that we want to go. I want adventure in the great wide somewhere. I want it more than I can stand. And for once it might be grand, to have someone understand, I want so much more than they’ve got planned.
With the chicken in the oven and the living room cleaned I’m almost ready for her arrival. Now I just have to make sure that mother is out of the house before she shows up. I can’t have her finding out that I live with my mother. The embarrassment would make me piss myself.
***********
Veronica arrived at 6:50. She had spent 23 minutes getting ready. She felt a little guilty about agreeing to go on a date with Paul. After all, group members were strictly prohibited from forging romantic attachments to one another. And she wasn’t terribly attracted to Paul. But he seemed so sweet and she could tell how nervous he had been asking her out. They had been standing by the cookies, sipping their hot cocoa, discussing their weeks when suddenly he had started to whisper. She couldn’t quite catch what he had asked and when she asked him to repeat himself, Paul blushed furiously.
“I was wondering,” he repeated, only slightly louder, “if perhaps you would like to have dinner with me sometime.”
Veronica said yes without hesitation, not because she was excited about the potential date, but because she felt obligated to ease Paul’s visible case of nerves.
And what did they talk about, the two love birds? Hot Topic (the clothing store as a cultural statement).
“I just think that t-shirts with Care Bears on them are a political statement.” This was from Veronica.
“I respect that opinion, but there is nothing political about a Care Bear.”
They gazed into each other’s eyes and Veronica realized she had never really given Paul a proper chance. He wasn’t much in the looks department, but they had been talking nonstop for almost two hours. They had talked about Virginia Woolf and Star Wars and Children vs. Puppies and Puppies vs. Kittens vs. Cats. And they had discussed Surrealism and the Highway of Souls beneath the Death River. And they talked about Angels vs. Demons vs. Vampires vs. Zombies. They had talked about so many things. And Veronica decided right before she got up for a drink of water that she loved Paul.
“Do you have a water filter?” she half-yelled, opening the door to the refrigerator with her foot, and balancing the empty glass in her left hand. It was a question that she could answer herself seconds later, a needless question.
No, he did not have a water filter. But for some odd reason, he had a fake finger. Some people would have been weirded out by this, but to Veronica, who was newly in love, it seemed quaint. Almost aristocratic in its neurosis. She picked it up and brought it to the table. Dinner had been delicious. Poached eggs with fish, fried in butter and cilantro. Just dripping with butter.
“Why the fuck do you have a fake finger in your fridge,” she said between laughs and throwing it at Paul’s face. “Fucking gross.”
He blushed and explained that it was for a college assignment. He was getting a degree in Creative Writing and he was studying Edgar Allen Poe.
“Well still. It’s weird. But I like Weird.” Veronica did like Weird, she very much did.
**************
I want Veronica to sit on my face. That’s all I want is for Veronica to sit on my face. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since she threw the finger at me. Since that awkward finger moment. It gave me a boner the finger moment. Perhaps I should tell her that. No, I will wait until another time. Now is too soon.
She helps me with the dishes. We watch a movie. The Nightmare Before Christmas. Her closeness is toxic, dripping with heat. We cuddle and I show her how to fuck with your fingers.
A person doesn’t have to have sex in order to have a good time. I take my time with a lady. To me, holding hands is foreplay. We wrangle our fingers together like spider webs. I play music on her knuckles. I listen to her breathe.
She roles over in the middle of the movie and says something I do not expect to hear.
“I want you to fuck me with this,” she nearly whispers. “Wouldn’t that be hysterical.”
It would be hysterical.
I’m free at last.
I’m in love.
No worms come out of her face. No worms come out of her face. No worms come out of her face. No worms come out of her face. No worms come out of her face. No worms come out of her face.
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