My evil plan is to be the Chloe Sevigny to (Dogzplot Flash Fiction Editor) Barry Graham’s Harmony Korine, the Uma Thurman to his Quentin Tarantino, the Laura Dern to his David Lynch, the … what I’m trying to say is, second time on Dogzplot! Read it and weep:
Just kidding, I didn’t write that one. I wish I had, but no, Howie Good visited while I slept and sucked it out my ear. I wrote:
I just grabbed my breasts and whispered I love you baby to myself.
On the train home the guy sitting across the aisle from me started twisting in his seat and the rest of us all looked around at each other. Or rather, the seven men nearest, all laying protective hands to crotches getting ready for the penalty shot, turned to look at me as though I had something to do with it. I stoically wished he’d still and stop. But he didn’t. The large bulge in his pants just kept growing, sending him epileptic near my shoe. I swallowed hard.
He was writhing on the floor between the seats now, frothing a little at the mouth and etc. I was looking straight ahead but knew his eyes were going to start to roll back. This other guy goes, you know you have to help him, right? Wearily I knew it was at least five minutes to the next stop. I mean, you know you HAVE to help him, right? Fucking why, I said. Because you’re the nearest fucking female, that’s fucking why.
One of you is gay, I said. Come on. One of you is so gay. Come on!
They looked at each other accusingly, but quickly they turned back to me. No, they said. None of us is gay and this guy, he’s not gay, look at what he’s wearing. He needs your help, you heartless cunt.
Come on! Fuck! Fuck, I said over again, outnumbered. You fucking bastards, I said. Fuck you, I said.
The train seemed to be going faster but the stop came no nearer. Fuck it, I thought and started toward him, but then couldn’t.
Look it might just pass. Sometimes it just passes. No, no, no, they said. You have to help him, bitch, you have to. Fuck, I grumbled down on my knees and took off my handbag and jacket and scarf and fuck you assholes, I growled as I ripped off his pants and he squealed and grunted like some horror movie, hellbent alien in heat.
Massive engorgement threatened to tear apart his ball sack and the skin across his hip bones. He was crying loudly now and I did feel sorry for him. Fuck I thought. Fuck. I took a deep breath and lunged into it and sucked the fuck out of it, and massaged it and stroked it and gagged and pumped with both hands and my entire body until the others, they had to look away.
Tasted earthy rot, metallic and piss-like you know he didn’t care. He knew he had the sickness and if it came to, he knew some wrong-place, shit-time girl’d have to put her mouth on it, but fuck it if he couldn’t at least try and be presentable for it.
Fuck, I thought on the upswing. Fuck, I thought on the downswing. You motherfuckers! I yelled as I breathed in and lunged right down to the hilt until I drew back with a big kissing sound and he erupted bloody pink jizz on my cheeks and my neck and shirt.
Thank you, he sobbed. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you thank you thank you thank you, he sobbed. Fuck you, I wiped my mouth and grabbed my shit and sat back down in that train seat and waited.
Every word feels wrong in my mouth. Everything is about me. Often so mundane, so real, so ordinary. I want to be happy on the couch. I want the medicine. Children chastising makes me penitent. A sorry gathering, an unfunny lifeless given-up never was a doll in a lovely dress.
Still, did you buy the Dogzplot Flash Fiction Anthology yet? Only a few left, I heard. Somebody gave me way too much credit, which was peaches.
What about QUESTIONS ABOUT LIFE AND SHIT, yow? I got mine some days ago. I am aroused it’s so well done. Green is my favourite colour* when I’m not depressed. Books is my favourite books.
I got a DRUNK SONNETS beer koozie because I pre-ordered the book some time ago. I didn’t think I’d get one but I did. I want to take a picture of it keeping some beer cold like the cool kids do but I am too sullen to take pictures. (♥ Dan Bailey)
Who said I was working on a novel? Eat me.
I don’t know what I’m doing. is this okay? Someone tell me this is okay.
UPDATE: It’s okay. I just stabbed myself with the mascara wand.
*I write it Brit ‘cause I like it. Cry to your mom.**
** I write it ‘merican ‘cause I like it. Fuck your dad.
Yeah you’re not so great but you’re all we’ve got. Not the best we’ve seen certainly, but we’ll take you. I can see you listening to that, in your shoes and your coif, at night. Yeah, it’s not that great, or even very good, but you’ll hear it out. It’s like that, sort of. We take what we can and discard the rest. I mean, this kid was pretty good. I mean, he wasn’t the best but again, we took what we could get. It’s better to have something and that kid, well he was something. Not something special or something proud, but something that we had got. Like you. I can hear you reading that, definitely sounds like something you might like to read. Plus we have it so why not? That’s what we do certainly. I mean, like if you asked us we might say oh yes, it’s very nice. But you know how you feel about that word nice, huh? I mean, some people they might think very nice is certainly nice enough and I mean, well, they wouldn’t be wrong would they? To the British a cream pastry might be very nice, very nice indeed. But well, you’re no cream pastry.
I crush on this boy like mad
like my laden ovaries expand to fill my feet
like my swollen fingers expand to fill the air
between me and him, like I grab him
between lips
and swallow him until his mother
forgets she had a son