Rainbows and Lollipops
The garden is overgrown. Low maintenance cacti prevail and a tangle of dried up vines threaten to swallow the purple door. I rip off the note he’s scrawled: Come on in, the water’s warm! and with it a large swatch of paint, which I toss in the sandy dirt.
I flip off my flip flops and walk down the hall.
I can hear the shower running and him singing Satisfaction by the Stones. “Cuz I try and I try and I try and I try and I try and I tryyyy.”
He’s trying too hard, as usual. Mick Jagger only tried four times before succumbing to the fact that he couldn’t get no satisfaction.
He is in the shower at precisely the time I am scheduled to arrive to let me know that his chubby little cock is clean and ready to suck.
There are naked photos of a trashy blonde with balloon-like implants on his computer screen. I pretend not to see them because I know he wants me to.
I hear the shower door close and he lumbers in with nothing but a hopeful look in his eyes.
“Hey, you! Lookin’ good as usual!”
If this were what I usually looked like, it would be cause for concern. My hair is oily and and I have been wearing my T-shirt dress since this morning when I used the dirt I’d pilfered from the community garden to plant the petunias that I’d been collecting from the walkways late at night. No one would miss the flowers since they grew like weeds and the rich folks had their gardeners replace them every 6 weeks anyways.
I look good compared to him though, if we are basing his compliment in relativity.
Wide pink stretch marks criss-cross his gut, loose moles hang around his neck, his nostrils are flared like a bull waiting to charge and doughy kneecaps nearly buckle under his weight, making him a sight few would call ‘good as usual’.
He wants a hug. I can feel it shooting from behind the pathetic longing that are his eyeballs. A hug is not what I have in mind though.
I’m thinking more of ramming the heel of my hand upwards into his nose and then laughing joyfully as he falls backward into the fireplace and I stomp on the four pounds of testicles that swing between his mushy thighs.
I set up my massage table, accidentally glancing at the twit on the computer screen, as he looks on expectantly.
“You like her?” he asks.
“I don’t know her.”
“She’s a friend of a friend. My friend spends time with her and thought I might like her. I think she’s a prostitute.”
“That’s fairly evident, yes.”
He’s doing two things: he’s letting me know that he has other options thereby trying to get a reaction of competitiveness while also aiming to incite a conversation about prostitution. He’s hoping that maybe that will turn into some liberal-leaning heart-to-heart in which I decide that’s it’s cool to fuck him for money.
I choke down my vomit to speak. “Prostitutes are the safest people you can sleep with next to porn actresses.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because they’re professionals. They always use condoms.”
“Do you like sex with condoms?”
I’d like to pull a giant condom over his head and get my satisfaction watching him flail and choke to death because his fingers are too fat to find its edge to free himself.
“Okay, hop on the table.”I say with caustic pep.
There is no such thing as hopping for him though; there is only hoist and roll.
I stare at the metal filing cabinets as my reluctant hands move down his ample back. Stray hairs, a puss-filled whitehead and a scaly texture greet my fingers and palms as I apologize silently to them.
I will deposit the two hundred and fifty dollars to my account immediately upon leaving here and finally being able to pay the minimum on my credit card before being charged a thirty-five dollar late fee again. I can also get the oil changed in my car if that mailer I got hasn’t expired. Will that make the light go out?
I get down to his ass and he moans and clears his throat. “I make sure I wash real good every time before you come over in case you want to go deeper.”
Is there a bat anywhere in this room? Anything sharp? Oooh, that metal ruler. That would work. It’s an odd shape, but maybe if I put some of this oil on it first and use force…
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Oh, in case you want to get deeper into the muscles.”
“There are no muscles in your butt crack.”
“You sure? Best to double check.”
A bat would be better. A bat with spikes. I’ll make one. I’ll plan ahead next time. Fail to plan, plan to fail.
He laughs nervously, knowing not to push me again for now. He’s conveniently forgotten that he’s encouraged me before to get closer to the most unfathomably grotesque part of his physique and that I’ve given him a firm no.
It is time for the dreaded flip-over. His prick has emerged slightly from its rolls of blubber and drips with a translucent slime that nearly makes me gag. I wipe it roughly before getting a grip and focusing again on the filing cabinet.
I could puke all over him and this table and this room right now. I could drown him in thick, steamy vomit and get double satisfaction as he slides into its pool on the floor writhing like a puffer fish yanked from an aquarium.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about,”he coos.
“Rainbows and lollipops.”
“You’re hilarious!”
It takes him a minute to get hard. If I’d done his arms by pulling them up over his head and letting him fondle me with his sausage fingers, he would have been fully erect, but I don’t need him commenting on my tampon.
I roll his four inches of flesh in my hands like I’m making gnocchi and then grab it like my gear shift, as he exhales deeply and I bury my nose in my armpit in an effort to dodge the rancid odor.
“Grab tighter,” he whispers. “Tight like your pussssy.”
Would my hands be able to grab tight enough around his neck to cut off his air or would the fat get in the way? How hard would I have to squeeze? As hard as he is squeezing my ass right now?
I clench my cheeks together, so he can’t slip his hand in anywhere and think about which ATM I will go to when my freedom is restored. The parking on Sepulveda is free, but will my car make it that far without oil?
“You have the best ass in America,” he hisses.
He jerks and convulses on the table and I think maybe we’re getting to the end, but he’s just being dramatic. Fucking L.A. with all of its unrealized actors.
“Slow down,” he says. “As if your mouth is just pulling me up, pulling me up, pulling me up, up, up.”
If I can’t successfully choke him would he be able to get up quickly enough to defend himself? I could definitely run faster than him. Would he chase me out into the road? Nah.
I slow my tug obediently, desperately wanting this to end as much as my aching forearm does.
“Squeeze my balls. Real tight, like.”
I grip a handful of the hairy flab as it oozes between my fingers in rebellion, shifting my weight, stepping on something sharp. I look down at potato chip crumbs.
“Tighter!” he grunts.
Next time he leans in for a hug/grope I will stick him with a knife I have concealed in my sleeve. Maybe in the neck. I will research where the jugular is, so my efforts aren’t wasted on a surface wound and I will quickly step out of the way so as not to get blood on myself when it starts to spurt like a faucet needing its washer replaced. Then I will stand over him as he thrashes about, much like he is now, only dying and confused, and I will say all the things I’ve been wanting to say. Don’t ever ask me for a hug again motherfucker! Stop fucking pushing me. Take a hint! I don’t want to touch your asshole! I would rather pour acid in my eyes than see you naked. Put some fucking clothes on! You make me sick! Do you see me? Do you see that even with my greasy hair and my gardening clothes that I would never ever, EVER be attracted to you? Are you fucking stupid? Are you a fucking moron? Yes, you are! You are a stupid, shallow, moron that likes me only for my body, but I hate you for so much more than yours. I hate you because I’m here. I hate that partying became more important to me than high school and that I never had the urge to ‘apply myself’ as my teachers encouraged. I hate that I deserve so much better, but that eventually I won’t if I keep coming here. Slowly this will become normal and as you continue to push or offer me more money, I might succumb. I will stab myself in the jugular if that ever happens.
He continues to thrash about on the table, getting my hopes up.
Do it! Do it now! Come, you fat fucking fuck!
Finally, one hundred thousand years later, he squirms on the table and his legs raise up stiffly as thick yellow snot exits his vile organ. He whinnies like a horse and before he can open his eyes, I am in the bathroom washing my hands with enough soap to drown in.
I don’t look in the mirror.
