By M. Benedict
All rights reserved.
Early Morning –
Rise and shine to tickle of morning wood (mine, not Jim’s) throbbing against my thigh. He still tucks his own sex between his legs when we make it. I take him from behind and he says it’s just sensational.
Careful not to wake him, I masturbate myself and fall back to sleep in the warm puddle of cum.
Give Zanuck his pre-lunch cigar. He takes me in his mouth and chews at the tip. They’re only little love nibbles. Jim refuses me oral. After lunch, Zanuck will smoke me again. For the one and only time he swallows, and I shake into one of my visions:
I am making it with lady madonna on set of a western. I am an indian chief and she a cowboy. Though a virgin, she does not bleed. Jesus is behind the camera. I don’t need any direction.
Zanuck makes to dangle his tongue down my throat and brings me out of it. He asks why my body is in Hollywood and my eyes are always miles away. I tuck myself back into my skirt and give him a wink.
Cuddle with muggsie in bed. Jim doesn’t allow it so we have to when he’s out. Muggs licks my ear and tells me he loves me. Then he moves to my hand. Still licking, he reads my fortune:
You will find much success and soon. All the universe asks in trade is that only it receives your love. Avoid sleep. It is then that you are most vulnerable.
Jim brings home a cute small thing who calls herself Liz Taylor. He tells me to take her like I take him. He watches. Makes me call her Jim. It takes me over an hour to orgasm. He is upset. More visions:
Taylor is with child. My child. I lead her on a donkey to nazareth. Familiar nativity scene: only one wise man and it isn’t even a man but my grandmother. Her gift to the child is her hands. She places them around his neck and squeezes until the little darling quits his wiggles.
Liz has me in her hands and is masturbating me. I push her away. I decide to call her tomorrow to plan the abortion.
Jim and I eat the usual. He is still upset and we don’t speak. He clears the table and finally says, “Jesus, Norma. You couldn’t have enjoyed yourself a little more, for me?” I call him a mother fucker. He pouts in bed for the rest of the night.
I fight it off for as long as I have strength but finally I doze off on the couch. I dream:
Naked in a room in brentwood I am visited by Mother Mary (or is it nativity Liz Taylor?). The saintly woman kisses me open mouth depositing a mouthful of pills. I understand. I swallow.
I am unburdened of my sex and it is bottled. It lends its powers to the bottle’s liquid. Tributary bottles are marketed and sold as fine parisian perfumes.
Muggsie comes and licks my toes. He guards what remains.
M. Benedict is a writer, editor, and friend to those accounted mad. He awaits the end of human days in San Diego, California where he fantasizes about a world inhabited solely by birds.
This story is included in Issue #45: About Seeing. Copyright © 2012 by Fiction International. Authors of individual works retain copyright, with the restriction that subsequent publication of any text be accompanied by notice of prior publication in Fiction International. Please contact the editor for reprinting information.
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