His chest was bare, save for a pair of suspenders, and he hooked his thumbs in them like a farmer. She felt her stomach bubble as her gaze went lower still. The suspenders were holding up a pair of ginormous granny panties, and there was easily an entire roll of paper towels stuffed in the front, serving as a bandage for his genital wounds.
His thick, black, wool socks were the finishing touch.
Debra Anastasia quit bending over for Mr. Anastasia’s inappropriate public spanking. “I let him borrow my period undies. I don’t need them anymore.” She didn’t elaborate, and Dove was grateful.
Her only reaction to the pretend bombshell was a raised eyebrow. The woman was the absolute wrong size for the panties Duke was wearing.
Debra Anastasia nodded and smiled shyly. “I used to wear them on top of my sweatpants.”
“It was so fucking hot.” Mr. Anastasia growled in her direction.
Dove looked from one weirdo to another. All she wanted was her lipstick, and now she had enough visual and mental pictures for ten years’ worth of nightmares.
She decided to ignore it all and addressed Duke. “Dude, you shaved. Nice. You want me to pop your situation now?”
She was hoping his recent mini-piercings by the adorable kitten would change his mind about their deal.
“Not today. I’ve got too much oozing. But hell yeah, the deal’s on. What’re you up to?”
Her lipstick never seemed so far away in her life. She shook her head. Nothing she could say here in the sanctity of shitheads would be surprising.
“I have a blind date at eight o’clock. I have to be a different, sexy person by then. The only plan I have is heavy lipstick.”
Debra Anastasia pouted and slithered closer to Dove, “Oh, I’ll do your face, sweetheart. I can make you so desirable and different.”
Flower wasted some of her precious words. “I’ll make dinner.”
“You’ll need an outfit;. I’ll drop off my Adam Lambert stuff. I’m just not that into him anymore.” Shannon looked surprised that she had hopped from one obsession to another.
Looking at their plotting faces, Dove had to decide whether or not to put her trust in the band of merry wackos.
Eight o’clock or not at all. Fuck it.
“Have at me. Shannon, I’m leaning toward the Lady Gaga phase.” Dove looked through her eyelashes as everyone collaborated on making her someone else. Dove was surrounded by scary-sounding words like “wild hairs” and “body glitter.”
Soon everyone scattered except for Duke in his giant women’s undergarments.
“Well, Crappy, how well do you expect this blind date to go?” Duke readjusted his large paper towel maxi pad.
Vamper put out; Dove was sure of it.
“It could go all the way. I might have to do it… all.” Dove tried to hold her head high.
He looked her up and down and then nodded. “So what’re ya rocking on the dick mitten? Landing strip? Heart shape? My favorite’s the lightning bolt.”
Dove stared at him like he was a piece of abstract art until she got what he was referring to. “Oh. Oh! My pubic hair? You want to know what shape it’s in?”
Duke wiggled his eyebrows. Despite his crazy attire, he was quite handsome without his Muppet facial hair.
“I don’t do anything. Am I supposed to?” Dove put one hand over her crotch.
“You’re rocking the full monty? A fur bikini? A wheezing wildebeest? Well, I’ll be your fucking Hairy Plotter. Hold up.” Duke waddled around in his homemade craziness and returned quickly with a tube of what looked like lotion. “This here? I used it on my face. Seven minutes and I was slippery like a nipple in oil.”
Duke pantomimed squirting a huge handful into his palm. “Just get naked, put it on your hand, and rub it the fuck in.” He rubbed himself over and over.
“Duke! Snap out of it.” Dove rolled her eyes as he snickered at her.
“Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention. I went ahead and did my balls and my ass crack, too.” Duke started doing deep knee bends.
Please don’t tell me why.
“I was hoping to decrease my shit-taking time—cut down on resistance and such.”
Dove stuck her fingers in her ears and sang, “La, la, la.”
Duke moved closer and shouted the rest. “My sac is like a set of fresh mozzarella balls!” He tossed the lotion at her, and Dove quickly caught the tube. “Seriously, bitch, don’t make a man face a jungle. It’s 2015 after all.”
Duke ended the conversation by waltzing back through his open door.
Dove stood in her apartment building with forces orbiting around her. Debra Anastasia was setting up her beautification, Shannon was getting the whore clothes, and God knew what Flower considered a suitable dinner for a date.
Okay. I need an action plan.
Dove clomped back upstairs, her favorite lipstick left to melt in the glove compartment of her car. Steve froze mid step on the carpet when Dove opened the door. She felt like she had walked in on a burglar. She shut the door and found a yellow tablet to write the ingredients she would need to turn her into Vamper:
It was a ridiculous amount of things to accomplish. The one she was sure of was putting Steve the Cat in the closet. He loved staring into flashlights. Dove had no idea why, but she had drained the batteries on quite a few so he would stop attacking the things that moved under her comforter.
She set Duke’s slippery nipple cream in the bathroom and went to find the Anastasias’ apartment. The door was wide open when she got to the fifth floor, so she knocked hesitantly. Debra Anastasia stumbled out of the bedroom, tucking her boobs back into her bra top. Mr. Anastasia was nowhere to be seen.
Dove was mortified. “Is it a bad time?”
Debra Anastasia puffed up her lips in what she must’ve thought was a sexy kissy face.
“No… it’s been a great… time.” She motioned for Dove to sit on a chaise longue. Dove sat down because where the hell else could she get turned into a new person? She noticed the entire apartment was furnished with only chaise longues and huge bowls of grapes.
Debra Anastasia sure acted like she knew what she was doing. Lotions, powders, and metal devices caked with old mascara encased her face. It seemed to take hours. Dove could hear Mr. Anastasia moaning from another room. She decided soon after he shouted, “Luscious Bumpkins!” that she wouldn’t even try to make small talk or empathic comments concerning the woman’s hairless husband while Debra Anastasia rolled Dove’s locks in ancient Velcro rollers.
Soon, Dove was being ushered out the door without the hope of glancing in a mirror. Mr. Anastasia appeared in time to pose against the living room wall. He made a painful-looking face, and soon, his abs were more defined. As if the tightening of his muscles were her summons, Debra Anastasia teetered over to her man on her red high heels. They arranged themselves around each other and froze as if Dove had a camera to take their picture. She didn’t, so she mumbled thanks and tried to make it down the stairs before she could hear another of Mr. Anastasia’s cries of pleasure. She wasn’t fast enough.
“Titillating Gumdrops!”
Dove found Flower waiting outside her apartment. Flower was staring at her Doc Martins and in a very slow-motion move; she looked up at Dove.
“Jesus!” Flower’s eyes were wide and her mouth stayed open.
Dove wanted to ask, “Bad Jesus or good Jesus?”, but Flower had already used almost half her allotted words on Dove’s predicament. She felt guilty asking for more.
Flower’s eyebrows answered the question anyway, crinkling like magic carpets surfing in a hurricane. Dove took the folded-over brown grocery bag from Flower’s hand when it was obvious the faux Goth wasn’t capable of shaking herself from the shock.
“Thanks, Flower. For whatever’s in here.” Dove walked past her and into her home. Steve froze and stared right into Dove’s eyes, again. This time his perch was dangling precariously off the light fixture above her table. He dropped to the tab
le and did a perfect impression of a Halloween decoration, hissing at Dove.
“What? God, stop that!”
Her voice enraged the cat. She set the bag down in the kitchen. He hopped to his tiptoes and bounced while adding spitting to his hissing.
The curlers!
Dove remembered belatedly that Steve hated when she put anything on her head. She backed away from the furious animal and closed herself in the bathroom. I’ll just pull these things out, and he’ll calm the fuck down. She slapped the light on and screamed at her own reflection. And screamed and screamed.
Debra Anastasia had used Dove’s face as a canvas to recreate an eerie rendition of the Chucky doll.
Dove screamed again. Steve was closer, hissing at the bathroom door, sounding like a suitcase full of snakes. Thanks to Debra Anastasia, Dove had liver lips and numerous freckles, and her hair was trapped in large–and-in-charge Velcro rollers. She wasn’t even sure that there was a company that still made these types of rollers. Her first impulse was to remove the curlers, but the simple-looking devices were cemented into her hair. Any which way she twisted them, they embedded themselves deeper in her locks like determined ticks.
Her mouth moved from one side to the other as she contemplated different ways to kill Debra Anastasia.
Okay, so the rollers aren’t coming out. Don’t panic!
Despite her very counselor-like internal pep talk, Dove did go ahead and panic. It involved hand flapping, heavy breathing, and the tossing around of things in her bathroom. The glimpses of her horrified Chucky dollified face had her sticking her bottom teeth out at her reflection like an angry bulldog.
After accomplishing not a fucking thing, she attempted to wash off her horrible makeup. She scrubbed and scrubbed and wiped her wet skin dry with a hand towel. She looked in the mirror. The makeup had not budged. She washed again. Still, it didn’t move.
“Debra Anastasia!” Dove hollered at her ceiling in her frustration. “What the hell did you put on me? Some orgy-strength porno body makeup? I hate you!”
There has to be a way to get back to boring.
She opened up her medicine cabinet and found her jar of oily makeup remover. It felt like smearing wet candles on her face, but it had always worked for stubborn mascara in the past.
I guess I’ll put the cooter cream on and at least get that done with while the Pond’s soaks the fuck in.
She put a dollop of the stinky shave-less hair cream in her palm and quickly covered her cracks and folds. She also noticed her crotch hair was out of fucking control. Dove gave her hands a brief rinse and wrapped a towel around her waist. There was a knock on the door that caused Dove’s heart to fall out of her ass.
Shannon’s inane singing put her at ease. And Dove waddled around her pussy nonsense and cracked the door open.
Shannon looked in and screamed, “Fucking shit!”
Dove rolled her creepy eyes. “Shut up, slut fart, it’s me.”
Shannon took a step back and covered her mouth. “What the hell is that funk?”
“It’s my private area. Just give me the clothes.” Dove stuck her hand out the crack.
Shannon passed her a Save-Mart bag, which held the makings of a Lady Gaga outfit. “Your meat curtains smell like a dirty, dead whore that fucked a dirty, dead gorilla.”
Dove slammed her door without saying thank you or good-bye. Between her legs was starting to feel… active.
What the hell am I thinking? I can’t use this stuff. My skin is too sensitive.
Dove waddled back into the bathroom.
Fuck waiting seven minutes. I’m wiping this bitch off now.
She wet the hand towel and followed the instructions, wiping forcefully.
It’s still hairy. I think I should’ve used tons more cream. I was too sparing. And I should have used gloves.
Dove’s hands were starting to numb up alarmingly. She wiped quicker. Some of the hair was coming out. But mostly it wasn’t.
It looks like a tiny, drunk leprechaun scalped parts of my cooter. There’s no hair on the towel… Where’s it going? Did it melt? Am I melting my pussy hair? GOOD GOD!
She wiped some more. Finally, there was a little give. Some of her skin was showing through.
I wonder what a hairless ass crack feels like? I wonder if my lady bits will always smell like another woman’s business? I think I have some Yeti blood in my veins to grow the mullet style tuffs of cooter hair I have. I need to hang tight and dream. I will hope for a stripper pussy of power.
Dove couldn’t take the burning anymore and flipped on the tub water. She got inside the porcelain and spread her legs under the pounding water. She had to adjust the temperature from her bizarre position. With another quick scrub, there was a little less hair condemning her privates to their 1975 impersonation.
Okay it’s like six thirty, and he said he would be here at eight. Plenty of time to make sense of this nightmare.
It wasn’t until she had toweled off that she realized her skin hadn’t given up punishing her yet. She could feel her pussy lips starting to swell like she had overdosed on lip plumper. Like she had fucked a gang of angry bees.
Shit.
Dove ran two beach towels under the ice-cold water from the tap and fashioned a soggy, heavy, woman diaper. Finally, her cooter stopped burning and simmered down to a smolder. She waddled topless in front of the sink to look in the mirror. She was able to scrub the rest of Debra Whore Anastasia’s makeup off using the kitchen scrubber. Her face was bright red and unnaturally shiny.
Give up, ball funk. There’s no way to fix this.
Dove waddled like a John Wayne-flavored sumo wrestler to her computer. She hated how heavy her heart felt. It was a defeat—truly admitting Lotsa was just pretend; even a tiny part of Dove couldn’t be confident and sexy. She logged onto her Twitter and sent a tweet in his direction.
Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):
@06201984M358 Listen lover, I have to cancel tonight’s rendezvous.
Dove waited, refreshing with steady regularity. Her vagina flared up again, so she slosh-slogged over to the freezer, grabbed her full ice bucket, and tipped its contents down the front of the beach towels.
Damn it! The ice is fire. Stupid! Stupid!
She whipped off the towels, ice clattering to the floor, and hiked a leg onto the nearby counter. She pulled the spray faucet out of its holder and cracked the temperature to hot. She thought her privates would never be warm again until she squirted them from the tap.
Too hot!
The water sprayed haphazardly around her kitchen as Dove fumbled with the handle that determined her vagina’s experience. She backed away from all the temptations of the water. Wet and exposed to the air felt the least like there was a tribe of Girl Scouts earning their campfire patches between her legs. She waddled back to her Twitter, walking like a human crab, and refreshed the page.
Nothing.
She clicked on his home page. He hadn’t tweeted all day.
Of course. He was drunk off his ass; he won’t remember.
The thought of him forgetting made her eyes fill up.
I’m a sniveling cocksmoker. I’m trying to cancel.
Just to be sure, she tweeted to her whole Twitter world.
Lotsa Vampersex (@Lotsa_Vampersex):
Please ReTweet, @06201984M358 Your date is canceled. I won’t
be here.
Dutifully and generously, her followers displayed her message in their Twitter feeds.
Now what the hell do I do? I mean, he’s not coming. Right? Right?
No one answered her internal dilemma, but Steve the Cat meowed loudly from the closet. His flashlight had lost its appeal. Dove had no choice but to keep him entertained until the rollers were out of her hair.
She dug deep into her stash of cat toys and pulled out a Ziploc baggie of her sister’s homegrown catnip. She troll-stomped to the closet door and opened it with a squeak. Dove tossed the handful of catnip in and quickly closed the do
or before Steve’s eyes could dilate enough for him to navigate the real world. She swore she heard him inhale his sweet drugs.
It’d take about twenty-five minutes for Steve to caress and lick the fresh, green leaves, and then he would start sticking his creepily long paw arm under the door. This move would culminate in Steve trying to drag himself through that crack like a zombie. There would be hell to pay for drugging him.
Dove vacillated, naked, between two different possibilities. Johnson could come or he could not come. Common sense said, “No way in hell.”
Her hoping, stupid, and mortified heart forced her to make preparations anyway. She lit a few candles and tried to dress. She started with pants, but it felt like the manufacturer of her jeans had used jellyfish skin for the crotch material. She had to switch to a soft, breezy skirt that looked like she had robbed it off a dead hippie.
Shit. But it’s not like he’s coming. Right? Right?
She reached into the bag of clothes Shannon had brought and found her Lady Gaga inspired corset. Dove spent too much time trying to Gumby her arms enough to affix the closures at her back.
This is not working.
Dove yanked her corset around so she could do up the hooks on her belly instead. The cups her boobs were supposed to fill were standing pert and perky on her back while she clipped the tiny hooks into the teeny loops.
She had bent her head so intently as she worked that she had the spins when she finally clasped the last one and looked up into the mirror. The fabric was excruciatingly tight across her middle. Dove yanked and pulled and pushed until the cups that were meant to be her boobs’ destination lined up with their soon-to-be residents.
She wrangled her tits into the cups. It was like trying to pipe Jello into an ant’s anus, but eventually she was cinched tight. Dove tried the rollers again. No luck. They weren’t coming out, and it made her a little sick to her stomach thinking about what it would take to remove them.
As she stepped into the living room to turn off the lights and invite the darkness in to hopefully make her sexier, she saw Steve’s disembodied paw clawing at the world. Having pity on the black arm with white puffball paw, Dove opened the door and found Steve tangled in one of her shoelaces, cracked out on his catnip high. In her struggle to free him and his struggle to kill the fuck out of her, Dove bent at the waist and fought with the cotton laces.
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