Sex in the Time of Zombies

by William Todd Rose

  And Jamie Lynn Summers, she don’t play that game, no sir. You try to take more than what I’m willin’ to give and you’re gonna end up with the business end of this here knife sticking outta your throat sure as the sun comes up in the morning. I’ve done it before and as God as my witness. I’ll do it again. Just try me and it’ll make ya wonder why the hell weaklings and wimps were ever called pussies to begin with.

  But most of the guys you meet out here, they’re okay, ya know? They’re just lonely and scared like the rest of us, lookin’ for a little comfort anywhere they can find it. And there ain’t nothing wrong with that, right? Hell, it’s almost like I’m performing a friggin’ public service.

  Take Master Twinklebottom for example. Swear to God he made me call him that, though for the longest time I didn’t know why . But he was alright as far as people go. Back when all this shit first went down, he was a married man: wife, kid’s, good payin’ job and all that jazz. I suppose he reckoned life would just go on as it always had with the business meetings, PTA fundraisers, the rare date night with Mrs. Twinklebottom. And who could blame him?

  Hell, ain’t a single one of us saw this comin’. It was like we all woke up one morning and found our nightmares had somehow followed us right outta our dreams, ya know?

  Anyways, most folks who like havin’ that Master tagged to the beginnin’ of their name are into the kinky shit. I don’t ever let them tie me up or nothin’… that would just be plain stupid and Granny Foster didn’t raise no idjits. But if they wanna pinch my nipple, slap my ass, and call me a dirty bitch? I’m okay with that, as long as they got the food to pay for it. And that shit costs extra.

  But Twinklebottom, he wasn’t like that at all. He was probably the most gentle guy I ever been with, truth be told. He took the time to actually caress instead of just grabbin’ a breast and yankin’ like a dog with a chew toy. He kissed my neck and trembled as my hair slid through his fingers. And he never just thrust it in there like it was some kind of fuckin’ Olympic event. No, he slipped in so softly that for a moment I always wondered if he was even hard. And then, as he rocked back and forth above me with his eyes closed, he started cryin’ so softly that you’d swear he never even knew those tears were leakin’ outta his eyes. And the entire time, he’s whisperin’ I love you, Monica, Monica, I love you….

  I tried to tell him once that my name weren’t Monica; but he just looked at me with this sad little smile on his face and said, “When I’m with you, you are.”

  Plum near broke my heart right then and there.

  ’Course, a girl can’t keep somethin’ like that to herself. Soon as he was gone, I went lookin’ for Ginger St. Claire, who’s about the closest thing I got to a friend in this world, I s’pose; Ginger’s also in the business but she deals with a pretty specific kind of client: the kind of guys who like other guys who look like girls, if ya get my meaning. From what I understand, back in the day, Miss Ginger was the reignin’ queen of the types of places that cotton to that lifestyle. She told me once that she could do backflips across the stage in three inch heels and go into a full split without ever makin’ her wig the least bit lopsided. ’Course that was a long time ago. All them clubs she loved so much? Nothing more than ashes by now, I’m sure. Maybe somewhere, hidden beneath a pile of rubble that used to be a wall, there’s a crumpled picture of her in that sparklin’ tiara and one of them silky sashes holdin’ a big ’ole bouquet of roses. And I bet she looks as beautiful as any woman that God actually gifted with the parts.

  Nowdays, though, Ginger is lookin’ kinda rough. She shaves when she can and tries her best to keep that stubble from sproutin’ into a full blown moonshiner’s beard like most guys got these days. But razors aren’t as easy to come by as they once were. Most of the time, she has t’ use this big ’ole huntin’ knife and, of course, she ain’t got no shavin’ cream to lather all over that pointy chin of hers; so her skin’s gotten a bit rough. Still has that soft cocoa color to it, but her neck and cheeks got these little bumps all over ’em that kinda reminds me of the sandpaper Grandaddy used t’ keep out in the garage.

  ’Course the guys who come to see her don’t pay it all that much mind. I reckon as long as she’s got tits that’s all they really care about. See, Ginger had been savin’ up all that money she won from them contests so she could get an operation that would take that eclair of hers and turn it into a donut. Said she’d started with these here injections that made her grow a pretty impressive rack. I’ve touched ’em, too, and let me tell ya that if I didn’t know better I’d swear they were the real thing; only that was about as far as she ever got, seein’ as how everything turned to shit not long after. So now she’s got these knockers most chicks would kill for but, at the same time, her private parts still got the twig and berries hangin’ outta the bush.

  But look at me. I been goin’ on and on ’bout Ginger when what I set out t’ talk about was Master Twinklebottom. Granny Foster always said as I was about as long winded as a Baptist sermon, and I reckon this just goes to show how she was right.

  So anyways, I found Ginger out by this old factory that a lot of the girls like to hang around, bein’ near to a well traveled road and all. She was sittin’ up against this chain link fence and pullin’ hairs outta her nose one by one but her face lit up like the sun in the morning when she saw me comin’.

  I squatted down next to her and started tellin’ her all about Master Twinklebottom and what he said about callin’ me Monica and all that.

  “Plum near the most romantic thing I ever heard.” I finished up. “Except for nobody puts Baby in a corner. I swear Gin, you shoulda see the look in his eyes when he said it. Was like he was there with me, but somewhere far, far away at the same time.”

  “Twinklebottom… he the guy gots the scar on his right cheek? Kinda looks like a big old pink zigzag?”

  I told her that was him. Unlike most folks, who just kinda pass through these here parts, Twinklebottom’s been around long enough that most of th’ regulars have at least seen ’im. So Ginger starts tellin’ me how she actually knew him, back before society got flushed down the shitter.

  “James? Jack? Somethin’ simple like that. John. Yeah that was it. John somethin’ or other. Used to work at that repair shop out on Route 35. Took my little Honda there all the time. They weren’t as cheap as Snyder’s, but Snyder’s didn’t have no grease monkeys cute as him neither. I always thought that man can give me a lube job any day. Didn’t realize he was one of yours, sweetie.”

  So I begin tellin’ Ginger ’bout how, as far as I could tell, there weren’t any other girl for him but me. And how he always made sure he had the food t’ pay for what he was wantin’ and never tried to talk his way into gettin’ a piece of the action on credit. And how his hands seemed to know exactly how to touch me when most every other guy just wanted t’ stick it in, pump their spunk, and be on their merry way.

  But when I was talkin’, Ginger started gettin’ this look on her face like I was tellin’ her that my favorite kitten just got run over with a lawnmower. She was shakin’ her head real slow like and she took my hand in hers and looked directly at me with those dark eyes.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she says, “I see that look in your eye and don’t you fool yourself. I’ve been doin’ this longer than you’ve had pubes. Even back when money was still worth somethin’. You ain’t nothin’ more than a piece of tail. Let me tell ya a thing or two about your dear Twinklebottom….”

  The way Ginger told it, back when Twinklebottom was still John Something-or-Other he was the most dedicated husband a girl could ever wish for. Lots of ladies down at that repair shop brought their business there just so they could see him leanin’ over that engine with his fine, tight ass clinchin’ everytime he’d turn a wrench. And not all of ’em was shy about it either.

  They’d twirl their hair ’round their fingers and lean in so close that he’d be able to smell the perfume driftin’ up from their cleavage; they’d touch him softly on the a
rm, run their hands gently across his, and slip phone numbers on folded pieces of paper when they handed over their credit cards.

  So yeah, he coulda had his pick of pussy practically any night of the week. But he wouldn’t even so much as flirt back. Ginger said he would just get this little grin on his face, raise his left hand, and point to that gold band circlin’ his finger.

  “Girl,” I told her, “if you’re thinkin’ I’m gettin’ sweet on him… and I ain’t sayin’ I am… then you sure gotta helluva way of talkin’ me out of it.”

  “What I’m trying to tell ya, sweetie,” Ginger had said, “is that you ain’t got a chance in Hell with that man. He calls you Monica, honey. And I’d bet a week’s worth of payout that when he’s got his eye’s closed he ain’t picturin’ your sweet little lips wrapped around that dick of his.”

  Most times, I get along with Gin as well as chickens and ducks. But for some reason, I just kinda got this angry little feelin’ deep down inside. Felt like I wanted to break somethin’ and wouldn’t never be happy unless I did. And I don’t like feelin’ like that, ya know? Makes you all bound up inside, like everything about you is just bein’ smashed down into this tight little ball.

  So I pick up this rock and chuck it at the factory, hopin’ to maybe knock out one of them little triangles of glass that still stick up outta the panes. Only I missed ’cause Grandpa always said I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn even if’n I was three feet away. So that just made me wanna find a bigger rock and just keep tossin’ those fuckers until I actually broke somethin’, ya know?

  And it weren’t the same talkin’ to Ginger after that. I kinda started half listenin’ to what she was actually sayin’. I could hear the words but they were like the way adults voices sound when you’re a little kid and you’re just startin’ to fall asleep in the back of the car. Kinda muffled and far off sounding, like something that can’t make up its mind on whether it’s real or not.

  I was tryin’ to think up some excuse, some reason I had to go, cause that mumble felt like it was vibrating inside my head and I was gettin’ as worked up as a bee in a shaken jar. Turns out, though, I didn’t have to say nothin’. This guy comes up and he’s got this dead squirrel in his hand, right? And he’s lookin’ at Gin with this grin that’s greasier than cooked possum. I don’t like the looks of this fella right away. He had these beady little eyes and this rat-like nose and he was kinda jerked his head to the side every time he’d talk. But Gin don’t seem to pay him no mind. She only got eyes for that red squirrel and I swear I could hear her tummy just rumblin’ away as she stood up and lead that dude into the factory.

  With Gin in there earnin’ her keep, I just kinda up and walked away, ya know? Didn’t really have no place in mind that I was goin’. Just wanderin’ around with my head in the clouds, thinkin’ about John Twinklebottom and picturin’ how he musta looked in those coveralls with a big ’ole silver wrench stickin’ outta the back pocket. I could see ’im so clearly that I could almost smell the oil on his hands and hear the clank and clack of him a’workin’. And, for some reason, just thinkin’ about him made that little ball of anger down inside my belly just melt away like butter on toast.

  So I get this idea in my head that I’m gonna find him, right? I mean, we’ve talked and I have a pretty good idea where he stays and all. It weren’t that far from the factory neither. Took me about ten minutes or so and next thing I know I’m standin’ outside this shack that looks like maybe it used to hold firewood or garden tools or somethin’ in it. A little ways behind the shack is this old house only there ain’t all that much of it left anymore. Those blocks that made up its foundation are all dark and sooty and you can still see some of the beams which held the whole thing together. Only they’re all black and charred lookin’, kinda like a match once you’ve let it burn down so far that it hurts your fingers. Everything else is just this big ’ole mound of cinders and ash piled up in the middle of where that house used to stand and it’s funny but I could still kinda smell the smoke just hangin’ out in the air. Even though that damn house been burnt down for pert close to a year now.

  So I knock on the door of the little shack, right? And I feel all funny and nervous; kinda like I did the first time I ever let a boy touch my cooter. But I just tell myself it’s ’cause I ain’t knocked on someone’s door for so damn long that it reminds me of how everything used to be.

  Twinklebottom answers after two or three more knocks and his eyes are all red like maybe I woke him up. He ain’t got no shirt on and for a moment I just stood there, lookin’ at him but not really sayin’ anything. I reckon I hadn’t thought far enough into this to really know what I was gonna do, so I just kinda smiled at him, ya know?

  If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t let it show. Just looked at me real sad like.

  “Ain’t got no food.” he says.

  “Don’t matter none.” I tell ’im. “You can pay me later if’n ya want.”

  And there it was. I done went and broke the cardinal rule: don’t ever give nothin’ away for free that you can sell. But right then and there, with the sun beatin’ down on the back of my neck and the birds singin’ in the trees, I didn’t pay it no mind.

  He stepped off to the side a little bit and closed the door behind me.

  So, afterwards, we’re just kinda layin’ there on his bedroll, lettin’ the sweat cool our skin; and I’m just a’lookin’ around at everything and thinkin’ about how I would just about take a dirty sanchez for a cigarette. I knew I should probably just put my clothes back on and be on my way, but there’s this part of me that weren’t quite ready yet. For some reason I liked that dark little shack, the sound of him breathin’ beside me, and that little tickle when my hip brushed up against his thigh. So I’m takin’ in the milk crate off to the side that has a picture of a woman and a little girl propped up in front of it. The mostly melted candle and the pile of clothes layin’ at our feet like a faithful dog. And I’m just babblin’ away, chatterin’ about nothin’ and everything all at the same time.

  “So Granny Foster told me that I was named Jamie after the bionic woman. Only her last name was spelled with an O, not a U like mine is. She said my mommy just knew I was gonna grow up to do great things and that she had this idea that if she gave me the right name then that would just make sure of it.”

  Twinklebottom rolled over onto his side and looked at me, but he really didn’t say nothin’. Of course he weren’t tellin’ me to get out neither, which I reckoned had to mean somethin’. So I just kinda stretch like a cat in a patch of sunlight and decide to come right out and ask him.

  “Anyhows,” I said, “that’s where I got my name.”

  I swallowed hard and watched this fly crawlin’ across the ceiling so I wouldn’t hafta look at him when I said it.

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Why…. why do you always want me to call you Twinklebottom?”

  It was so quiet in that shack that I could hear the wind that had kicked up whistlin’ through the planks on the wall. And suddenly I get real scared, right? Like maybe I’d done pissed him off so bad that he wouldn’t never so much look at me again. So I steal this glance outta the corner of my eye and he’s layin’ on his back now with his hands pressed into his eyes.

  And I just wanna hold him in my arms, to tell him it’s okay, I don’t really wanna know, and then maybe throw in a blow job or somethin’ to make him forget I ever asked. But there’s another part of me that does wanna know. And it’s tellin’ me to keep my fool mouth shut.

  After what seems like forever, he starts talkin’ and his voice sounds so small and tiny. It’s got this little waver in it that makes me think he might be cryin’ again behind those hands. But I’m afraid if I touch him that he’ll shut up so I kinda lay there twirlin’ my hair around my finger and listenin’.

  “My wife… she used to call me that.”

  The fly is buzzin’ around the room now and I’m holdin�
�� my breath cause I don’t even wanna breathe. I just want him to talk, to hear the sound of his voice….

  “When we first got married,” he says real slow like, “I thought maybe we should try something a little… different. So we got all these books, these fuzzy little handcuffs and stuff. Only it didn’t work out quite like we thought it would.”

  He had this sad little laugh and I remember thinkin’ how I would face down a pack of freshies right then and there if there was anyway I could put just a bit of joy back into that voice. But I still stayed real quiet, ’cause it was almost like he wasn’t really talkin’ to me. Almost like he was just speakin’ to hear the sound of his own voice and I didn’t wanna remind him that I was listening.

  “Monica said I was about as forceful as a kitten with a ball of yarn. We kinda gave up on the whole bondage thing after a while. But, after that, she always kinda playfully teased me, ya know? Yes, Master Twinklebottom… what’s your bidding, Master Twinklebottom?”

  He really was cryin’ now. I could feel his chest heavin’ beside me and his pain was so intense it was almost like this force that was pressin’ down on me, makin’ it hard to breathe and shit. I felt my eyes all cloudin’ up too and I just kinda reached out and touched his arm real light like. Only he grabbed onto my hand so fast and hard I kinda jumped a little, like it scared me or something.

  “Fuckin’ rotters… they got… they broke through the….”