by Tinder James
God damned numbfuck, lost in Radioland.
Goddard eased the car into the center lane and then around another creeper into the right lane, and pressed the accelerator. Cutting back to the center lane, he started to pass cars in both the right and left lanes. The car on the extreme right began to pull into him. Goddard leaned on the horn. It swerved right to avoid him, hit the guard rail and careened back behind him into the center barrier. He heard metal crunching and breaks squealing. The car was badly twisted, foreshortened and minus a wheel as it spun to rest in the center lane. The wind-shield was shattered and bits of plastic and glass were everywhere. Three lanes of traffic had ground to a stop behind it.
He stole another glance in the rear view mirror, looking for signs of blood, but there was too much smoke for him to see anything. He made a mental note to watch the local news for details. The blood was rushing in his veins and the highway seemed to unroll before him like a beautiful black ribbon as he pressed the accelerator.
Early as usual, he unlocked the office door. He turned on the lights and made the coffee. Once again Goddard decided that heaven, if there really was such a place, must smell of fresh coffee.
The day dragged on. He made his week’s sales quota by noon and it was only Tuesday. He had lunch with Larry and Wade, listened to their stories and laughed at the appropriate places. He heard himself encouraging them to go on. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else—a complete stranger. He said nothing about making his quota. No need to bring them down. No need to make it a competition. He might need a favor from one of them some day.
At three he caught Linda at the water cooler. Rubbing her cheek lightly with the back of his hand, he asked her out Saturday. They could make a day of it, he said, painting pictures of things he thought he would like to do: a day at the beach, a picnic lunch, dinner at Alfredo’s, take in a show, he had connections. She pushed his hand away and said her mother was coming to town Friday night and that she would be busy all weekend. Then she rushed away on another pretense.
Goddard laughed, remembering how much he had enjoyed her company the last time. He had pumped her for all the details of her life, as usual. He had explained to her exactly what every member of her family was doing to her. And he had made her whimper with ecstasy with his wonderful touch. He really wanted to do all of it again.
He shrugged when she ran off. He knew that she’d give in eventually. Linda would be good for another long weekend. Maybe even two. At least one to turn it around, to make her own statement. He could tell. She was the type.
After his encounter at the water cooler he sold nothing else for the rest of the afternoon.
He did not remember driving home when he shut his front door behind him.
He flipped through the pages of inked names and addresses, all scratched out in pencil until he came to one not yet marked. Margie. It took a moment for him to put a face with the name. She was the coy one with her bright green eyes, her heart shaped face framed with thick shoulder length black hair, and her questions for answers. Goddard had learned next to nothing about her, save that she liked to laugh, drank sparingly, didn’t get physical on the first date. It had been two months. Would she be offended if he called her now?
“Hello?”
“Hi, Margie, it’s Goddard.”
“Who?”
“Goddard, you remember. From the Black Lion. We took a walk around the lake last spring.”
“Oh yes. How’ve you been?”
“Busy as a one armed paper hanger. You know, all work, no play…”
“Me too. I haven’t been back to the Lion since then.”
“Me either. Have you had dinner yet?”
“I just got in.”
“So there’s hope for me.”
“Sure.”
“Do you know Lenny’s?”
“The pub at Valley Plaza?”
“That’s the place. I’d like to take you there tonight.”
“I’ll meet you there, say in an hour?”
“Okay. I look forward to it.”
“Bye.”
Goddard laughed. A challenge. It would be worth it. Probably two or three public get-togethers, lots of light conversation, a few shared insights, then reality. It would give him something to focus on. It would keep him sharp. It might even inspire him to remain in real time.
Goddard hummed a refrain from a song whose words he could not recall while he showered. Lots of lather, lots of cold water. His skin tingled, his eyes blazed.
He arrived at Lenny’s a few minutes early. It took him a moment to acclimate himself to the drab lighting and the din of voices. He spotted someone he thought he knew, tried to remember her name.
Louise? Lorraine? Louanne?
She looked up into his probing gaze. Her eyes remained blank. She flung her long auburn hair back like a horse tail and returned her attention to those at her table.
Once again Goddard scanned the pub. Margie was either not here yet, or in the ladies’ room. He made his way to the bar.
“Hey, Lenny,” he said, when the bartender asked his pleasure.
The bartender took a moment to place him. “You Goddard?”
“Yeah.”
“Got a message for you.”
“From Margie?”
“Right. Family emergency. Call her next week.”
“Thanks.”
Goddard wondered if he’d been set up or if the message was real. He pondered ordering a drink. He scanned the pub again. There was a blonde looking like she was half in the bag sitting with a couple consoling her. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying. That held promise.
“What’ll you have?” Lenny pressed.
“What’s with her?” Goddard asked, nodding toward the blonde.
“Third time she’s been dumped this week. Probably thinking suicide. Take my advice, pal, stay away.”
Goddard ordered a scotch neat. And then another. He remembered Alice. She had committed suicide. She was always doing stupid things like crossing the street without looking, or wading into the ocean with her clothes on. Grandstand plays—understand me, or I’ll do it—really I will. Well, he did understand her and she did it anyway. Jumped in front of a subway car. It didn’t seem like her, when he considered it. She was always so neat and stylish—only her life was messy. Perhaps it was like her after all. Self embraces life. Very real. He smiled and made his way to the table across the room carrying his scotch. Margie would keep. If she was real. And if she wasn’t, it was no loss.
Her name was Stephanie. She was half Polish, half German, big boned, big breasted, with high pale cheeks and real blonde hair, thick as molasses, coarse as straw. She had obviously been starving herself to keep the weight off, and she looked like she had been beaten as a child.
Goddard introduced himself, laughed and said he had been stood up, and asked if he could join them for a drink or two. The couple seemed very relieved not to have Stephanie all to themselves, and said yes in unison. Stephanie barely glanced at him. Two beers and a scotch later, the couple left—some feeble excuse about walking a dog. Stephanie was still nursing the soda and lime she had been sipping when Goddard sat down. The last ice cube was a tiny little blip pressing against the lime, but she was talking, and coherently for a potential suicide.
There had been Phil. Too good to be true, Phil. A gentleman, a listener, a lover. Also a married man using his friend’s condo. It had lasted for a month. Then Hans. A hunk. He had used her, abused her, and then told her to piss off. All inside of three days. Ken had found her, consoled her, slipped her something in a drink and then had his way with her while she slept. He just disappeared. At least the blood tests had been negative—for everything.
“How about another soda?” Goddard offered during a lull in the conversation.
“I’m fine,” she almost snapped.
“Hey, take it easy. I didn’t ask for your soul.”
“Sorry, I’m a little edgy tonight. I’m sure you understand.�
��
“Yeah. And it’s late. Tomorrow’s another work day. Do you need a lift, or a cab?”
Stephanie hesitated.
Goddard put his hands up.
“Sorry,” he said again, doing his best to look uncertain as to what he was sorry about.
“I’ve got my car,” she said, “but I don’t really want to be alone right now. Why don’t you follow me home.”
“You sure? I mean it’s been a tough week for you.”
“I’m sure.”
Goddard stole a glance at the grandfather clock in the corner. 11:38 PM.
She drove a candy apple red convertible coupe. The sort that was severely underpowered and priced two thousand more than it was worth. A flashy body, small engine, big insurance. It figured. She drove erratically, straddling lanes, slowing down for green lights, darting through yellow ones. Goddard had to run three red lights not to lose her. He was muttering to himself by the time they reached her apartment building. Was she trying to get him killed, or just lost with a speeding ticket? No matter—it hadn’t worked.
Inside the apartment Stephanie became morose. She cried, and told him that she hated herself. She showed him some superficial scar tissue on her wrists that she had been careful to conceal in the pub. Then she cried some more.
Goddard just watched her from across the table until the sobbing stopped. Then he offered her his handkerchief. She took it and blew her nose loudly. Her mascara had run down her pale cheeks.
“Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here adding to your grief,” he said. “
Do you want to fuck?” she asked suddenly.
“Yeah, I guess I do,” Goddard answered candidly.
Stephanie took him into the bedroom. She removed all her clothes and Goddard did the same, placing the package of condoms on the night stand.
“Do you really need those?” Stephanie asked.
“It’s not you, love, it’s the times we live in.”
She lay down submissively and spread her legs.
Goddard looked her over carefully, noting the stretch marks on her breasts. At least one child, probably given up for adoption. Then he began kissing the crooked white lines slowly. She was sobbing again by the time he reached her nipples. They were big, and very sensitive. Each one got at least five minutes. Stephanie was in a sweat and moaning by the time his hand found her sex and began gently massaging it. She shuddered in orgasm twice before he entered her. It was important that she welcome his invasion and later, that she feel truly fucked.
Two hours later, Stephanie was lying on top of him snoring softly, while Goddard stared at the clock. 1:32 AM. He wanted a shower and his own bed. He pushed her gently aside, trying not to wake her.
“You going?” she demanded. Her groggy voice made it sound like a mantra.
“Gotta. 7:00 AM is just around the corner.”
“Please don’t.”
“I’ll call you,” he lied, hoping she would not remember that she had not given him her phone number.
He dressed quickly and let himself out without tying his shoes.
He felt her anger as he drove home. It started as an empty feeling just above his stomach. Then he felt his own, like a fire ball come to fill the void.
Stupid cow—what do you expect? If you don’t respect yourself, who the hell is going to do it for you? Some other loser? Maybe—if you’re lucky. Thanks for the tumble, Steff. Now be a good little twit and get lost before you really get hurt. You’re way out of your league.
He laughed and the wind rushing by howled with him.
The night wind was still blowing over him through the open window as he pulled off the highway. It had been a good evening after all—not spectacular, but good.
At home he showered for twenty minutes, trying to wash off the smell of her and her sweetly cloying cologne. He had to lather himself three times. His skin felt frozen from the cold water, but the heat below rushed upward to counter it. Between the hot and the cold, he felt alive.
In the kitchen he cleaned out the coffee pot and put six cups on to brew. He was wide awake, and meant to stay that way. He felt real again.
The clock on the mantle read 2:13 AM. Its ticking had not yet begun to thunder.
Why Zombies Make the Best Lovers
Lilycat
Zombies make the best lovers ’cause they are already moaning. Making those sexy moans and groans, as they slowly saunter toward me, making me wait and want. Talking about my brains, finally nice for someone to notice my intelligence.
Zombies make the best lovers ’cause they have removable body parts, which so increases the amount of positions and sexual possibilities. They have a detachable penis you can still use long after they are gone.
Zombies make the best lovers ’cause they roughly nibble and bite, and they are just so ravenous. Zombies really know how to take a woman whole.
flash fiction
Detachable Penis
Stephen Smith
I wish I could send Arnold Schwarzenegger back in time. I need a terminator programmed to wipe out Dr. Susan Brown’s parents before they mate.
She invented the detachable penis. Turned the world on its head. Her research led to an outpatient procedure. They slice off your dick, jam in a bluetooth device, and thread it like a light bulb. You go home carrying your bandaged penis and testicles in a sack. Your groin is blessed with a suitable socket for reattachment.
Thanks to Jaap and Sven inventing bluetooth, there is a wireless connection between you and your penis, as long as the two of you are within the continental United States.
Once created, mayhem ensued. Designers created plush, jeweled, penis totes. Tennis bracelets, Ferraris, Manolo pumps and the like fell out of vogue. Some women wouldn’t leave home, refusing to be seen in public without their man’s, some man’s, any man’s dick hanging from their arm.
The new status symbol? The amount and size of penis totes varied. The smaller the tote, the more bling it needed. Big totes with big bling sat at the top of the food chain.
I think it gave women one more reason to congregate in the ladies room. I know what they’re saying. “Girlfriend. You think this sealskin tote is nice? Girl, let me open it and show you the dick! Check out what I’m getting!”
Women with headaches the night before felt fine when hubby left for work. Home alone with a warm, responsive male organ, housewives lost track of time. Floors went unmopped, carpets weren’t vacuumed, laundry wasn’t done. As they picked up the slack, husbands became physically fit, losing pounds and inches as six-packs formed. Women’s upper arms tightened up. The number of sleeveless blouses sold skyrocketed, as hide-the-weenie became the nation’s several times daily pastime.
Women’s magazines lost their collective minds. At least the ones that dominated supermarket checkout stands went stupid. Covers featured celebrities fawning over their over-sized open totes. They featured articles such as, “What Do You Do If He Won’t Give It Up?” “Make Your Man Want to Free His Penis” and “What To Do When He Does.” “Sex—Live Penis, No Distractions.”
At first, my beautiful wife Carolyn mentioned the new procedure all the time. Then she tried enticing me, telling me about the fun her girlfriends were having. It soon shifted to I should have it done. Don’t I love her? Don’t I want her to be happy?
She said her girlfriend’s husbands and boyfriends trusted them enough to man up. Why didn’t I trust her enough to let my penis go?
I felt like pharaoh standing before God, Moses, and a burning bush. I held my ground. It would take more than a few bugs and a couple of plagues to take my dick away.
I’d die for her. I’d leap in front of a speeding bullet. But God saw fit to endow me with this properly sized, very obedient penis. It’s mine, but I’m not stingy. I give it to Carolyn every chance I get. We do it so much I’m surprised my penis still has any skin.
A few years ago, I let her talk me into getting it tattooed. Said she’d make it worth my while. I knew she wouldn’t let a
nother woman handle my penis, so I told her I’d love to do it but no way is any dude fondling my dick.
Carolyn grinned and produced a hag so old, her ability to manufacture any type of vaginal juice faded just after the dinosaurs died. She smelled like an Egyptian exhibit.
Never again!
Nothing sharp is ever going near my penis again.
That old woman hurt me bad.
My penis half swelled up. The tattoo was just on one side. My poor defenseless dick curled up like a blunt fishhook.
And then came the scabs!
Nobody told me my dick was going to grow scabs! Why don’t people with tattoos ever mention scabs?
Scabs and dicks are not a good mix. Especially if you have a randy wife. She suggested I cover it with a condom so we could do it.
I didn’t want to, but I went along so that we’d get along.
That wasn’t very smart.
Sight of naked wife increases heart rate. Blood pumped into penis causes swelling. Skin attached to scabs tries to stretch, but God did not design scabs with dicks in mind. Scabs don’t stretch.
Condom, ribbed, squeezes already unhappy scabs on now semi-fishhook shaped penis. Add a woman that kegels religiously. You’ll get a trip to emergency and serious pain meds every time.
I was supposed to go back and get the other side tattooed.
I think Carolyn studied General Sun Tzu’s book, Art of War. She never fought fair.
She argued naked.
For serious matters she’d put on heels and stockings supported by a garter belt.
While she wiggled out of her clothes preparing to battle, I’d ask myself, “What can I say to this naked woman that won’t infringe on my principles, yet gets me laid?” That soon changed to, “What can I say that’ll insure I get laid?”
The first time she unveiled her shady tactics was the day after our honeymoon. I’d given her a red Miata convertible as a wedding gift. I came home from work to see a brand new silver Porsche Carrera in the driveway. Carolyn, my sweet li’l housewife, traded in my gift. It was her car to do with as she pleased, but now I had Porsche Carrera notes to pay every month for the next six years.