The Best Bizarro Fiction of the Decade

by Aimee Bender

  Lilith slowly lowered herself down the length of Cat’s body, kissing her neck and shoulders. She reached her nipples and took another sip of her wine cooler. She placed her lips over Cat’s nipple and sucked. The liquid swirled around Cat’s areola. Cold. Stimulating.

  The strawberry liquid slid between Cat’s breasts and pooled in her belly button. Lilith lapped the liquid from Cat’s center, slurping it up through her conical-shaped tongue. Then she lowered her head between Cat’s legs.

  “I want to taste you,” said Lilith, licking her lips.

  Thighs wet with butterfly nectar, strawberry wine cooler, and spit. Lilith drew spirals across Cat’s clitoris with her tongue, sending waves of heat through her body.

  Cat stretched her arms out above her head and elongated her spine. Spreading her legs wider, she invited Lilith’s tongue between the folds of her vulva. She ground her hips against Lilith’s face, pushing her deeper with her hands.

  Lilith came up for air and smiled at her hungrily, baring her fangs and licking her chin. The look in her eyes was suddenly wild, ferocious.

  When Cat saw that hungry look in Lilith’s eyes, the muscles inside her pelvis tightened. Her skin tingled. It was the same look Lilith had the time she ate the butterfly boy under the bleachers.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Cat asked, the spider girl’s face between her quivering thighs.

  Lilith stared deeply into Cat. Her eyes were on fire. Cat could see the lust burning behind them.

  “Are you going to eat me?” Cat asked in a shaky tone.

  Lilith realized what she was doing and shook her head, trying to shake the hunger away.

  “I’m sorry,” said the spider girl. “I didn’t mean to get carried away.”

  “It’s okay,” Cat said.

  “I would never do that with you.”

  Cat broke eye contact. Suddenly, she felt rejected. Her eyes began to water.

  Then she said, “Why not?”

  Lilith giggled. “What do you mean why not?”

  “I thought you loved me,” Cat said.

  “I do love you,” Lilith said.

  “Then why won’t you eat me?”

  Lilith stared back at her in disbelief.

  “What are you talking about, Cat? You’re my best friend.”

  “You ate all of those butterfly boys. I want you to love me like you loved them.” Cat wiped tears from her cheeks. “I want you to eat me.”

  “No way,” Lilith said.

  “But you have to!”

  “You mean too much to me.”

  Then something snapped inside of Cat’s butterfly brain. She lunged forward.

  “Eat me,” Cat screamed, forcing herself against Lilith, probing at her belly searching for the extra appendage that would inject the poison. “I need you to do it.”

  Lilith’s appendage started to emerge. She couldn’t help herself from getting turned on. She had never been with anyone so insistent.

  “Don’t,” Lilith whispered.

  “Put it inside me,” Cat said, pulling on the stinger.

  Cat slid her clitoris up against Lilith’s stinger. She felt a drop of poison slip out the tip and numb the skin around her vulva.

  Then Cat reached down and guided the stinger inside her vagina. It felt hard and sharp.

  “Okay, just for a minute,” Lilith gasped as the stinger slipped inside. “Then I’ll pull out.”

  She thrust herself against the butterfly girl.

  Lilith and Cat fucked under the stars. They screamed like cicadas and slammed their bodies against one another.

  As Lilith was about to pull out, Cat locked her legs around Lilith’s thighs. She held her inside.

  “Do it,” Cat said as she pictured being stabbed in the abdomen. Cat wanted to orgasm but she stopped herself, holding out for the actual moment. She opened her eyes and looked at Lilith.

  “Let me out,” Lilith screamed.

  “Suck me dry,” Cat said.

  “No,” Lilith struggled to free herself, but Cat’s thighs had grown strong and held firm. She pushed Cat, trying to get away but it just made Cat more excited. Lilith started to cry.

  “I don’t want to kill you,” Lilith sobbed. “I love you too much.”

  She could no longer contain herself and exploded in poisonous orgasm. Cat felt Lilith’s essence spread through her. Every muscle in her body convulsed. Her breath quickened. Her wings felt stiff.

  With fading strength, she pushed Lilith’s body back down to her crotch and shoved herself against the spider girl’s mouth. Lilith, lost in her own orgasm, could no longer resist.

  Cat looked down as Lilith lapped the red fluid oozing out of her vagina. She couldn’t tell if it was her blood, the poison, or her insides melting away. She smiled as she looked into Lilith’s eyes.

  Tears streamed down the spider girl’s face as she hungrily sunk her fangs into Cat’s stiffening flesh.

  “It’s okay,” Cat whispered, brushing the tears from Lilith’s cheeks. “It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

  Cat’s orgasm came in waves, surging forth from her pelvis. She arched her back. Her skin pulsed as Lilith sucked the fluid from between her legs. She felt the moisture being drawn out of her and her skin starting to wither.

  Lilith sobbed and gripped her friend’s hands. She could no longer pull herself away, her tears mixing with the red goo oozing forth between her lips, until the butterfly girl crumbled to dust and drifted away.

  COPS & BODYBUILDERS

  D. HARLAN WILSON

  A bodybuilder in a purple spandex G-string snuck into my home and started to pose. His tan seemed to have been painted onto his skin, and his muscles seemed to twitch and flex of their own volition. His grin was as white as the image of God.

  I reached underneath the couch cushion I was sitting on. Pulled out a crowbar. “I’ll teach you to invade a man’s privacy,” I exclaimed, and made like I was going to swing at him. He didn’t flinch. He went on posing, turning his broad back to me and tightening up his gluteus maximus.

  Impressed, I couldn’t help making a comment. “Nice glutes,” I said. The bodybuilder thanked me, straightened out one of his arms and exhibited a sublime tricep muscle. I made a frog face. “That’s pretty nice, too. But could you leave please? My wife will be home soon and if she sees us here together she might get suspicious. Anyway you’re breaking the law. You can’t just sneak into somebody’s house, start posing, and expect everything to be all right. Please go.”

  The bodybuilder shook his head. “I’m sorry but I can’t do that. Once I start posing, there’s no stopping me.” He placed a foot out in front of him and mockingly jiggled his profound thigh muscles back and forth. “I may take five now and then to shoot up an anabolic cocktail and fix myself a protein shake, but otherwise, you’re stuck with me. You’re stuck with me for a long, long time.”

  I called the bodybuilder an asshole. Then I called 911. “You’re going to jail for what you’ve done.” The bodybuilder shrugged. The shrug was as much a pose as it was a gesture of indifference.

  In light of the severity of the crime I reported on the phone, the police didn’t bother knocking on my door when they arrived. They simply crashed through my door like a stampede of psychotic oxen. There were three of them, each equipped with a bushy handlebar mustache, each wearing two articles of clothing: a ten-gallon police hat and a purple spandex G-string. Their tans seemed to have been painted onto their skin, and their muscles seemed to twitch and flex of their own volition. Their grins were as white as the image of God.

  “What seems to be the problem here, sir?” asked the cop in charge, and struck a pose. It was an impressive Front Double Bicep pose. Following his lead, the rest of the cops also struck it.

  I said, “This bodybuilder is an intruder. Take him away.”

  “We weren’t talking to you,” replied the cop in charge. He and his colleagues synchronously shifted into an equally impressive Side Chest pose. “We were talking to the
bodybuilder.”

  Confused, I glanced at the bodybuilder. He nodded at me. “This man is inhospitable,” he said. “Take him away.”

  The cops made belittling, sniggering comments about my less than rock hard body as they frisked me, cuffed me, and led me out to the squad car . . .

  A MILLION VERSIONS

  OF RIGHT

  MATTHEW REVERT

  It was certainly no surprise that what I had once referred to lovingly as ‘the gentle little rub’ had eventually become frenetic masturbation, resulting in my first orgasm. Under the bed that one lunch time hiding from my clockwork father. I was excited and disgusted, my pockets chock full of scabs. My hands were adorned in filthy fingernails, all chewed and torn. I lay there under the bed, cribbed among uncomfortable refuse. The sound of approaching footsteps combined with the sight of a looming shadow panged excited nerves throughout me. I jerked quickly, my breathing heavy and then there was an experience of overwhelming build. A distinct sense that this feeling couldn’t elevate any higher overcame me. When that point of no return had been reached it was nothing but intense pain. My toes curled, my lips were bitten into leaking sores, sweat lathered me. That was the first time I ever ejaculated a moustachioed tiler.

  The moustachioed tiler climbed down my erect shaft and immediately got to work. Retrieving all the tools he needed from a seemingly infinite back pocket, he began to lay miniscule tiles upon my stomach. It wasn’t long before my entire lower torso had been well and truly tiled. The tiler extracted a thermos and a sandwich from his pocket, sat down and had a break. With his gruff exertions, sweaty brow and dirty white overalls, the tiler was a sight to behold. He chewed upon his tiny sandwich, spitting out chunks he didn’t like.

  When my clockwork father finally vacated the house I remember squirming my way out from beneath the bed. The tiler appeared angry at the inconvenience these movements caused.

  “Sorry,” I whispered, as if atonement was necessary.

  He momentarily stopped eating his sandwich and stared hard, right into my eyes. A very awkward silence ensued. I had the distinct impression that I shouldn’t move at all, lest I further irritate this strange little man. I watched as he retrieved a cigarette from his upper front pocket and started exhaling the filthy smoke into the room. There was little I could do.

  So there I lay, pants around my knees. A good half of my body entombed in miniature tiles. If there was one thing to be said it was that this tiler had a remarkable work ethic. If only he would stop tiling for a while and get off my body. Burning with hunger, I remember desperately wanting to get up. Stomach acid was knocking against my insides like waves to a shore. Each stomach grumble forced barely spoken profanity from the tiler. I figured it best to stay where I was. My penis was pathetically exposed and flaccid, my urethra still recovering from the enormous stretch of the moustachioed ejaculation.

  Hours passed and my clockwork father was due home any minute. My entire body was tiled except for my face and genitals. I assumed this was an attempt by the tiler to maximise the shame and embarrassment I would feel when my father found me in such a peculiar position.

  The sound of the car rumbling up the driveway struck me with fear. The tiler cruelly laughed to himself despite the fact the situation was anything but amusing. No, it wasn’t a laugh as much as a verbalised rictus.

  My father’s footsteps clopped up the front steps. He unlocked the door and entered the house. He gently closed the door behind and began making his way ever closer toward his son’s sheer embarrassment and shame.

  I lay prone, tiled to the hilt. That tiny bastard was eating a sandwich that never seemed to end. The crumbs had achieved an alarming accumulation in his moustache. I could clearly make them out despite their microscopic nature.

  The words of my father upon entering my bedroom still ring in my ears to this day. In a screeching tenor he exerted the words, “Now fuck me if you ain’t covered all up in tiny tiles!”

  My father moved closer, eyeing the moustachioed tiler as he ate his sandwich. “One thing you should know, son, is that when faced with a situation such as yours, when you ejaculate something untoward, you should respond in a manner that is at least equally as untoward as the ejaculate.”

  In fascination I stared at my father. Without the slightest hesitation he picked up the tiler in a pinch of his fingers. The tiler dangled ever so awkwardly in my father’s grip but remained as apathetic as ever. Once my father nabbed the little sandwich right from the tiler’s tight little grasp the apathy turned into a miniaturised rage. My father just laughed in a self-assured way as he inserted the tiler into his anus.

  “I’m just going to keep him there,” he said to me with a pleasant wink.

  He turned around and walked toward the lounge room. Moments later I heard the sound of the television coming to life.

  Still lying flat, covered in tiles, I pondered what my father had said. He was undoubtedly right, as the tiler certainly wasn’t a problem anymore. It was as if my father had demonstrated the positive nature of fighting fire with fire. Birthed from the cock but destroyed up the arse. It was an understandable conclusion to his little life. That it was demonstrated with such ease still dazzled me and filled me with an admiration for my father that I’d never previously experienced. My father was somehow a little less clockwork.

  I remember the mild sensation of pain as I peeled the tiny tiles from my ravaged body. Each tile cluster stung my skin as if tearing off a bandaid. With the deed finally complete, I stood straight up and examined my naked body in the mirror. I was covered head to toe, excluding face and genitals, in a red, itchy rash. Tile rash, I thought to myself, what a peculiar development.

  I lay in bed, covered in itch and deep contemplation. Looking back on it now, I feel as if I was robbed of my first orgasmic experience. Where I should have been reflecting on the strange physical sensations that shot through my body, all I could see was the gruff face of the apathetic tiler as he munched on his bloody sandwich. This would eventually affect my sexual life deeply. Suffice to say, during moments of sexual intimacy the tilers face continues to invade my fragile thoughts. It has ruined many a promising night. To this day I call it ‘the flaccidity of the tiler’s curse.’

  My first ejaculatory experience may have been my first visit from the moustachioed tiler but it certainly didn’t prove to be the last. As you may imagine, the outcome of my first act of self-love filled me with trepidation. The situation I found myself in was unfortunate. As a pubescent teen I was in a near constant state of intense arousal which was perpetually at odds with my fear of masturbation. I would go to bed at night and pray to a higher power I didn’t quite believe in, to ward off the potentiality of a wet dream. I may have been able to reject the masturbatory temptation in the waking hours but I had little control over myself when in a state of sleep. Wags at school would boast of the sticky mess they awoke to on a constant basis. I would have loved to wake in a sticky mess; my concern however, was that I would awake covered head to toe in tiles and tiny breadcrumbs, unable to move.

  The pretty young things in my class would invade my dream state regularly and it was only a matter of time before this translated into an unconscious eruption in my lower regions. This eventuality did indeed occur. It had been nearly three agitated years since my first and only orgasm.

  That night, in my dreams, the girls pranced about in their short little dresses, winding me up like a toy, willing me to snap like a faulty twig.

  The next morning I awoke, and like I did every morning, patted my sleepy chest, feeling for tiles. I breathed a sigh of relief, for my chest was still naked as the day I was born. I threw back the blankets, ready to start the day. But, the sticky, wet sensation in my pants became apparent. I couldn’t quite believe it. By all accounts, it appeared I had successfully orgasmed without the appearance of a tiler. It aroused me instantly and masturbatory thoughts entered my head immediately. But wary of the time, I had to shelve them.

  The next day at school
was full of braggadocio on my part. Sure, I had bragged about my wet dream prowess before but this was the first time I had actually experienced a wet dream to back it up. I boasted loudly and proudly to all and sundry. Quizzical stares assailed me from the chums and wags as my enthusiasm was in direct contrast to my previous, untrue boasts. I’m still not sure whether two and two was ever successfully put together but that is by the by.

  I was determined to masturbate myself into a gooey stupor upon my arrival home. My erection had been a barely tamed beast all day. I felt it could sense the possibilities. Tentatively, yet excitedly, I threw myself on the bed and went to work. I clung to myself ever so tightly as I jerked and pulled the last three years of repression away. The moment of climax was a terrifying yet brilliant one. There was that split second where I feared the worst but the worst simply didn’t come. Instead I erupted all over myself in pure ecstasy. The tiler, for whatever reason, had been vanquished from my loins.

  This was my ticket to pubescent paradise. My life became a dizzy blur of climax and seminal fluid. No tiler, no problems. It wasn’t until my first real sexual encounter some years later that the tiler reappeared and caused all manner of problems for me and my ill-fated sexual partner.

  I met her in crying class. She was struggling with the basic methodology involved in crying ribbons. I approached her with pure intentions, failing at the time to notice her exquisite beauty. She sat pathetically with a second generation beginners ribbon hanging lifeless from her right eye. I asked her if she needed help. She accepted. Her acceptance revealed a shame in her voice. I found the display of shame endearing. I gently tugged on the ribbon, being careful not to irritate her eyeball. The ribbon slipped out, her eyes blinked frantically as if shaking out the cobwebs, ‘Ribbon Jitters’ they were called according to the literature. We got to talking. There was a mutual affection and it wasn’t long before we were what the other wags called an ‘item.’