Lubricious Little Ball
(Short Love Stories)*
“You’ve got to be the best at everything,”; mom says while firmly tightening the pink bow holding her ponytail. Christine Young nods and goes running to catch the school bus. It dawns in Saguenay-Lac-St-Jean.
“Do not say, ‘I can’t.’ You have the last name Young” Dad sentences when Christine says she can’t multiply 5x7. Night Falls in Saguenay-Lac-St-Jean.
At 16, Christine becomes the best porn starlet in Montreal. As a tribute, she called the pink dildo “Mummy” and the black one “Daddy.”
The Governor called the Ministry, who called the Assistant, who called the Delegate, who reached the Sub delegate, that called the Private Secretary, who called the Assistant and told him, “quick, that report has to be on the President’s desk before four o’clock!”
The paper arrived late at the President’s desk. The Ministry, the Assistant, the Delegate, the Sub delegate, and the Private Secretary told me to collect my shit and fuck off.
When I got home, Celia complained because the price of tomatoes had risen too much, and the child refused to eat the soup. A spiral climbs my legs, turns inside my chest, and dazzles me.
The last thing I remember is my fist projecting over her face.
Because of you, I have insomnia, tendonitis, eye strain, and hemorrhoids.
Because of you, I do not sleep. I am assailed by fear of you walking around, showing the tattoo to any moron you meet in the chat; who will lick the sex you spread out in front of the camera? Who will hear you gasp as you touch yourself? What would my boss say if he discovered me jerking off in front of the webcam?
I sold my guitar and Wii.
I sold my limited edition Muchkings.
I do not want to go to the strip club; I do not want to go to the movies or watch TV.
Ilaria, I’m going to Katowice.
If only I knew a little Polish.
Damn it, Celia! — He slaps the driving wheel while trying to hold the car in a straight line.
— Darling, the pain was clouding my sight. I didn’t notice….
— Because of you, we had to leave like thieves; what will those people think? You blew it!
— I’m sorry, love — She sobs and wipes away her tears with her dress’ underside.
In Bathrooms & Decorations Co., the sales manager and janitor observed stupefied the Comfort Height Hatbox Purist toilet, model 3492 in almond, with an elongated bowl for convenience, button activated flush, sanitary guard that prevents leaks, anti–clogging washing system, 5-year warranty, and Dual Force technology, the shop proudly displayed in the main hall, until a runaway client used it.
She removed the kinescope glasses that framed her face so symmetrically, “Excuse me, do you have …?”
As she slid her sight over the counter surface, the woman revealed an eye sty that haughtily threatened to hatch under her left eyelid.
As he dispatched the ophthalmic Terramycin, the pharmacist wished he was the one sheltered under her skin, turned into a lubricious little ball about to explode on the surface of that eye.
Our love story is implausible. I am looking for a place to put my Ultimate Sex Swing Pro with a triple safety harness, sidebars, footrest, adjustable backrest, and eyebolts with 360-degree rotation.
You are looking for a place to put me.
“The world cannot be regarded as a solid and structured box. This hardcore with which we can feel safe has, if any, a methodological, not ontological, existence. So cut the bullshit and bring me dinner!”
Fate has willed that, after years of waiting, you’re waiting outside my door when I return from walking Roger.
I want to run to you but fail to let go of the leash I hold with one hand or the dog poop bag hanging from the other.
Damn urbanity, my sweet love.
— I should fuck the whole crew, eat carbohydrates, and tell you what I thought about your mother! — Sonia shouted before throwing the smartphone at his head, on which display she had just read: “I’m wet and ready for you, hunny. Is that biatch still there? love xoxoxo.”
— … that’s what my therapist said — she sentenced.
— Okay. If you want to.
— Are you serious?
— Yeah, sweetie pie. You’re right. It’ll be good for us. Please give me the therapist’s number to make an appointment; I’d like to see her soon.
— Love, thank you! — She hugged him, leaping with joy. He stroked her hair. Perhaps the therapist would understand his desire to masturbate while holding, on the other hand, the gun with which he was thinking of blowing her up like a toad.
Would brushing her teeth before her husband got home could make a difference? Was he serious when he shouted, just before giving the final door slam, that her mouth smelled like a corpse, that all these years he waited for her to notice it and do something about it, but that he was tired and recommended her to visit a gastroenterologist urgently?
Poor heterosexual love between the chef and the anorexic girl.
He arrived at terminal 4 with a camel-colored wool coat folded over his arm and a rolling suitcase, dragging it behind like a Great Dane. The first thing she felt when she identified him in the middle of the room was that they were in a Wes Anderson movie.
He was shorter and broader in person. Perhaps he photoshopped the picture she liked the most in the app. He stood with his legs close together, feet forming a convex angle. In his left hand, he held a bouquet of yellow flowers, and the clenched fist of his right hand jealously guarded the cord of a giant metallic balloon.
Sonia stopped mid-race. She turned around, approached the counter, and asked for the next flight back without looking back.
Magdalena observes Gael walking away. The coffee he just threw on her is still steaming. It was to be expected: at some point in the conversation, Gael’s real friend arrived, and he realized that all this time had been talking with a doppelgänger.
Upon arriving home, Magdalena will tell her husband that when she was drinking coffee, Gael García came to her table; he greeted her warmly, sat with her, said to her that she looked very pretty today, and asked how the release of her new jewelry line was going.
She will tell him that that unannounced encounter broke the regular course of events, and he looked at her as if she was unique and beautiful, changing the routine that makes every day feels like a dense cloud of steam.
A metallic object hurts my hand when I drop myself on your bed with open arms.
You return from the bathroom: I give you this nail, this thorn, this spear.
This earring is not mine.
*These stories are part of the book Pobre Amor Heterosexual (2009, Lenguaraz). Clearly, I’m not a native English speaker; if you notice any blunders, I would appreciate your feedback.
