Genital Grinder

No . . . mother never said there’d be days like this.

On the surface it’s not a bad set-up. I’m in bed with a blonde who has exemplary tits, D-cups if they were a day. I’ve always liked women with very long hair and hers is perfect, bright vines which have grown almost to the middle of her back. The face too is pleasant, replete with sparkling diamond eyes.

So far, so good, but here’s where this tryst starts to fall short of the glory of Penthouse Forum—like the Godzilla movie posters said, size does matter. From two blocks away you could look at her and immediately know she shops at the Big and Tall stores (she’s 5’2; you do the math). I’d almost finished with her by imagining I was actually with Sherilyn Fenn (and Sheryl Lee), but then she wanted to get on top. I was charitable (simply translated: drunk) and agreed, and was soon thinking less about Sherilyn and Sheryl, and more about asthma attacks.

I consented to the aforementioned atrocities, and accept full responsibility, but the crowning touch was beyond my control—a factor substantially worse than merely being here.

This blonde with a satisfying bra size but a slow metabolism is dead, and she’s still on top of me. I think it happened at 3:36 a.m., the time on her digital clock which I saw when I craned my head to the right. This is the extent of my mobility, that and being able to move my right arm. The left is pinned by . . . damn, I don’t remember her name. Did she even tell me? I probably wasn’t listening. Clubs and bars are loud. Great places to meet new people, but introductions are about as far as it goes. What they’re drinking and might they be out on the town for—or at least susceptible to—the ol’ “F-close,” that’s all that matters (I’ve read The Game . . . I know what’s up).

Whoever she is, she has my legs and torso welded to the mattress. I can’t turn my head to the left because her elbow finished between my ear and shoulder.

On a scale of one to ten this hits the upper echelons of embarrassment, a nine at least. To achieve a perfect ten, let me add my pathetic confession—I’m still hard. No one has to know about this, so I’m telling myself the frantic gyration beneath her is merely a desperate attempt to squirm away.

Only that and nothing more.

Sherilyn and Sheryl . . . Laura (or Madeline) and Audrey . . . the stoplight . . . Sherilyn dancing to Badalamenti’s score . . . a secret scene never shown, Laura and Audrey experimenting . . .

Mission accomplished. Coherent thought is once more possible.

The first thing to remember is not to kick myself in the ass too much for going home with . . . whatever her name is (was). I hit the bars too late, so all the eye candy had been taken—wept off their feet or clandestinely slipped that magnificent invention the date rape drug (the only true barometer of human progress, if you ask me . . . the rubber a close runner-up with the morning-after pill a not-so-distant cousin). All that was left when I saddled up to the bar were the bottom feeders, and knowing that anyone I went home with come sun-up would be as good for me as a flesh-eating virus, I started doing shots in a hurry. Ego abuse and a hangover are a bad combination, but at the time I thought it was better to go home with an undesirable than go home alone. When the nausea kicked in and driving home would probably mean killing an innocent family in a station wagon coming home late from Disney Land, I started doling out the pick-up lines. It took two before I struck gold—such as it was—with my big date. My face was stinging on both sides by that point because one proposition thought my line was too crude for just one slap. She had been wearing a shirt which said BUILT TO LAST, and I had inquired if that was a bedroom invitation for “alllllll night looooooong” in the same sentence where I introduced myself. Should’ve at least bought her a drink first, I suppose, but no big loss . . . figuratively speaking, anyway.

I’m not as desperate as I probably sound, so let me explain where I’m coming from. When I was fifteen I went sledding at the “End of the World,” a hill beyond the woods bordering our neighborhood where the path going up to it seemed to lead to oblivion, or at least a very long plunge. Everybody seems to have an “End of the World” near them. You would have been disappointed by what it actually was, but it was the best we had. Anyway, a neighbor’s dog kept leaping on my shoulders, apparently mistaking me for a willing mate. It didn’t matter that I no more resembled a dog than an emu, not to my persistent canine suitor. Reality would be ignored for gratification. I’m not trying to say I’m a dog (though I guess I am), only that it’s natural enough to overlook the big picture when it suits you and ignore reality—there isn’t a long plunge after all—for gratification.

As for what killed my “date” for the night, I’d say cardiac arrest or an aneurysm. It wasn’t me, I was just lying there waiting for the end, hoping sooner than later. I don’t see why she’d get that excited since a girl her size has likely been with a multitude of guys. The American ideal of beauty is technically some bone-rack little bitch with borderline anorexia, but let’s not forget men are opportunists. Many of the bigger girls have quite a self-esteem deficit, and they’re grateful for any attention. If sex is the only way to prolong the flattery, they’ll go the distance. They’ll go all the way.

I suppose I can rest easy knowing the risk of her getting pregnant vanished. That’s always the big worry, an “End of the World” that similarly wouldn’t be the end—see above about the “morning after pill”—but a lot worse than a dog trying to brick on your parka.

Right now my breathing is so shallow you’d think I’d been trapped in an elevator for hours. My . . . struggle . . . was more exertion than I can afford. It would almost be better to die than summon help, which if I’m to live seems to be my fate. It’s too dark in here to see just how much I have to circumvent, but I feel like Johnny Depp in A Nightmare on Elm Street when he melted through the mattress. I estimate three hundred pounds, at least. I recall setting a 350 pound maximum limit, and congratulated myself on finding someone well below that. She had a very small car, though, which quickly smote my satisfaction.

Either the dead weight is really just that impactful or I was wrong about her body mass index. Seems like I should be able to at least slide out from under her if not bench press her. I think there’s a dip in the mattress where the springs have collapsed. It might have happened when she started riding me, come to think of it.

I couldn’t tell you where she drove me in her ironically small car, not even if I’d been sober during the trip. Assuming there’s a phone I can strain for, I won’t even be able to tell the operator where to send the police. I guess they could trace the call, though maybe they only do that when they suspect a prank. Someone in dire need might well be ignored.

I’m not entirely convinced I want to be rescued. They’d have to deploy the jaws of life. It feels like my ribs are about to crack and crumble into bone dust. With my luck this will end up on an emergency rescue show, and everyone will think I’m loser who can’t get laid within my own weight division. Word would travel far and wide, and everywhere I went I’d be The Guy Who Almost Suffocated Under His Obese One Night Stand.

. . . Okay, what was that?

I heard something. I wasn’t expecting to, can’t tell if it happened somewhere off in the house or right underneath the bed. Maybe we’re in a bad part of town and someone broke in. Oh hell, what if she’s married? I can’t imagine a husband being offended to homicidal extremes by such a disposable woman spreading the wealth, but it’d still have to be deeply insulting. I could almost see myself blowing a guy’s brains out for that.

It’s quiet again. Everyone say it with me: Too quiet.

My heart is rapid firing, cardiac AK-47 action. If it is someone with malicious intent, he could carve on me for hours and I couldn’t do anything but bleed. My left arm has fallen asleep, and the discomfort of her elbow in my neck is taking its toll. I really should have exercised more, maybe joined a fitness program. I haven’t lifted weights since high school, and back then I was struggling to bench two hundred. You don’t have to have to a good physique when your parents buy you a Mustang, I quickly learned, and thus bid adieu to curls and presses. The game doesn’t change much when you get older, so I stuck to drinking and driving.

It’s strange to have her chest pressing on mine, but not feel her heartbeat. It was when I could no longer feel that trip-hammering that I knew she hadn’t just passed out. I never believed she was drunk to begin with, and that she had stayed sober so she could take advantage of a guy like me. The slut.

There it goes again, that noise. It definitely came from within this room. I’m reaching for the night stand now, hoping to find a phone. If the publicity gets too intense I’ll fake my own death, but I want out of here now. She dragged me in here without turning on the lights until we tripped over the bed. I don’t know what the room interior looks like. It will be daylight in a couple hours, and that will help because it’s hard to take initiative in the darkness. Even if I couldn’t reach a phone it’d help morale if I could see one. After all, a mother has to see her child trapped under that car before she gets the superhuman strength to lift it.

Wait. One. Damn. Second.

The noise again, but something else. I felt a kick. It wasn’t a heartbeat. The location of the kick was in her stomach.

Again.

Again.

Different places, but neither at her breastbone. I’m feeling them in my abdomen.

Is it just rigor mortis? Could that happen so soon, and would it feel anything like this? I don’t know anything about it; I’m not an old hand at this kind of thing.

Oh, there’s no way . . . No, I don’t buy it for a minute. If she’d been pregnant, the kid would have died with her, wouldn’t it? It wouldn’t be kicking me now like this was my fault. Besides, I’d have noticed her pregnancy was really starting to show. Drunkenness is imperfect in explaining away all discrepancies.

The noise wasn’t the kicking, though, because you wouldn’t have been able to hear even Pele in the womb. This was more . . . wet, like food slipping through a soggy paper plate and clumping on the floor. Something else, too, though . . . a tearing sound. Not paper, though. It’s also something wet.

No, this isn’t rigor mortis. I can’t think of a single detached and perfectly rational scientific term for whatever the hell this could be. I know she’s dead, but I feel at least part of her quivering against me. I’ve joked with friends about gnawing my own arm off to get away from cuddling with a woman; this almost seems like a preferable option to the mystery alternative.

I need the light right now. Something like this doesn’t happen when sunlight is bleeding through the drapes, it’s an unwritten rule. I can feel the shape of bedside lamp, but the switch is beyond reach. There doesn’t seem to be anything but the lamp and her clock, which is only a clock. No radio. I’d turn that on just to drown out the noise, but all I’ve managed to do is set the alarm to go off at 9:48. If I’m still here when it goes off, I’m certain I won’t be alive to hear it.

The wet noises have gotten louder, more intense. Why the hell was a pregnant woman haunting a singles bar? She’d have a better chance of me paying her rent than committing to a long-term relationship the father wouldn’t give her.

Something wet just dotted my stomach. A pool of it is spreading on me, and it’s really pouring out now. It’s escaping her, and I’m sure it is blood.

A lot of blood.

I’m thrashing under her again, this time to really get out from beneath. There is definitely a hole in her stomach. Its slick edges are being ground against me like a new sexual orifice, and more of its contents are sluicing out. This, along with the still-present nausea of too much drink, just caused me to vomit. Depending on the trajectory, most probably ended up in her hair and down her back. The slickness of her blood and . . . tissue, I’m guessing . . . has formed a rivulet that is streaking to my groin. Despite the lubrication of all this leakage, I’m making no progress in freeing myself. My left arm still hasn’t regained all its feeling; it is dead weight of pins and needles. The circulation has been stemmed the arm won’t move I can’t move it.

Another sound, but I recognize it as me screaming as loud as I can given the weight on me. I’m not even loud enough to be heard in her surely well-stocked kitchen, much less the next house over. It occurs to me that maybe this is all just a vivid hallucination from a lack of oxygen, but the relief of this feels too false to be of any comfort.

Between these cries is the sloshing of the juices as I weakly try to capsize her.

Sloshing, then the dripping and pouring as they rush out. The tearing sounds have probably continued throughout all of this, but at some point I became more aware of my panic than its cause.

Something new—an indentation on my stomach, something probing the area with very slippery digits. I’m feeling faint. All my blood is collecting in my head. Unconsciousness now would be nothing short of a blessing. I’m almost there.

I hear and feel the hole in her stomach suddenly tear across, like an artist angrily ripping a page from his sketchbook. More things are pushing on me, inquisitive, moist. Tiny fingers? And something else—bigger, but softer, like cartilage. I think it’s a nose. There is a sharper prodding sliding just below that.

The chin.

Between the nose and the chin, a warm absence opening wider.

That would be the mouth.

The last impossibility of this ridiculous night—it already has teeth, and very good teeth at that.

The tearing has momentarily ceased, and I hope when it starts again in about two seconds I’m not awake to tell you what happens ne—