Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
Lips of wax, pimento eyes
Walnut’s note: this is my first stab at random flickr blogging. We’ll see whether folks like this sort of thing or not.
I blame the fight.
“You’re never here on Thursdays,” Carver said, trotting out Contestant Number One for World’s Worst Excuse.
“Will you wipe her off your face?” I screamed, tears flying. I tried to slap him but he caught my wrists and pulled me close.
I could have head-butted him then. It would have saved me a lot of grief.
“It didn’t mean anything, Annie.” World’s Worst Excuse, Contestant Number Two. “I’ll forget about it if you will.” Contestant disqualified for lameness.
“It’s because she’s thin, isn’t it?”
He kissed me on the cheek, catching a tear on his tongue.
“Gee,” he said. “Licorice.”
“You creep.” I tried to pull away. He held me snugly by the wrists. More than anything, I wanted a free hand to claw his pretty-boy face. “You were giving her head. How could that not mean anything? Now, let me go.”
His tongue was on me, then in me, diving into my ear canal, fishing for more than compliments. His moans came faster and faster. When he surfaced for air, he cried, “Annie, my God. Sirloin.”
I’d never seen him this agitated.
I kind of liked it.
My erstwhile boyfriend laid me out on his kitchen table, knocking aside his geometry book, his Senior English midterm essay. He peeled away my clothes like foil off a baked potato. Chardonnay he slurped from my armpits, runny Brie from my breasts. Between my legs he shnorfled for an hour, stopping only rarely to cry out, Lobster Thermidor! Crab in Black Bean Sauce! Then he rolled me over and did things with his tongue Mr. Kohl warned us about in Health and Safety. Tiramisu!
Hours passed. Days. All thought of Fremont High vanished and I floated in bliss, buoyed by the pounds that slipped away from me. My svelte Carver became stocky, a fullback, a sumo wrestler.
I’m in him now, curled around his spine, feeding. When he is sated, I will be, too. His shouts of surprised joy are quieter now, though no less genuine. He tastes caviar. Truffles. Foie gras. I taste only sweat, and marrow, and bile. But when he is done, his life will drift away, brown and crackling, Autumn leaves; and I will rise again.
D.
Your imagination is an odd and disturbing (and apparently hungry) place. I like it.
Creeeeeeeepy. Nice job.
It’s really hard to read this and eat breakfast at the same time. I’m kind of grossed out. I agree with Darla, although I’m not sure I like it right now.
Don’t worry, Anduin, you’re in good company — my wife disliked it enough to say, “You’re posting this?”
Seeing this photo, I had the kernel of an idea, but I was dead set against some stupid cannibalism story. BTW, I’m not sure I like it, either 😉
Hey Doug,
This is not exactly my thing. Too obscure. I’m not sure exactly what you mean, which may be the point, but I feel kinda dumb when I read it.
I’m thinking, “Did the guy literally eat his girlfriend? Is she an alien? Did the girlfriend eat the boyfriend and make him think he was eating her? Why was he licking her armpits? Eww. Or, did he eat her so she could in turn consume him?”
I read this and needed a cigarette, and I haven’t smoked in ten years! [okay, I don’t really want a cigarette.]
There is a sense of ‘creepy,’ which is kinda cool, but for me, it’s overshadowed by the whole ‘huh?’ thing.
I may be the only one who reacted this way, though. I get confused pretty easily.
[no offense intended, of course. I love what I’ve read of your other stuff.]
Okay, so you’re telling me my wife is right.
Ooooh, she is going to be insufferable.
As for what it means: who knows. I was trying for surreal.
*blinks* I thought it was perfectly obvious. It’s all a metaphor for love eating your identity. Sheesh.
Either that, or the sleep deprivation is really getting to me.
It’s all a metaphor for loving eating your identity.
I wish I had thought of that 😉
Thanks for making my short short a lot better than I thought it was!