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LOVE DOLL: A
FABLE I buy a plastic love doll because I want
something to fuck that I don't have to talk to. Right on the box it says Love Doll. I take her home and
blow her up. She looks pretty and sexy and innocent. I fuck her. I sit
with her on the couch and watch TV and put an arm around her plastic shoulders
and hold my dick with my other hand. I fuck her some
more. In the morning I let the air out of her and fold her up and put her in a
drawer. When I come home
from work at night I give her a blowjob and she is full and stiff again. I take
her into the bedroom and fuck her. I watch TV with my arm around her, one hand
on my dick. This goes on for a
while. I start to talk to
the doll. I never wanted to talk to a woman, but I talk to the doll. I name her
Madge. I had a dog named Madge that I liked. I stop letting the
air out of her in the mornings. I leave her in bed. I fix breakfast on a tray,
enough for two. I come in and eat beside her on the bed. There's plenty of food
left when I stop and get ready for work. When I come home
the tray is where it was and the doll is gone. There's no food left on the
tray. I find Madge in the
shower. She smiles at me when I slide the shower door back. "I was going
to clean up for you," she said. "Be sexy. I'm sorry the house isn't
clean and dinner isn't ready. It won't happen again." I get in the shower
with her. We have sex and soap each other. We dry off and go to bed and have
sex again. We lie in bed and talk afterward. She talks some about girl things.
She talks about me mostly. She has good things to say about my sexual prowess.
We have sex again. Next day she drives
me to work, picks me up at the end of the day. All the fellas are jealous when
they see her, she's such a good-looking piece. She always looks
nice. Wears frilly things, short skirts. For bop-around she wears tight
sweaters and T-shirts and jeans. She smells good. She puts her hands on me a
lot. The house is clean when I get home. Dinner is ready in a jiffy. A year passes.
Quite happily. Life couldn't be better. Lots of sex. A clean house. Food when I
need it. Conversation. She tells me I'm a real man when I mount her, that she
needs me, calls me her stallion, makes good noises beneath me and scratches at
my back, she makes a la-la-la noise when she comes. She likes my muscles, the
scruffiness of my beard. We watch movies on the couch, my arm around her. She
holds my dick in her hand. When I tell her to, she gives me a blowjob while I
watch the movie. She always swallows my load. One night we're
laying in bed and she says, "I think maybe I should go to school." "What
for?" I ask. "To bring in
more money. We could buy some things." "I make enough
money." "I know.
You're a hard-working man. But I want to help." "You help
enough. You be here for me at night, keep the house clean and the meals ready.
That's a woman's place." "Whatever you
want, dear." But she doesn't
mean it. It comes up now and again, her going to school. Finally I think, so
what? She goes off to school. The house isn't quite so clean. The meals aren't
always ready on time. I drive myself to work. Some nights she doesn't feel like
sex. I jack off in the bathroom a lot. We sit on the couch and watch movies.
She sits on one end, I sit on the other. We wear our clothes. I have a beer in
one hand, the remote control in the other. We argue about little things. She
doesn't like the way I spend my money. She gets a degree.
She gets a job in business. She wears suits. For bop-around, the stuff she
wears is less tight. She doesn't wear makeup or perfume around the house. She
keeps her hands to herself. No kissing goodbye and hello anymore. We have sex
less. When we have it, she seems distracted. She doesn't call me her King, her
Big Man like she used to. After sex she'll sometimes stay up late reading books
by people called Sartre or Camus. She's writing something she calls a business
manifesto. She sits at the typewriter for hours. She goes to business parties,
and I go with her, but I can tell they think I'm boring. I don't know what
they're talking about. They talk about business and books and ideas. I hear
Madge say a woman has to make her own way in the world. That she shouldn't
depend on a man, even if she has one. Thing to do is to be your own person. She
tells a man that. Guy in a three-piece blue suit with hair spray on his hair.
He agrees with her. I feel sick. I tell her so in
the car on the way home. She calls me a prick. We don't fuck that night. I watch a lot of
movies alone. She yells from the bedroom for me to turn them down, and why
don't I watch something else other than car-chase movies, and why don't I read
a book, even a stupid one? I feel small these
days. I go to the store and look at the love dolls. They all look so sexy and
innocent. I think I might buy one, but find I can't. I don't feel man enough. I
can't control the one I have. I get a new one, she might change, too. Course, a
new one I could let the air out of when I finished fucking her, never let her
have a day alone full blown. I go home. Madge is
there. She's writing her book. I get angry. I tell her I've been patient long
enough. I'm the man around here. I tell her to stop that typing, get her
clothes off and get in bed and grab her ankles. I'm going to fuck her
unconscious. She laughs.
"You skinny little stupid pencil-dick, you couldn't fuck a gnat
unconscious. You're about as manly as a Kotex." I feel as if I've
been hit in the face with a fist. I go into the bedroom and close the door. I
sit on the edge of the bed. I can hear her typing in there. I get up and go
over to the dresser and open the bottom drawer. I take off all my clothes and
find the air spigot on the head of my dick and pull it open and listen to the
air go out of me. I crumple into the open drawer, and lay there like a used
prophylactic. An hour or so later
the typing stops. I hear her come into the room. She looks in the drawer. No
expression. I try to say something manly, but nothing will come. I have no air
and no voice. She moves away. I hear the water
running while she takes a shower. She comes out naked. I can see her pubic hair
above me. I note how firm and full of air her thighs are. She opens the top
drawer. She takes out panties. She puts them on. She goes away. I hear her sit
on the bed. She dials the phone. She tells someone to come on over, that her
thing with me is finished. Time passes. The
doorbell rings. Madge gets up and goes past me. I get a glimpse of her, her
hair combed out long and pretty, a robe on. I hear her laugh in
the other room. She comes back with a man. As they go by the drawer I see it's
the man in the business suit from the party. I hear them sit on the bed. They
laugh a lot. She says something rude about me and my sexual abilities. I can tell
she has his dick out of his pants because they're laughing about something. I
realize they're laughing about sex. He's making fun of his equipment. I never
like being laughed at when it's about sex. I don't like being laughed at at all, especially by a woman. The bathrobe flies
across the room and lands in the drawer on top of me and everything is dark. I
hear the bedsprings squeak. They squeak for hours. They talk while they screw.
After a while they stop talking. He grunts like a hog. She sings like a lark.
Afterward I hear them talking. He asks her if she came. She says only a little.
He says let me help you. I can't be sure, but I think he's doing something to
her with his hand. I can't believe it. She doesn't seem to mind this at all. I hear her sing
again, this time louder than ever. Then they talk again. She tells him she
never really came for me, that she always faked it. That I was a lousy fuck.
That I didn't care if she came. That I got on and did it and got off. A little air caught
at the top of my head floats down and out of my open mouth. They talk some
more. They don't talk about him. She doesn't talk girl things. They talk about
ideas. Politics. History. The office. Movies—films, they call them—and books. In the middle of
the night the robe is lifted off of me. It's Madge. She's down on her knees
looking in the drawer. She smiles at me. She picks me up and folds me gently.
She has a box with her. It's the box she came in. The one that says Love Doll
on it. The words Love Doll have been marked through with a magic marker and
Fuck Toy has been written in above it. She puts me in the box and seals the lid
and puts me back in the drawer and closes it. Feeling deflated
after that bit of Mojo magic? Get pumped by coming back next Thursday, September
10, for another slice of Champion Joe R. Lansdale's Mojo pie! "Love Doll: A Fable" was originally published
in Borderlands 2. It later appeared
in Writer of the Purple Rage, a
collection of Lansdale's short stories published by Carroll & Graf.
"Love Doll: A Fable" © 1991 By Bizarre Hands, LLC. All Rights
Reserved. |
