by L Scully
Alright, I have a fantasy:
I lock the door to the shower room and shriek until my wife tries to burst in. The old ball and chain breaks open our fat latrine door and yells Baby baby what's wrong? Should I call an ambulance? I breathe heavily from inside the shower box. I lick my lips and scream MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS and laugh maniacally until she backs away, aghast, a little hurt. I resume my shower. Later on we might have dinner together.
I told this to my neighbor recently. I said Alright, I have a fantasy when he asked how I was doing. He listened reasonably. Then I said Do you have a fantasy? And he said yes.
His fantasy:
There is a tiny woman named Theresa living on top of his wife’s tongue. Literally, like in her mouth. Theresa is sort of a Thumbelina character except she blocks his wife from talking. She doesn’t really wrangle his wife’s tongue so much as sit on it. Her property is on it which carries a lot of weight, rendering his wife unable to speak. She maintains a garden and volunteers at a second garden for the community behind the small church that she built on his wife’s tongue. There is no real denouement here, my neighbor just lives his normal life with his quiet wife knowing that Theresa’s watering cans are bursting so heavy that he’ll never have to make conversation again until he dies.
My neighbor told this to the family babysitter recently. She freaked out but didn’t show it, mainly because my neighbor is her most consistent childcare employer and she’s putting herself through school. He took her ambivalence as a way to learn more about his children’s beguiling governess. Do you have a fantasy? my neighbor asked as he was driving the babysitter home. And you know what? She said yes, she did.
Her fantasy:
On her high school football field there was a big sign with the name of her high school on it before the words Athletic Field. Her high school wasn’t so far away, since she’s paying her way through a state school toward a degree in electrical engineering with a minor in German. Anyway, it’s the end of football season and she’s on the field. There isn’t a game or anything since football season just ended, but she’s there and it’s dusk and it’s a Thursday or Friday night, almost the weekend but not totally. The sign gets struck by lightning from a clear sky. It’s a freak of nature. No one is on the field but the babysitter and she watches the singular lightning beam crunch the middle of the sign’s post like an angry pencil sharpener until the sign is bent in half into jagged wood tendrils. The broken sign is the most beautiful thing the babysitter has ever seen, so beautiful that she wrenches one half of the fallen post and shoves it into her vagina. The wood fronds are sizzling hot, fresh from the lightning, and they zap her liquidy membrane to the sound of a kettle boiling. The babysitter takes out her phone. She is physically very strong and isn’t in pain. She uploads a picture of her burnt pussy to Twitter.
This was honestly pretty gross to hear, especially from my neighbor. He relayed his kids’ babysitter’s lightning pussy fantasy to me and then clapped me on the arm. He smiled and said I gotta get back to Theresa. It took me a moment too long to realize that his wife is named something else, I think, like, Shannon. I guess I should check on my own broad. I smell dinner.
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L Scully is a living writer. They wrote SELF-ROMANCING. You can get your book licked here.
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