Monthly Archives: September 2008

Just Can’t Get Enough

by

Nora Robertson from Solanova

I moved to Romania for a year in 1996. There was a decaying Deco mall in Temesvar dropping chunks of leaded glass. My boyfriend’s turned up nose reddened in the cold under a fedora that an old Bulgarian restaurateur gave him, a remnant of commie Black Sea resort culture. As the plane had pulled away, Portland faded out beneath me in grayed-out swaths of rowhouses and boulevards. My boyfriend had another girlfriend, a Hungarian village girl who didn’t realize M and I were sharing a bed. There was a hotel in Iasi with white stucco and marrow-red curtains all down the gusting hallways, gypsy kiddos carrying mangy lambs in the smelly passageways of trains, a bright blue van on bright orange fire in front of lengths of unfinished apartment blocks. I tried to explain to Ildiko but was hindered by my lack of either Hungarian or the ability to sketch this in a socially tactful manner.

My mind turned into a little pocket Instamatic. I wanted to carry a super-8 camera and install a system of surveillance cameras throughout the entire region so I could adequately capture the intensity of the moment, which sometimes I couldn’t quite believe was happening. The time we were interrogated by the Serbian police and slept in a dairy factory, the laziness of 3 a.m. wrapping my hand around M’s groin and holding on as if for comfort, the first time I ever lived with a man. I came home and no one was as interested in these stories as I wanted them to be and this made me want to write a novel.

I moved to Portland and dumped M, or maybe he dumped me, it was hard to tell. First he moved out, then he made friends with B, then B and I started taking long smoke breaks during parties, the chili pepper lights glancing off the light yellow flecks in his moss-green eyes. I felt like I was melting into the crystalline structures of his irises, standing there inches away from the resiny wood smoke smell of his aftershave, and I totally forgot to notice how to describe them to myself later. Then M went down on his knees, literally, and asked me to move back in with him. B and I had already spent hours stroking each other’s hair, freaked out about who kissed who first on the stairs at Mt. Tabor Park and what that meant, taken snaps of me posing riding a brass lion the size of a VW Rabbit in B.C. There was no way M could get me back, for in B’s presence, somehow I didn’t need to record or monitor.

We moved in together and I learned to revel in the furry line of his happy trail, not that I got to follow it all that often. We noticed pigeons, and swans in Victoria Park, any pair of birds that mated for life basically. We mentioned these moments in birthday or anniversary cards. We wrote them in the inscriptions on books and mementos. He turned out to be more of a strictly affectionate person once we were living together, which was disappointing given my love of giving head, among other things. We took many photographs of our vacations together including some in different countries, of us remodeling the 1904 Victorian he bought, of him pretending to spank me with a 2’x4’ on Nye Beach, and I put them in photo albums with catchy captions. Before we got engaged, I cheated on him with an old boyfriend at my girlfriend’s wedding and admitted it, and he said he forgave me.

The birds turned into a symbol, and we put them on our wedding invitations. We tried to eat game birds at an anniversary dinner at a ruinously good restaurant and couldn’t do it. The sex had been the kind where you can’t focus on anything else but the sensations, the kind I wanted us to have. We went on a tour of Eastern Europe for our honeymoon and took a picture of me riding a brass lion the size of a VW Rabbit that we found in Prague. We went to all the places I went to with M in Romania, and many more. We put a pair of mating birds on our illustrated Jewish wedding contract, for which I ordered an enormous gold frame for and hung prominently in the hallway, a piece of paper I wound up burning later in a barbeque, not wanting to remember that moment anymore.

B left me, eight years in, out of what appears to have been a tragic sense of disappointment, at least from what he told me. The house we lived in is sold and gone, and now I watch the pale sky wash out from the patio in back of my new forties townhouse, a sluice of gray light over the glistening wet maple leaves, hoping for a fat orange harvest moon to come shock me into standing there, jaw dropped, thinking nothing at all.

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Just Can’t Get Enough

Love and Defecation

By

Adrianne Dow Young

From All 23 Bunnies and How To Eat That

Every once in a while, I read a news story about someone putting something in the microwave that they should not. It’s generally something alive and vulnerable like a puppy or baby or kitten. They are stories that have made me afraid of microwaves and the people who use them. It’s a fathomless idea– nuking something that you are going to put in your mouth– much less so nuking something that moves under its own power.

But the kitten hasn’t pooped and I’m out of ideas.

The microwave whirs ominously. A bowl of goat’s milk pudding liquefies on the carousel. In my hands squirms the loudest, hungriest, hamster-sized creature on the planet. She is scratching at my cleavage, clawing toward my heart, hoping to suckle directly from my aorta.

She takes the pudding from a 3 ml syringe. Her blue eyes squint and her mouth latches onto the tube. I press the milk into her. It’s like forcing life into her mouth and down her throat.

We had found her – small and fluffy and mew-yelling – on the corner of our property where feral cats have set up a colony. Crows had perched above her and were calling out to one another. They needed a couple more birds to show up and then they’d fall upon her. They’d surround her, a churning black cloud. Each wobble toward escape would meet with a peck. They’d go for her eyes first. Once she was blind, they’d hit the back of her neck until she was paralyzed. Once she couldn’t move, they’d eat her alive through her soft little belly.

The kitten screamed when I put her to my chest. I looked at the crows. They fell silent and waited.

She was going to die.

100% of the people who eat pickles die.

Earlier in the summer a nestling died in my hands. It turned its little head up toward me, looked at me bright and clear and then dropped motionless into my palm. It wasn’t a moment that boosted my confidence.

The microwave is incredibly efficient in warming up small amounts of goat’s milk pudding. Defrosting things –taking solid matter to a soft state – is much more difficult and I see suddenly why people put live things in the microwave. Microwaving live things makes a useless appliance an effective one.

I hold the kitten tight against my chest as I push the button that throws open the microwave door. She squeals. I pray that some demon doesn’t rush into the kitchen, pull her from my arms, put her into the lighted cavern, press “DEFROST” and “5” and “START” and turn her into goo.

You wouldn’t think this a possibility, but I didn’t think someone could look so brilliantly alive and die in the next second. It happens. One breath, they’re looking at you and in the next their blue eyes flutter grey and the light recedes from their body. Their right hand goes cold as it grips yours. It is in the warmest of moments you remember the cold sight of horror.

The kitten suckles madly and I review everything I’ve read about feeding it. Feed it belly down; feed it goat’s milk not cow’s milk; give it warm food not cold; if bubbles come out of its nose you are drowning it.

Most important: the kitten must poop. If it is over-fed, it might not poop. If it has cold milk, it might not poop. If it has cow’s milk it might not poop. If you don’t rub its genitals after feeding it, it might not poop. If you fucked up in grade-school, it might not poop.

The kitten’s stomach is as tight as a tick. I stroke its abdomen and it mew-screams. It’s hungry and full at the same time. It’s dying. I’m sure of it.

If only the microwave could help somehow. I turn away from the window and concentrate on holding the cat close. I’m not going to kill the kitten. I am not going to feel guilty when it dies. I will not go on a five-year bender if bubbles gurgle out of its nose.

More goat’s milk pudding and more belly stroking. It stretches with paws straight out and sucks like Super Hoover. Its flat little ears twitch in time with its suckling. The syringe disappears down her throat. She’s the shape of an eggplant. When I pull the empty syringe away, paws viciously box the vacant space between us.

More goat’s milk pudding. More rubbing, More urine. Bigger tummy. The kitten is so round that it looks like a billiard ball with a little cat’s head glued onto it.

She and I sit in the backyard in the sunlight. The peace of the day makes me suspicious. I roll her over onto her back and rub her abdomen in little circles. She mews lightly and looks up at me with a cocked head. Her eyes are bright and then they close. It’s a serene moment; a final poo-less moment.

The kitten is like a tube of toothpaste being squeezed. She looks at me amused and purring. Poo coils out of her. I clean her with baby wipes. She squirms in my lap. A clawless paw wraps around my pointer finger. It’s warm and alive.

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Just Can’t Get Enough

By

Intern Nathalie of Horrifying

Angela had great tits. The boys at school, they called them knockers because of the way one was constantly pushing at the other one, like a pillow fight beneath Angela’s tight school uniform. When she de-robed during P.E., she wore a bra, not the white, stretchy training kind, but the real deal, with black lace, under wire and cups that ran over with milky white flesh.

I didn’t want a bra. I was thirteen and the only thing that distinguished my breasts from the smooth, white plane of my chest was two angry, red bumps that looked like bites from a vicious mosquito. I didn’t need a bra. There was no point.

But that didn’t stop my mother, who saw a trip to the Dillard’s lingerie department as a right of passage. I hung my head as I eyed a 44F bra hanging from a mannequin like an emergency parachute. I wondered if mine would ever be that big. An itch from my right mosquito bite told me to dream on. The saleswoman was trying to be helpful. She smiled at me as she wrapped the tape measure around my bony ribcage, and then moved the tape measure up to my molehills.

‘She needs another year,’ she said.

‘You’re just a late bloomer.’

‘They’ll grow in time.’

But my mother was determined to make my adolescence as normal as possible, so she grabbed the smallest size of white, cotton training bra and headed for the cash register.

I didn’t want to wear it. ‘What exactly am I being trained for?’ I yelled, as my mother pointed me back into my bedroom to change into my bra before school. It was too tight and it left angry red marks on my skin.

The locker room became a peep show, girls showing off their pink training bras, and boasting of going up a full cup-size over the summer. I dressed with my mosquito bites facing the tiled locker-room wall. My uterus quavered monthly with a searing pain that sent me to the school nurse for a heating pad, but the visible sign of my womanhood was late to the party.

Then one day Angela pulled me aside after P.E. She told me it didn’t have to be this way. Then she reached into her polo shirt and from the depths of her bra came a wad of toilet paper. It was like I had believed the world was flat and someone had shown me a satellite image of the earth. Her breasts were still much larger than mine, but she gave her guarantee that it would work for me too.

We went to her house that night to practice. Opening a drawer, she pulled out a small, pink, lacy bra that she had outgrown. I put it on and she adjusted the straps until they fit around my small shoulders. Looking down into the cups, I saw a vast canyon between the soft pink material and my swollen chest. Reaching for a wad of toilet paper, Angela crumpled it into a ball and reached down into my right hollow and then my left. The result was underwhelming. But at the time, it was magic. I pulled my shirt back over my head and ran to the mirror. I had breasts. Or at least, it looked like I did.

‘But what about when I take it off?” I said.

‘Never take it off,’ Angela replied.

And so it went. From the time I was 13, I stuffed. I stuffed on rainy days when I would have to run to the restroom and refill my bra with dry batting. I stuffed at P.E. class when boys would accidentally-on-purpose run into my mounds du Charmin during soccer. I stuffed on my first day of high school, though by then I had moved on to pre-stuffed bras. Padded bras. Bras with gel inserts. Under-wire technology. Silicone chicken cutlets.

I sat in class pushing my tits together with my forearms, watching, waiting for them to sit pertly together like a lingerie ad, like Angela’s, who had gone to a different high school. I slept in my bra. I woke up in my bra. When I showered, my breasts were defeated, barely hanging off my chest, still the same duo of angry, red mosquito bites.

But once I put on my bra, they were reborn. They filled out new dresses. They were a hit at parties. They were groped in the backseat of numerous Toyota Corollas.

And no one ever noticed. Some girls have horror stories of trailing TP down locker-lined hallways. No one asked after mine. Sometimes, I wished they would.

Then I started working at Victoria’s Secret, my first after school job, a 30 percent discount. I spent hours untangling bra straps from one another, folding lacy panties, hanging satin negligees. Men would come in looking for their wives and girlfriends. They’d want you to model the lingerie for them. Bigger women would come in looking for support. But the bra sizes ended at 44D at Victoria’s Secret.

Most women wanted the same thing.

‘Can you make them bigger?’

‘Can you make them perkier?’

‘Can you make them younger?’

Pushing, pulling, straining in the dressing room with a 45 year old woman whose skin feels like tanned leather. Reaching into a 36C Very Sexy Lace bra in Cerulean, grabbing handfuls of tanned leather flesh and dragging it to rest at the surface. I’ve handled so many breasts that I can’t wash the scent of perfume and tit sweat out of my hands. My high school boyfriend meets me after work and unhooks my 30 percent-discount-purchase.

‘Do you like that?’

‘How does that feel?’

Tits, titties, knockers, ta tas, melons, funbags, boobs, all day, every day, jiggling and swelling in my brain. I don’t care about mine anymore.

And that’s when I quit. Not only Victoria’s Secret, but bras in general. My breasts have grown somewhat since I was 13, but are still on the pre-pubescent side. They pop through my t-shirts enough to state my sex but not enough to cause a traffic jam. My current boyfriend says they are perfect, because they fit into the palms of his hands.

I think they’re perfect too.

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Just Can’t Get Enough

By

Meagan from Unclean Conscience

Steve* had crisp blue eyes. Sometimes I was absolutely convinced that the sky was directly reflected in them. Those eyes convinced me to do many things I wouldn’t have otherwise.

Our relationship was a long distance one. Which I was used to at this point, after getting close to a few men right before I would head back to college. For some reason, I couldn’t see that my being in another city for school attracted men who had crippling fears of commitment.

If only I knew what I know now.

Steve had broken my heart a few times. Promising grandiose adventures and gifts. Promising futures and weddings. Promising happiness. And over and over he broke the promises, forgot Valentine’s days, forgot anniversaries, and of course, forgot birthdays.

But whenever another relationship ended, I headed back to Steve. He was always there. Always ready. Still promising. I fell for it over and over again. My friends would tell me not to talk to him. That he was a liar, and a cheater, and that I deserved better. I don’t know if it was that I didn’t believe them, or if I did and refused to admit it.

Steve worked with paint – on four-wheelers and surf boards, and anything he could make money from. He was actually an amazing artist – but he stuck to this because it was the world he knew. His brother was a BMX racer, and their whole family was into off roading, and any sort of outdoor activity that could potentially kill them.

I was not unwilling to try, but Steve would tell me that I was “too fragile” to go with them. That I was a princess. Which I hated being called. He never even let me attempt any of these things, and because of that – we never spent time together on the weekends. He was always off-roading with his friends – and skanky girls from their neighborhood.

I say skanky because it’s true and not because I hate them for probably blowing my boyfriend on the back of a four wheeler or in the backseat of his gigantic, ugly Jeep.

But those skanks are not the point.

One weekend, Steve called to say that he was going to come visit me at college. I was so thrilled, I told everyone in my dorm. I cleaned my room, showered and scrubbed excessively and could not wait to finally have sex with my boyfriend in a bed – instead of in a car (his usual favorite).

But when Steve showed up that Saturday, he informed me that he was actually going to get a paint order in a nearby city. He was hoping that I would come with him. I realized that he didn’t come to see me – but to get laid, conveniently.

I faked a smile and told him I would go with. At least we’d spend time together, I figured. We climbed into his bright red sports car and headed off. Steve loved taking the back roads so he could go as fast as he wanted, and scare me half to death.

We got to the nearby city, and pulled up to the shop he ordered from.

“Come in with me, babe, so I can show them what a cute girl I have” Steve said as he was staring at his reflection in the back window of the car.

“Okay” I said, highly unimpressed.

Inside, he introduced me to Dave, the owner of the shop. They talked about things I had no interest in learning about, and then Steve started talking about me to this guy who I had met approximately three minutes earlier.

“This is my girl, Meagan.” He said.

“Hi. Nice to meet you.” I shook his hand limply, but he tightened his grip.

“Steve, your girl’s stacked” he laughed.

“I know, right?” Steve replied.

I was in shock. Was he seriously doing this right in front of me? I forced out an awkward smile and prayed this day would be over soon. How stupid I was to think Steve would ever change.

On the way back, Steve pulled over on the side of the road and stopped the roaring douchebag engine.

“What are you doing?” I asked

“Well,” he said “I won’t see you for a while, so I thought we could get some lovin’ in”

I was humiliated and mad. But I would be damned if I didn’t get laid after all this bullshit.

Sex occurred as usual in the tiny red sports car – him screwing me while I waited my turn. Instead, the experience usually ended with me messy and ungratified. Because Steve loved to finish on me. Anywhere on me – chest, face, hair, mouth. He was not a picky man.

And then, it happened.

Steve pulled out to come [I presume in my mouth]. Instead, he came in my eye.

“It burns like a thousand suns” I screamed.

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Let me see” he said.

He turned on the dome light and renounced “That shit is red as fuck. It’s like a goddamn lobster!”
“Oh, fucking great” I said. “Take me home”

I slammed the door as a quiet goodbye.

“Bye babe. I call you when I get home. ILY.” He said.  He always said “ILY” instead of I love you. Should have been a fucking sign.

Then, I got back to my dorm and realized that my weeping, red eye, might be a giveaway to something unnatural.

I have always been an amazing liar.

I climbed to the top of the stairs at my building and heard the girls in the hall. They were waiting up for me.

“How was it? What did you do? Is he gone?” they echoed each other like a chorus.

“It was fine. I’m tired.” I said, holding my cum eye.

“What’s wrong with your eye?” one girl said.

“He has lots of, um, hangers in his car” I stuttered out. “And I got my eye stuck on one.”

I got in the room and slammed the door.

“This would never have happened” my roommate said, sitting in the dark, “ If you didn’t love the cock so damned much.”
*Name has been changed.

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