Spackle

(explicit sexual content. There is a bug in this submission page as I know for a fact I have over 1000 words but it keeps coming back telling me I do not have enough words... therefore, I am adding this lovely little bit of verbiage to put me over the top)

Spackle

“My former fiancé tried to shoot me.”

They were naked and knackered wondering what to do after their introductory inaugural marathon sex. She was curled on her side, he was lying on his stomach across the width of the bed, his penis tucked under his left thigh. After, what in his mind, was a shredding performance, it was backstage now, waiting to sign autographs. She was just the right size to stretch out her foot and play pat-a-cake on his cute ass.

New lovers usually engage in the best pillow talk. Ok, she’ll bite.

“Oh my goodness, babes! That’s terrible!”

“Oh, yes! It’s so true!” He is animated like a cartoon character. He tells her how this fiancé of his, walked into the lobby of his apartment the day after they had a break-up fight. “She thought I was cheating on her, and of course, I was not! She kept implying that I was a sociopath and a liar! Can you believe it?” He seemed to be over-emoting but she didn’t know him well enough to be sure that wasn’t his usual oratory style. “She couldn’t be reasoned with!” he whines.

“I don’t know.” She was about to say something about how women don’t normally broach the cheating topic unless they have good reason to but she pulls her punch. Let’s see where this is going.

           “But what happened next,” and he tees this up like a movie trailer, “was beyond all explanation! Simply unbelievable!”  

“Simply unbelievable,” echoes the little voice inside her head that hangs out most of the time, reading Nietzsche, smoking puff, and occasionally reminding her, if things seemed fishy, that she was, in fact, a rather savvy babe.

His puppy dog eyes are glazing over now. “So, the next day, she comes up the stairs and rings my bell. But when I looked through the peephole, I saw I was staring down the barrel of a gun! A forty-five, for Chrissake!” 

“How could he tell that?” asks the voice.

“Sush, I wanna hear this,” mollifying the voice. “Besides, get a load of those butt cheeks!”

 He is in the zone now. Lies are opiated and steady beats that sync with the pulse in his veins.

“Immediately, and with instincts, I honed from my years as a child prodigy,” he informs her, “I crouched! And just in time too, because she fired directly into the hole. A single shot! And then she simply walked away. Never said a word!”  

He looks over for effect and is deflated because he gets nothing.

“And then, I never heard from her again.” He delivers this final line like he is embodying the moral at the end of a fable.

“Wow, that IS unbelievable, Babes” She is twirling her curl, still playing pat-a-cake on those tragically honest butt cheeks. “And a child prodigy you say?”

“Oh yes! My mother had me reading the New York Times when I was seven,” he says it like the consummate classroom dork who needs to hold onto a semblance of dignity seeing how he gets wedgies on a daily basis. She doesn’t respond, so he keeps slathering on the icing. “The bullet! It sailed clean through the room and lodged itself in my living room wall!”

She is concentrating on arching her foot like a ballerina so she can stroke that ass. “Oh, wow, Babe.,”  

“I had to pay a fortune to get a new door!” He chortles. “They almost evicted me!” 

Then he grins large and shakes his head because, let’s face it, who is cooler than he? It’s a secret grin emanating from years in the making, deep inside his dark self-aggrandized prodigious cranium. “Boy,” he thinks. “I can’t believe I have so many real-life stories to talk about!” He is bursting with joy and the giddy seeps out through those adorable puppy dog eyes, burning away the odd glaze.

“You’re pretty impressive, babes,” she smiles, not really at him, but rather at his gold-medal butt.

He snickers to himself thinking, “I really know how to impress women, don’t I?” He is an eight-year-old kid who has just discovered where his older brother hides the porno mags. Life is sneaky and erotic and devious and transient and perfect.

His magnificently mendacious mind is racing now; the next time she comes over he will be sure to tell her about the time he single-handedly beat to a bloody pulp three gangster hoodlums in an alleyway with a random board of nails which just happened to be lying on the ground. Then again, there’s always the one about the time he lifted a bothersome hobo over his head and tossed him onto the New York City subway tracks seconds before a train raced through. Luckily, there were no witnesses. 

           “Somehow, telling you about my past gets me hot.” He peeks over to gauge her reaction but she’s already checking her cell phone for messages. There’s gotta be another dude on OKCupid who might be just as hot but not such a creepy wackadoodle.  

He can’t read her expression so he unfurls his dirty-devil forked tongue and slithers his face in between her legs. He thinks he eats pussy like an Old Testament hero: like Job or maybe Jonah, before all that bad shit happened.

“Mmm,” she coos. “You’ll have to show me that bullet hole later, babes.”

“Well, heh-heh, yes, but you can’t see it now,” re-surfacing, his lying lips glistening. “I repaired it with spackle.” Satisfied with his answer he goes back underground like a groundhog terrified of the sun goddess. 

“Spackle” muses the voice.

 “I know, I know,” she agrees with the voice.

            She will be sure to have some fun spackling that sweet lyin’ ass one last time.

*EDITOR’S NOTE: It is with an ironic twist of sadness that we regret to inform our readers that Ms. Pollak’s protagonist was, in fact, shot and injured in his cool Manhattan apartment just days after we decided to go to print. It seems as if he was not a lying confabulist after all. The author requests any get-well messages to be forwarded to the John Wayne Bobbit recovery division of Manhattan General.