Date with a dustmite continued
Revisiting fully now the thorny present, I at last booted up through consciousness into vocalization: "Dah-dah-dah dah-di-dah… Omicron Kappa… OK!"
Air currents attested he was nodding in reply (X-ray vision kicking in and out - interference from fireflies!) He withdrew from the anterior of her GI, or so I presumed from the slurp. She then unhitched, uncurled her sticky, juicy legs; waddled off my pelvis.
I got up. Turned around.
Quick as jitterbug chairs the transparent cad occupied the throne; Dinah settled stat onto his lucid unit. Next staccatoed the scritchy suck of her legs enwrapping his own femurs, tibias, tarsals.
After, however, a few desultory humps, she paused midstroke to reach down and pick up off the floor a flake of rotten skin; next to it something chitonous - spider pedipalp piece, cootie cuticle, flea knuckle, maybe vintage flywing chip. Hard to ascertain, as I was peering out through tears of jealousy, tears of lechery, tears of oh-hell-let's-get-it-over-with.
When she had done with her snack, into her clothespin yap I jimmied my johnson. To the hilt she swallowed. Bobbed too deep, in fact - so game my little Dinah. I pulled out, just as she regurgitated a spurt bristly with termite mica, pinworm egg, cockroach stalk, plus numerous choice moldy dandruff chunks.
The set - a 1929 brothel made over into a Cheops throne room - began to stink like a sweatsock mortuary. But she hopped to it. A promising hausfrau, Di gobbled back up the regurgitate. Then blindly resought my crotch, poised a micron above her seated form.
I gaped down the upturned snorkel of her esophagus. She seemed OK. Dah-dah-dah dah-di-dah. Dinah was mute. Didn't have any eyes; her kind don't. Two good reasons figured I could always trust Dinah. Till tonight. Our first date. God - a threeway, on the first!
And I wondered if maybe back in the Pentateuch the original Dinah had been a mite…
A couple token ruts - as if she were having difficulty backing into the parking slot of the I. M…. then Dinah again stooped to conquer another bite down on the highpile rug.
Drifting back to rumination… if the original Dinah were a mite complicit… Consider: the circumcision joke got played on the neighbors because their guy had defiled sister Di. Sometimes it takes two to defile. At least two...
Sure enough, when Dinah cranked her head back up, she held in her outerspace kisser one of her very own shitballs. Greedily she clutched the enzyme-wrapped goodie. Slammed back down on the Invisible Man with renewed intensity.
The Genesis Dinah persisted to bug me. The text eschews rape; says instead violate. Christ, she probably violated the poor goy - you know how aggressive Jewish gals get.
Well, OK: I am God. Godman. I mean, I'm God, man - this is my dream. And I'm a man, so God thinks manly. I'm not really a sexcrazed homophobic misogynistic racist closet god. Just in my wildest dreams.
I mean, I could see the I. M. violating Dinah. Bombed on theoretical drugs. Probably his job at that quantum factory; collapsed his ghost world; waved moral probability clear off the map. No doubt about it, guys like that - especially when you don't see them around - rape all the time. They should be castrated. Locked up. Killed at least once a week.
But if the poor neighbor goy was a guy like me… when I'm not playing God… Who is after all no goy at all… Jewish as they come…
Smelled, out of nowhere, subterranean tidepool - like a school of transparent cave fish just finished finning away from grabby spelunkers. Fish sweat… exertion persp…
The I. M. broke into bugles relegating pleasure to the bathos of fecal materialism. I felt icky, as if participating in the orgasm of a poltergeist.
Ah… down here below in the mini-micro anything goes. Logic no more particular than a shredder. Consistency the path to the trash compactor.
Twisted thoughts back to the visible:
The shitball looked big enough to golf with. And not unlike a ruptured golfball, it was unraveling - protruding strings of poop; stuck to her hot lips, queued up to follow the train of nourishment already oozing down her gullet.
I sniffed, from where I stood, the bouquet - cankered violets, ethyl mercaptan, gangrene, fungal tangerine; with a glow of nitre, suggesting a probable Clorox finish. Swelling my alveoli with this multifaceted asafetida, I grew soused with arousal. Approached mesmerically my straining member to her foodhole. Then - bingo! - remembered:
In the Big World, these dung pellets - which Dinah and her tribe traditionally excrete with the intent of returning to later for just such serendipitous treats - when inhaled into human lungs become allergens. No - this no innocent shitball; this the vector of asthma, pneumonia, TB - cancer?
Fear entombed perfume. Into the vacuum hissed ozone. This what I wanted? Well, I did lack the romance of cancer; asthma kinda sexy, too… but what if I catch a virus make my dick fall off? Hey - Carlos could go cast a net elsewhere.
I next appeared all zipped up back down in the car. Alone. Up on the screen blood flew, as a Frankenstein knockoff chainsawed the Invisible Man; the script making his blood - and now even gaudy gobbets of guts - visible in glistening color. The Fly - adorned with the head of the Incredible Shrinking Man - squealed off the wall into the tornado of gore.
Regarded in my lap my hand. Intoned softly to everyone in particular, "I am realing. This is real. This really is my hand."
I lit a cigarette. Scrunched around on the vinyl. Out of pocket hoisted keys. Switched on ignition. Hit lights. Snapped off emergency. Prepared to blow this popsicle stand.
Twisted around - Camel dangled from lip - make sure nobody behind. Nobody was. Found reverse.
For a moment - just an iffy jiffy - I felt debonair, free as a mitochrondrion, light as a chromosome, in my 1958 four-door Bel Air; and it was, sure, Dinah belting, "See the USA in your Chevrolet!"
And while backing out, gentling through argyle sock and alligator Wegian the pedal - in the back of my head the Invisible Man falsettos, "Hey - ya wanna switch?"
Dah-dah-dah Lah-di-dah - we all disappear on the old banjo.
END
(Date with a Dustmite was previously published in Mad Hatters' Review)
