Substitute Soul Mates

(I)

Lance longs for Lexi. He admires her clinical efficiency. Sometimes her vagina is on loan and Lance respects Lexi’s selection process. Lexi’s cologne and/or body wash reminds Lance of his favorite step-aunt’s media room. Aunt Stephanie was always burning some kind of magical candle in there, a weird wonderful cross between kiwi and anchovies. Lexi agrees to lunch but she keeps checking her New Kids On The Block watch.

“Are you really a fan? Of those guys?” Lance asks. He is laughing. Any answer she gives will be correct. Her eyes are the color of canned olives. The green ones. Not the black ones. She doesn’t smile much. She doesn’t give much away. Lance wonders if perhaps Lexi is a Capricorn with Taurus rising and an elephant moon.
“Of course I was a fan when they they first hit MTV. I was ten. My panties got wet whenever the one with the curly hair hit the high notes.”
“Oh. Wow.” The idea of Lexi’s wet panties has reduced Lance to a monosyllabic dipshit.
“I’ve got to go,” Lexi says.

Then she is gone. That night Lance wants to rub his penis as he thinks of Lexi but he refrains. He doesn’t want Lexi to be a masturbatory fantasy in the tradition of Cindy Crawford, Heather Locklear, Kate Hudson and Whoopi Goldberg. No. Hell no! As a matter of fact, hellll no with marshmallows on top. Lance wants Lexi to be his special lady, everything he needs and more. Lance has a gut feeling, an irritable bowel syndrome sensation, that Lexi is his Soul Mate, the one woman God made especially for him to enjoy. Lance wonders if Lexi is allergic to hyacinths. Roses are so common.

(II)

It snowed in every state but Hawaii that February. Mama chalked it up to the End Times. “And Obama is the Anti-Christ,” she said from her recliner, exhaling Doral menthol smoke. Mama was watching “Judge Judy” and drinking Diet Cherry Pepsi Cola. A Tony’s supreme pizza was baking crispy in the oven.
“How do you figure?” Huck asked from the sofa. He was sending text messages to his favorite female on his cheap ass Cricket phone.
“Well, he’s black. And he’s a Muslim. And he’s good-lookin’ and a lot of people believe he’s the shit. If somebody killed that man there would be anarchy worldwide. It would start World War III. Go check on that damn pizza.”

Huck took the pizza out of the oven. He cut it in half with a bread butter knife. He took Mama her half on a paper plate. Huck took all the toppings off his half and feed them to Stinky Butt, Mama’s beloved ancient teacup poodle. As Huck ate his pizza he thought about Jesus and Satan and Obama and skinheads and cheerleaders and discount rodeos and Buffet Blitz and generic toaster pastries (not Pop-Tarts…pretend Pop-Tarts) and Spam quesadillas and Coconut, his favorite female. Mama hated Coconut. She didn’t know what the hell Coconut was. Coconut was a mystery. Her genetics were not clearly defined. Coconut’s mama was a Mexican or something similar. Coconut’s daddy must have been part Japanese or something similar and part black. Nobody knew for sure. Too, Coconut was a witch. She played with a Ouija board and a Magic 8-Ball. She had long shoe polish black hair and she only wore black clothes. She never smiled or cracked jokes. She didn’t believe in eating pizza or drinking soda. “She just ain’t right,” Mama told Huck again and again to no effect. Huck was sold on Coconut. He wanted to marry her but Coconut said, “The institution of marriage doesn’t interest me, especially in Texas. If I want to escape this state I’m going to have to keep my wits about me.”

Coconut had sex with Huck sometimes but only oral. She didn’t believe in birth control. “It fucks with my shit. All forms of birth control fuck with my shit,” Coconut explained to Huck the first time they went down on each other. Coconut had multiple orgasms on a regular basis and this pleased Huck. Most girls he had been with were incapable of achieving one orgasm, let alone a series of orgasms. “It’s so cool how her pussy quivers. Man, it’s the best,” Huck confided in his best friend, Sammy.
“That sounds supernatural to me,” Sammy said. Sammy’s girlfriends, Liz Beth and Andromeda, did not orgasm. They shopped.

(III)

“Jesus was gay. Quoth Sir Elton John,” Dougal said. Dougal was driving his dusty plum GTO. His wife sat beside him. She was looking out the window at the show offy clown clouds and taco billboards.
“I’ve heard that yogurt will help my yeast infection,” Natasha murmured.
“I’m sure it will but did you hear me? Did you hear what I just said? Sir Elton John claims that Jesus was gay!”
“Well, the bible has been changed so many times by so many different random fuckers. All those languages. Something lost in translation, surely. I wonder why Elton John thinks Jesus was gay?”
“Because he dressed totally fabulous and he sucked a mean cock. His best friends were fishers and hookers. He emoted quite a bit. Hell, I don’t know. Why does Elton John say anything? Maybe record sales are down and he doesn’t want to play Vegas like Liberace and Elvis. Maybe he hasn’t been in US Weekly lately and needs some glorious ass swizzling press.”
“I need some ass swizzling press. Where in the fuck of all fuckity fuck is my ass swizzling press? You Google my name and all that comes up is that one book I wrote ten months ago and published myself at lulu.com. Oh, and those nude photos you took of me and sent to Sublime Directory when we were separated and you were jonesin’ for some revenge. I hate those photos. My tits aren’t really that small. The lighting and the angle were really shitty.”
“I need a martini milkshake.”
“Sounds good. There’s Rooster Ruckus up there on the right. Let’s splurge.”

At Rooster Ruckus Dougal ordered a strawberry martini milkshake and Cajun onion rings. Natasha ordered a chocolate martini milkshake and frog legs. “True Love Ways” by Buddy Holly was playing on the Ultra Deluxe Wurlitzer near the potty rooms. Dougal’s eyes watered with nostalgia. Dougal’s mother had played the greatest hits of Buddy Holly, The Guess Who, Paul Anka and Bobby Darin while spring cleaning when Dougal was a wee lad. The smell of Pine-Sol and Windex also made Dougal’s eyes water with nostalgia. Natasha was nothing at all like Dougal’s mother. Natasha was not an alcoholic and her hair was not blonde and stringy. Also, she wasn’t much for spring cleaning or any other kind.

“I’m sorry,” Dougal said. He stared with intensity into Natasha’s cornflower eyes.
“Why are you sorry? And why are you staring at me like a soap opera actor?”
“I’m sorry for submitting those nude pictures of you to Sublime Directory. I still look at those sometimes and jack off whenever you aren’t around or aren’t in the mood.”
“That warms the cockles of my heart, darling. I’m glad those images of me bring you pleasure.”
“Are you being sarcastic, my love?”
“Maybe just an itty bitty bit.”

Later that night in Las Vegas Dougal hit the jackpot. Doggy style with Natasha in their king size bed in their twenty dollar room. “Heaven keeps exploding its confetti all over my soul,” Dougal said with a sigh.
“Heaven. God. Yes. Our own personal cascarone,” Natasha agreed.

IV

Dear Spider,

I’m responding to your ad at Craig’s List because I am curious, lonely, horny and stupid. You look hot in the photograph. By “hot” I mean you remind me of Potsy from “Happy Days.” I fantasized about Potsy often and now I am fantasizing about you even though Potsy was wholesome and preppy and clean-cut, a real All-American gee whiz Wally kind of guy, and you are in prison for drugs and weapons. What did you do, exactly? I live in a small town in Oklahoma. I have lived a pretty sheltered life. What do you mean by “drugs and weapons”? Did you shoot someone because they wouldn’t give you any marijuana cigarettes or crack cocaine? I’ve never had a drug problem. I was at a party once where they were serving Sudafed cupcakes but I did not indulge. I have never been married so I have never thought about committing any crimes. I do not have any children. I have only had sex three or four times and it was always with the same person, my high school sweetheart. He used condoms. He’s married to a woman he met at a rodeo in Muskogee. They have a baby. I am not jealous. I live in a trailer house that was willed to me by my great-grandfather. I mostly paint with acrylics and oils and take pictures of myself. Oh, and I have a pet turtle named Gary Busey. I really feel sorry for the guy, based on what I saw on “Celebrity Rehab With Dr. Drew.” Well, I guess I’ll get this in the mail. I hope you write back. Thanks.

With Utmost Sincerity,
Shayna Lynne

Dear Shayna Lynne,

Thanks for sending me the nude photographs. I guarantee you they will come in handy. Ha. I am laughing out loud as I write this letter and I never laugh. Not much to laugh about in these bleak parts. You say you are stupid but I don’t believe it for a minute. You come across as highly intelligent in your letter. Keep those letters coming, girl. I want to be friends with you! I never watched “Happy Days” but that Potsy character sounds cool as shit. I doubt he is as sexy as me, though. Ha. What did I do exactly? I’ll give you the short and sweet version. An officer of the law, otherwise known as a pig, pulled me over for driving eighty in a school zone. It was Sunday and there weren’t any kids around but whatever. He gave me a sobriety test and I flunked it with flying colors. He found my gun and my merchandise. I was a speed dealer by trade. I made a decent living but when I get out of this hell hole I will walk the straight and narrow, maybe work on cars at my Uncle Jericho’s garage. You’ve never done drugs or gotten married or had kids so yes ma’am…you are smart. I hope to meet you and Mr. Gary Busey someday. Write back S-O-O-N-E-R. That is a joke but I mean it!

Awaiting Yer Reply,
Spider

(original version written and published in 2010)

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