Dreams and Nightmares, Experimental, Fiction, Hardboiled, Short Stories, Weird

The Secret of Pornography

He might have brought her out to the playground in an old wheelbarrow–but, most likely, it was in a child’s red wagon.

The place was deserted, at any rate; and that was good. That meant that there would be no disturbances, no prying eyes or questioning law enforcement officers. Only him and her.

They stood for a moment in the pastel light streaking between the grey, lowering clouds. She was wearing only a loose-fitting shirt. He lifted her quickly out of the conveyance, not liking the weird, squirming bulk of her legless torso against his flesh. His own flesh, he reflected, was whole; however, but for want of legs, the lady would have been undeniably appealing.

Her loose, dark and curly hair fell to her shoulders. Her face was a little too pale, too thin; there was a circle and a line or two around the circumference of the eye, and, upon consideration, he felt that the fact of her deformity somehow marred whatever residual facial beauty she might possess. As if, in a sense, this “Original Sin” corrupted her. He supposed thinking in this fashion made him a heel, but he was that anyway.

Her skin was pale, the color of skim milk; or, maybe, a certain cheese. Her wrists and arms were thin and skeletal. She might have, if situations had been different, made someone an attractive, pleasing wife.

Around them, the rusted echo of the abandoned playground lot still reverberated the ghostly wail of children shrieking in bygone days, their little minds lost in tornadoes of playtime fun, while mothers (grown undeniably fatter and older now) hovered like visiting spacecraft in the flyblown sunshine, sweat cooling to their bodies in the gentle breeze.

Now, the place was a weed-choked wasteland of pitched beer bottles, food wrappers, tin cans and like garbage, all nesting, like some sort of reverse treasure, amidst the brittle crabgrass. On one side, a busy intersection was flanked by so many fast food emporiums and down-at-the-heels shopping centers.

On the other side was an apartmnt complex that was largely overrun with drugs. Or so he had heard. Whatever the objective truth, it, too, had seen more prosperous days.

In between, shaded by a bit of wooden fence, a bit of tree, rested this sordid Elysium of smut. He had shot here before, never been disturbed.

“Is it safe?”

She seemed a little concerned, but continued to smile. He reflected that her lips were a little too square, too bright, her mouth a little too wide.

“Yeah, I guess so. Maybe don’t swing so hard.”

She let the shirt slip away, gripped the chain-links tight in her hands. Her body was blindingly pale. She was, quite literally, the whitest woman he had ever seen. And her breasts were like tiny, saggy lumps. The effect, he noted, deflated any erotic excitement she migth otherwise have engendered in even the most desperate man.

She smiled tolerably. She began to pull at the chains a little, then realized this might send her off the tottering swing, and waited for him to get behind and push.

“Hold on tight!” he said, but he didn’t push hard. Perhaps he should have taped her thighs with surgical tape or something, as a precaution.

Her womanhood was vast and hairy, nestled between the stumps of her thighs. As she swung forward and back, he positioned himself beneath her, so as to get the best shot for his customers. It was a sight that most would have found baffling, grotesque; at the least, they would have wondered at the bizarre fetishes and sexual kinks that attracted some men to women missing arms, missing legs, displayed like sides of meat in prehistoric playgrounds, situated between drug combat zones and decrepit hamburger stands.

Back and forth, her underside forming a new, quick work of art, something he could assimilate in shape and size and color and scent; in the contours of his consciousness later, when he was alone.
He paid her under the table of course. He wondered what her family, friends would think of such part-time work. Probably they would curl up an eyelash, or think him a member of organized crime; or, at the very least, warn her that he was a DANGER.

No matter. Her cold shadow fell over him. He took a few more snaps.

The secret of pornography was in the offing.

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