Published Monthly



Pussy
by Ashley Cook

I was dressed like a pussycat, for work, not for any stupid scary holiday with pumpkins or trolls or anything, but because I was sick and needed special care. No, not, really. Just an over exaggerated unconditional commitment to attend to.

The sun came out today and I was glad to see it. I was fully clothed in kitten gear and I didn’t have to wear fish net stockings, since I recently went to one of those spray-on tanning salons and my legs looked phenomenal without any thin silky webbing to cover them. Shaved. Shiny. Smooth. The hot pants were crushed velvet, spotted cheetah, gold and brown and perked my ass right out for everyone to see. The tail was long and I’m sure noticeable from a far, swing, swing, swing, an uncontrollable twitch, my self-worth, frank with nothing to hide, and I walked outside along the fence that led to the street.

There was this curious hunched over dog following me, smelling some plants, a paw in the grass, one, two, woof, and I immediately made a new friend. He sniffed my palm. He licked and snuffled my crotch and I pushed him off, bad dog! He must’ve thought I was really a pussycat, but then I would’ve been up in the tree waiting for a fireman to lift me out, gently, and it was hump day.

I was meeting my rent-a-lover customer. I loved love more than money. This was love to me. The touching of our skin, whoever he was, and I felt often that I was sort of overly sinful. The vibrations, clenching my chest, and my lover was this big and bright and beautiful thing like the bursting burning ball high above the horizon and I purred so fucking loud. I couldn’t have this man fully. I wasn’t good enough, yet. He was a sunset that was only attainable in pieces. Somewhere out there, and he rented me. I wished night after night I could sprawl out, release my chest, and not worry about the anxiety of coming home to old shabby sheets that didn’t match, a velvety white frayed and stained quilt, and all of it just for me, but what about the sun, my lover, the man and more than one good audible nooner, someone who was forever, and he didn’t have to pay me to be there night after night, it would be something I chose to do, because it felt so right.

I rode the bus to this palace place painted bee poo yellow and wound up tied to another girl back to back. My boss told me this would be kinky, but I didn’t know what to expect. The space was cluttered with books and newspapers and old costumes. She pushed her spine against mine, I felt her breathing. I didn’t like her hair color. She smelled like wet dog.

This man came out wearing nothing but silk paisley boxers and holding a bottle of water, a lighter in his left hand, and he sipped what was left, throwing the plastic trash on the floor in the corner.

Was he in a movie? I asked.

He had a small part in some teeny bopper thing, she said.

Then he must be somebody?

He’s not.

Oh.

I used to be more chipper. Maybe it was just this week. I felt more stable than last week though when I wore my mermaid thing thinking I was going to the yacht club, and I’d be all cute, but I ended up having to fuck some lonely war veteran who couldn’t stop talking about how we needed to look out for each other at all times. He locked us up in his room for seventy-two hours. I got out of there three nights ago. He paid me his whole monthly check, and I gladly took it. I turned down his offer to fly fighter jets from here to his secret hideout. Co-pilot. I was just thrilled to get the hell out of there. He didn’t tie me up, but he put camouflage on my face and made me hide in the closet, which he turned into a mini jungle with plastic fichus trees and palm fronds.

But all and all, I really just wanted to settle down.

Shut the door behind you, and I did.

I expected some other people to join us, he told me to sit on the edge of the bed and take off my top. I already had it unbuttoned pretty low, one, two, three, meow. He walked around the room in a bit of a pace, and then sat in a black leather office chair in the middle of the room in front of my face. It belonged to the desk in the corner, but he rolled over and inspected me. He stared for a long while, made me nervous, but I remembered, kinky, this was kinky.

I don’t care about money.

What do you care about? he asked.

I mumbled something about love.

There will be plenty of time for that. I need to ask you a few questions.

I’m just your average over paid hand job, I said.

Then you’re perfect. No one will suspect you. I will have it all set up, he said.

What are you dying or something? I asked and felt I cared.

They can’t diagnose it properly, and they say my white blood cells are rapidly deteriorating.

That’s a fucked up way to go, I said.

You and me. Let’s fall in love. I want to do it again one more time.

What about all those other girls waiting in the lobby?

What do you say?

And, I didn’t say. I let him perfectly remove my panties and throw them on the floor; they matched the carpet and blushed pretty in the spot where my friend, the sun, poured its version of love with specks of dust on a single, tiny colorless garment that found solace in the ground, a spotlight from outside and this man climbed on top of me.

This one was serious. Some kind of start. Just like that.

I loved the way he didn’t just screw me physically, but he screwed me mentally.

This was my match. He had many pussies to choose from. I started to make eye contact and nibbled on his neck. Purrrr…purrr…purrr. I never did that.

He took my arm and shoved it bent above my head. I wiggled underneath and pointed my toes, hard. Flex. Point. Arch. Small hairs created a forest of nervousness along my forearms and legs, I looked down and received his smooth, pink penis, and the motion was emotion. I couldn’t tell the difference between the light and darkness that covered the room, and I noticed he lived in an old theater. He named it the Yellow Palace. It used to be called The Chrysanthemum. This turned me on and he loaded me full of his leg breaking cock. I was soon on top and straddling this man until the sun went down. A bumped head and gnarled knot in the back of his head and he still kept going. I stretched my arms above my head clasping my hands, smiling, closing my eyes, relaxing my neck back and he took his soft hands, placing them on my hips.

He seized this opportunity to convince me to stay and never leave and be here when he died. He believed in the afterlife, but didn’t know where he’d go and if we’d see each other again when I, too, passed on. So, he gave me a ring. He didn’t hesitate. He said I was perfect. It sparkled on my left hand. I cried for the duration of our lovemaking. Finicky, because I was going to be somebody, not skeptical, since this guy only had a short time to live.

We drove to an all night chapel and said those words I’d never said before. Never walked down the isle. I didn’t even think it would happen like this or this fast or at all.

At The Palace, I took the bottle of wine we were sipping from and threw it against the wall. Stained. Marooned. Damaged. I was lost and he was leaving. I was out of breath.

He said, Stand in the bathroom.

The water was to the top. It steamed, clear, no bubbles, just pure and ready for me to dip inside. I couldn’t do it. I hated baths. He wanted me to get in, just as you are, he said.

I shadowed something in the night, the wall, my back against it, and I turned clawing a bit, holding, so I didn’t have to do it, but the man took all his clothes off and sat right in the tub. I soon after followed with a place on the ledge taking a sponge and squeezing love in drips and streams covering his flesh and we licked tongues, gorgeous. I rubbed the tense crap of the streets and days gone by and washed a new place to go. He got out and lounged for an hour and I watched. I curled up in the small loveseat in the corner, nippy, and the pussycat garb was at rest, hanging, trembling against the outside breeze that came in heaps and puffs while I licked the salt from the back of my hand and fell asleep.

I love you, I’d said.

I slept in. I wasn’t hungry right away. So, I went outside for a nice little loll down the way. A sad kind of joy was a rotten apple on the ground at the market place, and I saw a couple of mice chasing each other into a tipped over garbage can. Were they running away from something scary and fuzzy with sharp teeth and this was their last chance for survival?

A bee died nearby. I didn’t see exactly where it fell. I could only imagine the shift from this world to the next, and wondered if there were bees in heaven. I always liked to bat around and chase things.

I was wearing a white see through silk blouse and short denim skirt with nuder than a bathhouse of braless bitches kind of heals that were old and worn in. Leather and molded to my feet. I could stumble cute, almost intoxicated permanently, bump my hip into a man, and feel the sense of carnal distraction. Those bumped hips wanted to throw my neck and face down into the soft surface of a pillow and give it to me quick and with the tip of one of those long sensory projectors, I was the receptor, I’d been pawing for crumbs of cock and balls to swat at for years, a jingle of a bell here, my nipples freeze up over there, a silent alert over here and whiskers, motion detectors, a way to catch some prey, stalk, lower the head, and gaze from those half drooped lids over there.

This one man got in the way of my life. Now, all of a sudden, I didn’t want the biggest thing I’d always pined for at embarrassingly extreme measures. I had to move on, fuck! I was wanting to do something else. I had to put up with this love shit for a few more weeks. Maybe I wasn’t ready; maybe all that talk about settling down was just that, talk.

I entered the building. He was waiting for me. A cleaning lady came and went and left little scraps of dirty towels on the outside floor.

Who are you? I asked.

Cuddles, a girl said.

What are you doing in my house?

Mister, Mister invited me up.

That’s interesting. So, I still don’t understand why you’re here.

I was somewhat annoyed for not being consulted that (in a mocking tone) ‘Mister, Mister’ bring a dog home. I on the other hand could always wear the cat suit. I wasn’t jealous. I did this kind of stuff with past customers all the time, but we were married and I no longer had a list of clientele. This would be no different. I told myself.

I watched her with a keen eye, never letting her leave my sight as she went into the bedroom I could still see her back, tail, cute and round. I plopped onto the black leather sofa. I was prepared for this, a large jelly dessert, the nighttime sky without the stars, just pitch, stark, more blackness. I reminisced about last year’s petting zoo, one too many Misters and a horse or two, and I was relieved this was all available to me, and my man liked to be kinky.

They both came out of the bedroom and she was crawling on the floor in her doggie outfit. She was sweet smelling and someone bathed her and clipped her, cared for her, she was special, I could tell. The leash was short and tight and no way to get loose little poochie, poochie. I wanted it now, especially after he looked me in the eyes and breathed those last breaths for me. I would soon nap on his tombstone, waiting for my day to come. He shoved her face into my pussy, slid my panties to the side.

Roll over.

Cuddles went from my crotch to her back and I stretched along the large sofa and stuck my ass in the air inviting him to come and touch, caress, finger something fun. He fully discarded my panties like he did so well, and I almost came just then.

What are you thinking? I whispered in his ear.

I wanted to have a trio tonight.

This is everything I wanted to leave behind for you.

Remember what you’re here for.

He turned away. See why love gets in the way?

She hopped on my back and we were two but one and this rubber boner was winking at me. My man slopped over this nasty, almost beastly cluster of cupid’s little wet dream and entered her first. He must’ve wanted to feel the tightness of someone else, but I knew he truly lusted for me best, because, really, dogs liked pussies, I thought. He howled and I became nervous. He pumped harder, and she growled and I wasn’t so sure anymore. These thoughts were jumbled by the act of humping and it wasn’t even hump day and something called love was naked, spread thin and over. It hit me. Midnight.

This was true love.

We went out dancing late the night before. I began to cherish the things he took care of, and the smell of his cigar turned me on and never left me. Never would leave me.

Cuddles left and he promised we’d never see that bitch again.

Some real live truth. A play at The Yellow Palace. The nakedness of devotion. The lust of the stars. The romantically unclothed. A bed in the middle, huge, king size, made out of white clouds, gold sparkled along the drapes that were curtains and we were the closing act with a small spotlight. He picked me up and carried me to this place where everyone could see. He whispered for me to play along and feed off of the excitement that everyone was watching us. I felt so confident and comfortable. I grabbed his head and this was the moment of truth. A trigger from a machine gun, a howl from an Indian, the humming of a little fast-winged bird, and I was going a million miles a minute.

I soon stood by his side and smiled at the attention he gave me. His flattery and brains with a nice rack of balls. Large yarn balls to bat and make into a rat. I wanted to be out there complimenting everyone and giving them direction to be passionate and care and just fucking make them say what they had to say, always, but my anxiety was racing, thoughts were not stable, I felt as if I was going to pass out.

After the show he did the social thing, I was different, my confidence was not prepared for this green glowing center of some kind of universe, but he wanted to mingle and drink fine wine, laugh and catch up with old pussy. I waited for a long time. I checked out our unusual dwelling quarters he’d just purchased right before I met him. Who does this? Who lives in an old rundown theatre? I smelled a few things and received a testosterone high without the host. Men stuff. I loved it. I rolled around in his dirty shirts mixed with a large jacket. A hundred dollar bill fell to the floor. I picked it up and stuffed it back in his pocket. I stuck my face in the other garments and waited some more.

I remembered one day we were walking down the street to pick up the newspaper and he held my hand. It was as simple as that. He looked at me, smiled, didn’t say shit, and looking back now, I was in love. I felt it. Love. It’s not like the high that lust gives you and in the end leaves you questioning in the dust.

The crowd left. I wanted to lie in bed and just fucking hold each other, feel the breathing again and again, the unmoving nothingness when it all fell asleep. The rush, the adrenaline that pumped and shot a load right in my face. I closed my eyes and he came in wearing a large black petticoat smoking a cigar, holding a glass of wine and told me:

You are beautiful.

Thank you.

Did you see all the reactions? He asked.

I give the best head this side of La Brea. I practiced on many a cock, my friend.

What is love to you? I asked.

Love is a word thrown around and used in different ways, he said.

It can be used for bad things, I said.

It can be interpreted as good things and be bad.

The willingness to share and talk and care when you’re dying?

And when you’re not.

To love someone no matter what.

And, to let go when they don’t return that love.

It’s equal?

Should be.

But, everyone is different.

Maybe we’re just lucky to have that strange unconditional connection.

I know we just met and all of this is a bit surreal, but I feel it. It’s the little things like when you ask me how I’m doing, even though I give the same old response.

I felt right away that we could mold together.

Like a sponge.

Like clay.

Mold me.


Ashley Cook has been writing for over ten years and is enrolled in the MFA for Creative Writing program at Antioch University. She has appeared more than once as a fantasy writer for Playgirl Magazine, and also edits the literary journal Getgo Magazine. She is working on two novels, and currently resides in Murrieta, CA.

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