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I dreamed of butter. I dreamed bigger than big. I thought I’d be bigger than this. I thought I’d be better.

I dreamed of a butterface- I know it’s supposed to be “but her” but I always loved butter. I had this picture in my head of a face smeared, dripping in butter. My mother always told me that I had skin so soft it was like butter. Megan would say it was because I was so greasy.

The dream woman- surely a woman, for a man cannot be a butter of any kind- she was lumpish like a slew of eggs stuffed into a gossamer stocking. She wasn’t a butterface, nor a butterbody- but, carefully placed in the mess of swollen growths of gooseflesh, two pearls emerged. Her face was a fog, but her nipples were exquisite, rosy and silken. Rather slight in scale, no larger than two dimes, but I can spot a knockout pair of knockers from a mile away. You know, they always say the cold ones look best, but I don’t know, I don’t really think that’s true.

I always worried that the grand old lady in the mirror was a butterface, herself. I guess I must be like that pig lady from the myth. Like the shaved bear being poked, poked, poked with a stick. Like a marble sculpture with an unfinished botched blob of a mug. A sad mug, sad because she’s ugly. An ugly mug. Drip, drip, dripping in butter.

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