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TALK SHOW HOST

April 25, 2018

I wouldn’t be able to tell you the full story… You know how they say don’t kiss and tell… Well… I’m going to do just that. Well, kind of. But, you know, there are certain memories that can only be physical, the ones you can feel and refeel again deep inside your stomach, still warm.

 

There was the first- you never really forget your first. He was pale blue, no spring chicken either, pooling at the foot of the bed. It was my sister’s bed. Sometime in or around the witching hour or the devil’s hour or whatever you call it. I didn’t have to touch him to feel the deep creases of buttery corpulent flesh beneath his terrycloth robe. He wouldn’t look at me, and to be honest I didn’t want him to.

 

I wasn’t spotless, even then. I always knew I had something ancient, a sort of visitor milking my blood. They would show themselves to me. I was so young, I can’t remember the first time I saw them, eyes twinkling, leering heavy through the mirror. It was like a little dance, they would pull the edges of my lips into a curl, and I would pull them back down, like a skirt in the wind. Like a real Marilyn Monroe over the subway breath, my unfaithful skirt tugging again and again until I can’t look any longer... I can’t help myself, I have to look at the floor to remember where I am.

 

I had done other things, too. Had been hypnotized by the radio over and over. They wanted me to do stuff, stuff you don’t learn about in girls school. The juices leaked into my head until it couldn’t hold any more, and I’d shudder awake to my bright room, or a school toilet, wondering how long I’d gone missing.

 

Excuse me… I forgot… We were talking about, about the blue man. I had been frozen before but... I had been waiting for someone, but someone never came, not till now. A ragdoll, lying on my back, they say it happens more when you lie on your back, I stared at the blue man, my eyes the only organ willing to perform. His eyes only staring at the closed window. I guess we can stop there, it’s one of the more boring ones I guess… I don’t want to be boring.

 

Since then, I’ve had my share of company in the nighttime. Different sheets in different rooms, sometimes in different states, you get the picture. I have a certain “je ne sais quoi,” what can I say. I lure them in like moths to a tea light. They all want something, everyone wants something. Sometimes they want something I don’t have.

 

I can still feel the mother and her two children twisting and squeezing my stomach sore. Her children they must have been five or six, beautiful children. Spiders with sweet pea heads. Their pretty faces laughed as they hit me as hard as they could and bit my arms raw.

 

I can still feel the resident assistant, six of her tickling me all over, long and thorough enough until it burned.

 

I can still see the little girl next to my bed covered in dirt.

 

I can still see the demon in a loin cloth towering in the smooch of my room. The grim reaper sitting on my legs. I have to laugh a little when the visitors are the ones I’ve been expecting, the obvious ones. In some ways I guess the important ones? The famous ones?

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