Pongo #76

Miffy

After three days of rice, I use what is left of the internet to sell Telar lamps, leather-bound books, an Anellin umbrella, and various other name-brand nick-nacks that say nothing about me, all for a tenth of their original price. I push them to the post office on a go-kart, an old prop from Little Racer, some softcore number I did just after turning twenty three. Then I go back home and sift through the rest of my stuff.

The publicity stills get me. I remember the photographic room in the studio was always so cold, almost to the point of calcifying my nipples, but Marty would wheel in a porta-heater and blast warm air until I had a synthetic summer to pose in. I put the stills to one side. Not quite ready to sell those yet.

Two messages blink on the answerphone from industry folk who obviously never got the message about my subscription. One asking if there’s any chance I can squeeze in a half-hour oral special, working title The Littlest Cumslut. The other wants to know if I still have reservations about fisting, as there are six figures up for grabs from Dolly Pictures for an uncle scene.

I mean, seriously. You have in effect an eight year old girl having sex in front, willingly, consensually, and with a strong sense of bloody subtlety, so that she can act innocent even when she’s been through this rigmoral countless times, and cute as a button, and yet you’re still not satisfied. Seen that. Now I want her impaled on a spike as she fellates a football team while wearing blue suspenders. I mean, fisting? It’s task enough for an adult to get anything bigger than a finger up there, surely, and that’s with a full-scale arsehole. A whole fist up a kid’s?
Moral implications aside, it’s surely not physically possible, let alone something you could fake enjoyment of for the camera. You’d cleave the poor thing. I’ve always preferred not to take a chance with wrecking my digestive tract. Still, no need to worry about that now, although I do miss everybody very much. They’ll probably be away to another studio. It carries on.

There was only one dress left after I had my rage episode. Well, the main episode, anyway; there were several. I’m guessing all the other costumes have been impounded by now, along with negatives, film reels, props and general memorabilia, following several carefully annotated raids on the studio. So that’s it. Marty’s career is now a bulletpoint list in police custody. Making it all the harder to part with things I know I’ll never get back without a warrant.

Anyway, this dress was always my favourite. It’s one custom-made for me by Frog Rocket, a little box of a shop on Verden Way that sells necklaces made of milk teeth and other odds and sods. I wandered in one time, a bit drunk, and slurred that I’d quite like a frock of theirs, but that it was all too big. To demonstrate, I think I slid an empire line job over my head. It fell over me, mushing on the floor in a big pile of silk which I stepped out of, hands in “y’see?” mode. So they sort of took pity on me, or fell in love, which is the same thing, and agreed there and then to measure me up for a mini version of one of their one-off numbers – a cupcake-sweet lavender ballgown, of the ilk worn by Meddy Hauxton back in the god-knows-whens. I liked it because it was adult, but it fit me. When I wore it, I could pretend I had boobs and a normal, not-for-profit sex life.

He always liked that one best too. Marty was never a big fan of my prissier, more precious garb. He walked me past niche shops for dwarves, not saying anything, but deliberately off-route. One day I strolled in dressed onto set in nothing but a pinstriped shirt, whose shoulder seam almost hit my elbows, and whose sleeves gathered dust in furry cufflets. This was after, you know, tears at bedtime. I think he called cut and practically carried me to his office.

Why him? Why was I so ridiculously in love with him? Of all the possible answers (he listened, he knew me, he was a friend first), one remains, unquestioned. Marty had a very small dick. I really think that’s it. After a day of trying to squeeze a truncheon into a sachet, when I still wanted sex, because I’d not had an orgy so much as a busy day at the office, I just wanted a man with a manageable dick. And he understood that, and he wanted a girl who wanted a guy like that. And those girls are rare.

I don’t know how it would have turned out. I mean, the size difference these days is negligible between pestle and mortar. Maybe I’m over-egging this. I mean, there’s a strong chance that after a time, I would have gotten bored, or he would have gotten bored. There’d have been arguments over window cleaning. Maybe the sex would have waned after a month. By this point, I dare say I would have hated his tiny prick. I shudder to think of myself buying twelve inch rubber monsters from the East City shag shops then disappearing them, inch by excruciating inch, into myself, like some magician’s trick. Even now, I prefer the nudge rather than the choke that he gave me in bed.
After the mourn comes the horn, or so it would seem. In the past few days, it feels like my vagina, in between its random monsoons of blood and other substances, has been howling at the moon.

Only I’m still mourning, so this is so inappropriate.

Bit stretched between my belly and my libido right now. You can eat supposedly nourishing staple foods only until a certain point, despite what the survival guides tell you. After that your appetite folds its arms and starts screaming for some variation. Well mine does. I don’t know about you.