George Sparling


    Emily was a paranoid schizophrenic and took major tranquillizers. Beer was my drug and I drank lots of it. I wasn’t receiving disability checks as she was. On our first “date” I leered at her when we climbed out of the community pool. How tight her bathing suit was around her crotch. I figured she wouldn’t detect my eyeballing. Emily told me later she liked my sly glances. “How did you like my Miss Universe legs, Alan?”

     She had long, straight black hair, lips of pink lipstick always slightly smeared, and sometimes she’d flail a single braid gently on her breasts. I was aroused, concealing it by making goofy faces, batting my eyes like a silent screen ingénue. She laughed, blushed, and gently shook my hand. Her teeth were brownish, and even with one chipped incisor, her smile got to me where it hurt. Sometimes she’d get paranoid, and say, “Holy hell goddamn, don’t hurt me, Alan.”

     I took her to R-rated movies. After seeing  “Fatal Attraction,” starring Michael Douglas, we walked to a nearby knick-knack store. I especially remembered one item she bought, a statue of a pot-bellied, nearly naked man except for a tiny towel wrapped around his midsection. When she lifted it up, out popped the man’s erection.

     Once she found some hardcore porno magazines in a Dumpster behind her apartment building. She shared them with me as we sat on her bed, our bodies touching. 

     Suddenly, she began having sex with many men, breaking away from a ghettoized crew of mentally ill she had once known, and became pregnant. She never knew the man who fathered her child. Had I opened her up to a wider, wilder world?

     “A cute baby boy. Looks like you except for that cleft chin like Michael Douglas,” I said. She didn’t recall him from the movie. When the infant was eight-weeks old, she found him dead in the bathtub, just a small amount of water drowning him. After the burial, she stripped down to her white panties.

     “So sweet, that cute dimple on his chin,” she said. She cried, not much, but enough for me to put my arm around her. She dressed and I decided to leave.

        The day after the funeral, I bought a twelve-pack. 

     “Let’s drink to your new life,” I said.

     “My doctor said I shouldn’t drink alcohol because of the meds.”

     “Oh, come on, you’re strong enough. That won’t happen.” I lied.

     “OK, just one.” After our first beer, I handed her another one.

     “Let’s drink more,” I said and she complied. We slurped them all down. We had sex for the first time, the best sex I ever had, I dominant for the first time, she passive, easy, the beautiful one.

     “I’d better take a shower and sober up,” she said.

    After too long gone, I walked to the bathroom and saw blood seep from her head, she facedown in two inches of water. Emily was twenty-eight. I went to the funeral and stood at her grave, and before they lowered the casket, I threw the statue of little man with a reared erect cock into the hole. I taped the towel up so she could be near a man’s hard-on forever.           


©2012 This work is the property of the author.


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