Editor’s Choice – Excerpt from Whimsytown, USA

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October 31, 2011 by The Citron Review

by Melissa Chadburn

The moment The Lady Dressed Like a Whore came to town: you see, being one of the few transplants to Whimsytown I had an advantage. Being from a big city I had access to a certain brand of vanity that others did not.  Women from all over town turned to me as an authority on dating and fashion. They thought I knew things they did not.  In return I settled into their lifestyle.  I stopped counting carbohydrates and calories, I wore the same thing more than once in a week.  I added plaid and flannel to my wardrobe.  I let myself settle into a couple pairs of flats.  And then finally after much prodding and pleading I too, like every other member of this town stopped resisting and developed my own signature casserole dish. I called it ‘Black Feminist Casserole’ and included in it fried chicken and goat cheese and often served it flambé style beneath a burning bra.

I remember the first time I served it, Jacques the bakery owner (who was not French but his mom spelled his name that way so as to sound French) plucked the tag off the bra and exclaimed with a misplaced sense of pride, “34C That’s good! That’s the one everyone wants! I think that’s the one Susie got.” He was not referring to a real person he knew but a competitor on American Idol that got a boob job every time she won. My famous ‘Black Feminist Casserole’ was soon renamed ‘34C casserole’.

The Woman Dressed Like A Whore swept through the store and picked up several items and put them down.  She had on black pumps and fishnet stockings and I don’t need to tell you the rest.

Every couple of seconds she would exclaim, “Es Todo” with a flair of the wrist and look around. She did this to fit in with the Spanish speakers but there weren’t any.

“What is she saying?” Carla asked

“She’s from L.A.” I said.

The Lady Dressed Like A Whore must have heard me because her eyes got large and she zeroed in on me with sharp black pupils and perfectly waxed arched eyebrows and asked, “Es todo?”

Her black eyes flickered with a brief moment of disgust at my flannel shirt.  And it felt like a wind full of sand slapped my face.

“Yes this is all.” I looked at Carla apologetically, “Hey I gotta go home and do some stuff.”  I quickly ran up to my apartment to change.

Just below my window I saw her walking by.  She walked down the street with ease and grace a small crowd forming around her. My dog, Friend, got excited at the sound of her chirp, “Es todo?” and ran downstairs to join her.  Friend immediately did what all the other people had been fantasizing about.  He jumped up and humped her calf.  She did not notice as she wandered into the bakery and was embraced in all the sweet smells of baked goods and carbohydrates in a way that she hadn’t been since she was in grade school.  Jacques handed her a chocolate croissant, she took one bite and gasped she got doe-eyed and teary, her skin flush like someone that just had an orgasm, then poof she exhaled a long sweet sultry moan, the most satisfied moan. I could hear her moan in my apartment. She moaned in unison with Friend. They both sounded satiated for the first time. The moment before she passed out in fully satiated glee her long mascaraed eye lashes fluttered and she whispered, “todo.” Friend quickly crumpled at her feet and then took three big slobbery laps at her face. And this is how it came to be that the town suddenly thought my dog was named “Toto”.

And just like that the town was hit with new person fever.  I noticed it most the next day when I went to the town diner for lunch.  I heard the girls at the booth opposite mine ordering, “I’ll have a cheeseburger protein style.”  And the other girl said, “I’ll have a cheeseburger animal style.”  The waitress asked “Would you like anything else?”  and the girls responded in unison, “Es todo.”  Animal style? I knew those words sounded familiar and then I noticed something else as I looked around the diner.  The buns! Where were they?  They were missing!  No one was eating bread or French fries! 

UGH! I stormed out of the diner and bumped into the Lady Dressed Like a Whore on my way out.

“Let’s fuck.”  She said.

“What?”

“Let’s rub pussies together.”

“Why?”

“Who cares?  I’m curious is why.”

“Ummmm.” I did not know how to respond to this.  I decided to ignore her and just let her follow me to my place.

I walked a couple paces then turned back to check if she was there and she kept on being there… so I kept on thinking shewantstofuckshewantstofuckshewantstofuck

When we got to my place she followed me up the whole way.  Once inside her hair was all over. Her hair filled all the rooms and I never had a woman prettier than me in my place.  I never had a woman that had all that hair but I began to fill with the thrill of it running all over me. Her hair was in the living room and the bathroom and the kitchen and falling out the windows….

She was tall and thin and everything about her was dainty her skin was like toasted almonds and her eyes were wide and as she began to undress I thought about how pretty she was and how again I don’t like to fuck people that are pretty in this way. That maybe when I was younger I harbored fantasies for naughty naughty women. Big busted blonde women in Playboy that looked at me longingly even then even at seven years old hammering up against the soft creased edge of a mattress I did it partially out of malice.  I wanted to say and do the dirtiest things to them and had no guilt or shame because they were them with their white guilt and their big pink pussies and their daddy’s and mommies and big lollipops.  I defiled them with my little girl bucking movements and little girl fantasies and now here she was Dressed Like A Whore albeit but also elegant and pretty and getting more and more naked and I was getting intimidated and this was making me wet.

I ran to my bedroom, that already had her hair draped all over it. I gently moved her hair off the bed and lay there naked. She came to me. 

“Touch yourself. While I tell you something.”

Nervous, hesitant.  I moved toward my pussy.  I was disappointed.  I do not like touching myself but I did not want to tell her.  Now snap! Like a fantasy it was over I was pretending for her now.  That I liked this thing when I didn’t.

I sort of fluffed with my hair a little bit.

“What? You do not like to do that?”

I perked up.  Shook my head no.

She walked closer. “Here let me.”

She let her long fingertips slowly graze up and down.  It was a tease. It was a good good tease.

“Do you know why I’m here?”

I shook my head no.  Let out a moan.

“They were about to change the name of this town. Do you know what to?”

I let out a moan she was going deeper with her fingers, exploring the insides.

“O.K. Plateau Place. Do you know what it is? An okay plateau?”

She plunged her hand in deep. It was an explosion it was fireworks there was hair and unicorns and rainbow and the most amazing thick tough soft fingers finding the gold pushing in deep I was exploding in a way that made me embarrassed in a way that I hadn’t done in so long.  My fingers found my clit I lost control I was hammering away with her. I screamed I screamed I screamed

“OKAY OKAY OKAY.”

She whispered “No. Not okay. An okay plateau is when you get to a place where you are comfortable and you stop. The OK plateau is what most people reach, even after considerable work to acquire a new skill”

I tried to pay attention to what she was saying but everything was too sensitive.

“Michael Jordan?” I asked.

“Yes, he left when he was at the top because he knew he had reached his own personal OK plateau and the only place for him to go was down.”

I felt a sudden urge to pee.  “No.” I whimpered it meant Yes.

“Hold on now. Have you read a novel from a famous novelist that has already reached the top of their game, like Morrison’s A Mercy?”

This got my attention.  I love Morrison but she was right… A Mercy was okay.

“There are tons of examples here honey, writers, painters, architects, typists, engineers, chefs, receptionists, and towns…whole towns can reach OK plateaus.”

Her hand went deeper. She found it she found the golden point.  She stuffed her face between my thighs and licked and sucked and kissed. I was pleading whimpering it was too much I wanted her to stop until another wave hit I came, and squirted and screamed “FUCCKKKKKKKKK! YES! YES! YES!”  “O—-BA—-MA! OBAMA OBAMA” I was shaking and crying and laughing and shaking.

 “THAT’S RIGHT GO BIG! GO MAJOR!”

She left shortly after that. The town returned to whimsy my dog is called Friend, the diners and bakery serve carbs, and all the people are floating around town on little content clouds, not just “Okay” content “Obama” content.

 

After studying law Melissa Chadburn obtained an MFA from Antioch University.  She is a lover and a fighter, a union rep, a social arsonist, a writer, a lesbian, of color, smart, edgy and fun. Her work has appeared or is upcoming in Guernica, PANK Magazine, WordRiot, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, Splinter Generation, Northville Review and elsewhere. She loves pit bulls and cheese. Reach her at fictiongrrrl(at) gmail.com or follow her on twitter http://twitter.com/#!/melissachadburn. Oh and, she loves your whole outfit right now.

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