You don't know Nancy. Trust us, you don't want to. But if you refuse to heed our warning and just gotta get to know Nancy, grab a shovel and start digging. That's right, we're about to speak ill of the dead. Those of you with weak constitutions for necromockery may feel free to skip to the next entry. Maybe that one is a puff piece about farts or something.
Nancy, being a strong and independent will, had no need for men nor their filthy genitalia. Always a go-getter, she had learned during the Great Depression to fashion pleasurable dildos from sealing wax and pickled goat bladders.
One day, as she was strapping her life-machines to her narrow waist, her hand happened to brush her crotch, one croutoned finger barely nicking the limp bullet that once gave her her greatest happiness. “There you are,” she said, and smiled her stained smile in her foul-smelling apartment.
Lacking the arm strength due to an early and undetected bout of meningitis, Nancy could no longer pull herself up into the upper tier of the bunk bed she shared with her sister. But she had cleverly developed a system of pulleys and ramps that when mounted, would elevate her limp frame to a height where she could roll gently over onto the thin, grey, tick-ridden mattress.
As she rose to her sleep-place, her dream-place, her love-place, and ultimately her death-place, she saw it again for the first time, recalling every stain, every smear. And then, again, she was placed there, a dry, odorless fart escaping her as her brittle fingers found purchase and completed her transport.
She imagined hearing the springs creak from the lower bunk and instinctively slowed her brittle rubbing to a semi-circular pulse. But of course, there was no movement below her; there hadn't been in near a decade. Nancy giggled dryly as a beetle scurried quickly out of her sister's sunken eye-socket.
As she intensified her “lovemaking,” as she had come to refer to it, she began the ritual striking of her thigh which, as it became more vigorous, took on a splintery and ominous tone. Her rapture made her unaware, unconcerned. “I'm coming,” she cried down to her sister, who responded, as always, with a silent rictus. Then Nancy came in an unhappy spasm, the word “bummer” echoing in her hearing aid.
It was of course, Chuck's Herculean manhood she dreamt of. She would often think of his coal-black timber bursting forth with its creamy goodness as she prepared her evening tea. Had her rotting sister ears, she would've surely heard Nancy's midnight sleep ramblings of “Take me, Mandingo...”
OK, fine. Nancy was a foul-tempered crone-like mummy of a co-worker who used to spit venom and visible hate-rays at your J.E.I. staff when we were just pups. Five items that most identified her shriveled visage were: A page-boy bowl cut, a greasy lipstick-stained coffee mug clutched in her crouton-tipped talons, Magoo-like spectacles, a battery pack (strapped to her hip to fend off whatever powerful force of good it was that finally felled her) and the snicker-inducing fact that she used to smoke cigarettes in her sealed car for lunch. Cruel (you can't possibly be surprised this point)? As Frank Burns once said, "hard cheese." You didn't have to work with the bat. We win!
Also in this series...
In 1981,
