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Fruit Smoothie

In Fiction on May 12, 2010 at 9:27 pm

Mary says, “You’re a bastard,” and looks at me like I stuck her cat, a bad luck Bombay named Batman, in a blender. And blended it.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“You’re a real bastard.”

She’s sitting like a Native-American in my desk chair, swiveling back and forth. Her blonde hair is hanging on for dear life. She’s incredibly naked. That’s my fault. She throws a pen at me—also my fault, but not as prescient as it seems. I can’t believe this is already the third consecutive night we’ve ended up together. This third time we’re at my parent’s house, in my parent’s basement. I’ve already written her a story, and usually I don’t write a story for a girl until at least the third date. What kind of writer do you think I am?

“Would you like to talk about it?” I say.

Mary bursts out of the chair and says, “No,” then steals my favorite sweatshirt and tomorrow’s boxers.

“You’re not going to stick that,” she says, pointing down at me, “anywhere near me, until you write me a good story.” I’m happy to get off so easy.

“I have written you a story.”

“Jason, you said that wasn’t about me.”

“I know it wasn’t about you,” I say, “but I wrote it for you.”

“Then I want you to write a story about me. Also, it cannot be as bad as the last one.”

“That isn’t how I work.”

“So start.”

Somehow, she has acquired a rubber band for her hair. Not many people use rubber bands anymore. I don’t even know what they used to be for. I tell her it’ll lead to split ends.

“You’re a bastard.”

“See you tonight.”

“You’d better have something good for me.”

“The best fruit smoothie you’ve ever had.”

Mary walks out the door wearing a rubber band, men’s boxers, an extra large sweatshirt, and a smile. I did my best.

I go from my bed to my desk and stare at the chair Mary was naked in. She left juice or goop or the liquid delight that lasts all night on the leather, but I sit down anyway and get started. I think I’ll call this one ‘Fruit Smoothie’.

THE END

This story is about a girl I know. Me, personally. The narrator of this story—a piece I plan on titling ‘Whores Don’t Dance’. We went to school together and ran into each other on some cloudy Friday, shopping for condoms in the town’s only liberal market. I figured we could turn it into a half-off sale if I took her back home and kicked out the girl who was asleep on my bed.

This girl—having replaced the tart on my bed—is named Marie. She’s going to have a great personality, a rare thing, so any weary reader is probably going to take that out on himself by masturbating. I hope this helps. Marie is two inches shorter than 5’10” at a worldly twenty-seven years old. She’s got dark brown hair that curls three times before hitting her fourth spinal vertebrae if you shake her. Her facial features are, on the whole, symmetrical—although her smile slants slightly to the left if you’re looking at her and she smiles at you. A button nose with a small horizontal piercing and two extra holes in each ear. She was the child of a German wet nurse and a Filipino male nurse so her skin is pretty white. With brown eyes and full eyebrows. Those arcs are the most human element of her face. Her lipstick is a polyglot fluent in MAC and Sephora. The cheap stuff. She tells me it isn’t cheap. I say it makes her look cheap, like a used car that people used to smoke in and now they’ve got to put up a new air freshener before every test drive because you can never get the smell out. I don’t know anything about the lips beneath the paint. Her mouth tastes alkaline. The skin on her neck is soft, her whole body is soft. She’s got three tattoos that read like those Russian dolls on her upper back: ‘Ryan,’ ‘BRyan,’ and ‘I hate BRyan’. Her tits are soft too. Marie’s got the gazongas of a younger woman contained behind a 32B cup, but they can support themselves. Small nipples. I wouldn’t say top five all time, but I’ve seen a lot of them. She’s got a belly button. Both of her legs are pragmatic tools for getting around. They’re not good for anything except coming apart like she’s making a snow angel under my sheets. Her girl parts are all there, scarcely tufted. Marie’s feet are Californian, tanned around flip-flop straps. She paints her toes, fingernails, eyelids.

We made it back to the house that I owned free and clear. I told her this and she took her gym shorts off in my foyer. I tried to give her a blowjob and I couldn’t believe it, but she didn’t want one. She kept going on about how you can’t give girls blowjobs, so I slept with her twice, then went to sleep with her.

In the morning she was gone. I made it in to the office shortly before I was to be considered “unforgivably late.” Dwayne was already in the cubicle next to me. There was a hole in the wall between our cells that we used to discuss important things.

“Dwayne.”

“Jay? Man, it’s late as fuck. This as late as Dwayne get a bitch every time she take his wondercock inside her.”

“What did you do last night?” I asked.

“I gave myself a hand job with y’all mamma’s hands and then the white devil gimme a sponge bath.”

“You’re not supposed to talk like that to me. I am your direct superior.”

“Just because you white don’t make you superior. It makes you a racist mothafucker. You racist!”

Dwayne had a half-black grandmother but if we got more sun in this town, I’d have darker skin than him. We’re friends anyway. He tells me all the time that when The Whitepocalypse comes he’s going to protect me with his darkness.

“I’m not racist. Know why? I slept with a Filipino model last night,” I said.

“Alright, that’s what I been tellin’ you. Gotta talk to a girl then take her clothes off then stick yourself into her,” he said.

“That’s right, Dwayne. That’s right.”

“But at the same time, you is a cracker. How is Dwayne supposed to know that you ain’t payin’ a Filipino prostitute?”

“She’s a dancer,” I said.

“Ah, good point. Whores don’t dance. What the fuck was her name then, tornado bait?”

“Tornado bait! Nice, that’s a new one.”

“Yeah, I love keepin’ my race war relevant, fresh as death. But don’t y’all change the subject, cracker. I was educated properly. I know all about the times white devils try and change the subject. What was her name?”

“Marie,” I said.

“How white is that shit spelled?”

Dwayne was constantly offended by white people spelling names with unacceptable letters. Kate with a C-I, Dylan with two Y’s. He had a newspaper clipping written by a girl named Sara o’Polo. With a C and an E. And a U. And also an H, because you were an accident and your mother is Irish Catholic, you asshole.

“With an I-E,” I said.

“Damn. You sure she Filipino?”

“Yeah, she was too tight to be white,” I said.

“Damn. So, Frosty, what else? What happened?”

“Not much. She smelled real good,” I said.

“Mmm, love a woman smell good. What she smell like? Palm trees and suntan lotion?”

“She’s not from the Philippines. You won’t like it if I tell you what she smelled like.”

“Why the fuck not, you cracker? Did she smell racist?”

“She smelled like watermelons,” I said.

“You racist mothafucker!”

“I didn’t pick out her shampoo!”

“You smelled it though, cracker. How could you?”

“Sorry Dwayne, I didn’t mean it,” I said.

“Anything else racist happen between you two racist hate-the-black-man in-white-love pieces of shit?”

“Nope. That’s pretty much the whole story.”

Dwayne wanted to get out of his cubicle one day and at some point became convinced that the best way for him to get paid in wire transfers was to become a profiler for the FBI, like his hero Shemar Moore. He wanted to learn how to walk up to girls and tell them their favorite color (because he thinks if you can tell a girl her favorite color she’ll suck you off), but there isn’t any way to predict things like that so he takes it out on me.

“Then you a racist mothafucker today, cracker. More than usual, you racist mothafucker.”

“What the hell did I say?” I said.

“Alright, y’all said three things. First was, you said you slept with her. That means you didn’t enjoy it like Dwayne enjoy a sleeping with. You woulda come in here and tell me you got laid, maybe screwed a ho. Second thing, y’all call her Filipino like it a bad thing. You ain’t gonna get to fuck no more exotic bitches like that when you an old shriveled balls white man in five years—”

“I’m twenty-four! I’m going to be one year younger than you are right now in five years. Are your balls old and shriveled?”

“No, but that’s because I ain’t no fuckin’ white man gonna be all shriveled ass-ball white man in five years. That’s fo’ sho. Now, as I was saying before the white man come take my voice from me like I a slave, ain’t no way you woulda said you slept with a white bitch. That’s normal for a cracka like yo’self. It’s different if she a Filipino. Yo’ ancestor ain’t never own no Filipino.”

“You don’t know that,” I said.

“You right, ain’t no limit to how much of a racist mothafucker the white man gonn’ be. Thanks for correcting my mistakes, you gwelio. Oh, third. Sayin’ she a model. That some bullshit. It means ya not attracted to her. Least not as much as other people. Otherwise, you say she hot. Attractive. Fuck, you white so prolly call the bitch beautiful. No bitch beautiful to Dwayne.”

“Thanks Dwayne. I feel better now.”

“Anytime Jay. Honky.”

At about eleven we received our mail from a fat woman who had a nickname for all of us. She wasn’t very inventive—she called me JJ and Dwayne Batman. She must have done that one time too many, because Dwayne snapped when she said, “Here’s your mail, Batman.”

He leapt over the mail cart like Superman and as he was beating the mail carrier to death he shouted, “Just cause I’m black don’t mean I’m Batman! I could easily be Tiger Woods, you racist!”

#

“What is this?” Mary asks, throwing the pages back at me. She misses because she throws like a girl. Batman is now trapped under my sheets, and I’m under Mary’s.

“I wrote you a story.”

“Are you cheating on me?” she asks.

“How could I be cheating on you? We had sex for the first time like ten hours ago.”

“Maybe you’re just a cheater.”

“No. I’m not cheating. I’m just not done with the story yet. Just thought you’d like to see it in progress.”

“It’s not as good as my stories.”

“I read your stuff. What do you think about burning all of it?” I say.

“Ass.”

“What do you want me to say? You write like a woman.”

“I am a woman.”

“That’s no excuse,” I say.

It’s night, but it looks like dawn outside Mary’s floor to ceiling windows, so I have no idea what time she is having this conversation at me. She has taken over the couch I claimed as my own while she was at work, still wearing her black work uniform on her legs. It’s sexy in a modern way. I’ve seen so much depravity that the only thing that feels erotic to me anymore is the casual. A girl putting her bra on, in a hurry to get to work, has become more appealing than a girl taking her bra off slowly in an effort to make the act sexual. Mary takes off her uniform and goes to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

“Wouldn’t you rather talk about my story than have sex?”

“A or E?” she asks.

“Than with an A.”

“No. Your story was worse than income tax.”

“State or Federal?”

“Federal!” she shouts.

“Wow. Alright, how can I make it better?”

“You can’t. You cannot make it better,” she says, putting the toothbrush back in the bathroom. I love a girl with fresh breath.

“I was thinking about having Dwayne go on a monologue about gay people. Something like, ‘Why do you hate gay people so much, America? They’re not even black!’ and then Jay says that they can be and that those are the ones to really watch out for.”

“Oh my god. Will these shut you up?”

She takes off her bra. She is trying to entice me.

“Put your tit holster back on. We’ve had too much sex.”

She walks to the bed I’m lying in. She takes off her glow in the dark panties and throws them at a window, so the world can see that they say “CONGRATULATIONS.” She stands over me on the bed. I look into the gaping chasm of her vagina.

“Maybe we could do something other than each other,” I say.

Mary sighs and snaps her legs shut, kicking them over the edge of the bed and leaning back to land next to me. She says, “Like an orgy?”

“No. Like what if we try to stay up as late as we can.”

“Are you eight? I can stay up as late as I want to.”

“No coffee.”

“Then I’d fall asleep,” she says.

“I don’t think you’re following me.”

“I’m going to bend over now.”

She bends over. I think that if this were a story, I’d liken her ass to two superciliously vainglorious pieces of ham that I’m about to honey glaze.

“Let’s compromise,” I say, standing up.

“Okay.”

“We stay up as late as we can—”

“Dammit Jason—”

“But we start by seeing how late we can still be having sex.”

“Hurry up then.”

Three times in as many hours. Batman is impressed. It’s still long short of daylight. I start to think about where else we can spend our borrowed hours. Mary’s place is a few blocks from an ambitious pond that managed to get itself titled a lake on recent land surveys. I drag myself out of bed and throw on a jacket and pants. She does the same and locks the door behind us.

We pass out, wrapped around each other on six yards of coastline, as the sun starts to climb the stepladder sky.

When I make coffee for us on the ridiculous machine she owns I accidentally make espresso twice before figuring out how to make an honest cup. I like my coffee African but Mary is partial to octoroon. I ask if she is trying to re-enact the one drop rule and she backhands me. She is going to let me stay at her place again while she’s at work, and tells me to finish my story the way a waitress asks if you want another drink after you’ve already paid.

I’m leading Batman across the kitchen tiles with a laser pointer when Mary puts on her digital watch and two sprays of perfume that make her smell sweeter than the most forbidden fruit, and at least twice as forbidden.

“Have fun at work,” she says, walking out the door. I don’t like to think about it that way.

I open my notebook and reread the piece, then continue it.

#

The next day, after I slept with Marie and sailed into her brown harbor with my dick—which is to say, I had both kinds of anal sex with her—I foolishly decided to ask Dwayne through the hole we shared what the most unusual or deplorable sex act he’s ever committed is.

“Consensual or non-consensual?”

“Non-consensual first,” I said.

“Well, one time I gave a girl a Flaming Amazon.”

“Jesus. Did it work?”

“No. She wasn’t pleased, and they didn’t grow back.”

“What about consensual?”

“Got involved in a circle of life. You know that story.”

Dwayne’s proudest moment was being involved in a circle of life. That’s when you go down on a girl who is breastfeeding her child at the same time. I’m not sure I’d tell the story every time I’m at a dinner party with mixed company and children like Dwayne does, but I’m not the one who had the circle of life. I suppose being that vital member, the hypotenuse of the circle, gives you certain rights. But something is wrong with Dwayne.

“You’re not talking normal,” I said.

“I got some bad news, man.”

“Oh no. The HIV.”

“No, not the HIV, mothafucker. Other things happen to black people!”

“Sorry,” I said, relieved. I wasn’t about to lose Dwayne before he could tell me what happened on American Idol last night.

“It’s about that girl you fucked.”

“Am fucking. Present tense. I haven’t seen the other side of my bed in two days.”

“That makes what I’m about to tell you even harder, Jay. I want you to promise not to tar and feather me.”

“Alright. I promise not to tar and feather you,” I said, with my fingers crossed behind my back.

“She sounded familiar… so I looked her up in my little white book (Dwayne keeps a little white book—racial reclamation or something) and as it turns out, I have tasted that taint. You have been where Dwayne has been.”

I made a snap decision between recoiling in horror, possibly falling out of my fabric chair at the idea that Dwayne had widened Marie’s vagina irrevocably, and taking it in stride.

Taking it in stride, I said, “It’s alright, man.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll just dump her. I’ve been working on a breakup plan.”

“Only a roundeyes would work on a breakup plan?” he asks hopefully. I laugh.

“Only a roundeyes like me, Dwayne,” I said.

“You is a racist cracker sometimes. Not today though. Today Dwayne gonna treat you like you treated his ancestors. Like three-fifths a person.”

“Glad to have you back.”

“Felt like I was talking to a plantation owner and he was debating between me and some Filipino name like Marie with a I-E.”

“Do me a favor?”

“Sure thing, saltine!”

“Bring your sister back to dinner soon. I’d like to embargo that Maginot line again.”

Dwayne had one button you could push: his half-sister. The girl, unlike Dwayne, was a white minority. She was named Rhodesia. She is studying Greek Mythology at the best directional university in the southern part of the state. After their mother and father died trying to get change out of a vending machine, he adopted the girl and raised her like his own daughter, even going so far as to change her name to Zimbabwe.

“You racist, trash bag, slave-owning, bottom-feeding… white man! Y’all mamma pussy fuck like a Chinese finger trap.”

“For your Chinese dick, sure.”

“Nah, belegana. Dwayne packing eight double D batteries in his lighthouse of a cock. And he never have to recharge. He’s like a hybrid. Regenerative brakes!”

“Alright. Fair enough. But you asked for it. There was no reason to tell me that you had fucked Marie. I know what you always say.”

“What the fuck do I always say then, white devil?”

“Once you have Dwayne it just ain’t the same. Yo’ pussy, that is.”

I spent the rest of that day filing paperwork and pushing macaroons (Dwayne’s “favorite fruit”) through the cubicle hole we shared, looking forward to my night-time delivery. All too often girls had broken up with me. This was going to be the thing that allowed me to say in future, “Yeah. Every girl—except one—I’ve ever dated has broken up with me. But that one made it all worth it.”

Marie walked into my house with a smile on her face. I was waiting for her. I jumped to my feet, leaving my underwear on the couch by means of a trick I learned in college.

“Your cunt is a necropolis and I’m leaving you!” I shouted, dangling aimlessly.

I put my boxers back on and began to dance the Macarena on my coffee table.

#

After Mary got off work, she forced me to leave. But she came back to my place with me. Women. It’s a pity that she hasn’t brought Batman with her. The furball understands me.

“This is even worse than the first part. Jesus. You’re a horrible writer. What makes you think I’ll ever sleep with you again?” Mary asks, throwing the pages back at me like it’ll matter this time. It doesn’t.

“Because you’re a nymphomaniac whose girl bits were built just for me.”

“Other than that? There are plot holes, and there isn’t even a plot.”

“What plot holes?” I ask.

“Dwayne beat a mail carrier to death in the last installment. Why isn’t he in prison? Why are they just back to a normal day at work?”

“Because he hired Johnnie Cochran. Duh. It’s called show don’t tell.”

“No it’s not,” she says.

“Yes it is.”

“No it’s not!”

“Yes, it is. Who is the published writer here?”

“No, it isn’t! I don’t care if you were Jane Austen, hiring Johnnie Cochran does not constitute an example of show don’t tell.”

“Agree to disagree,” I suggest.

“Fine, Jason. Fine. You win. I’ve got better things to do than argue with you.”

“No you don’t,” I say.

“Believe me, I have so many better things to do than read your writing about an octoroon.”

“That’s racist. What if I made him an occasion?”

She asks me what an occasion is, and I have to explain it to her. Who doesn’t know that an occasion is a person who is one-eighth Caucasian? Her only response to this discovery is to lower her head and shake it dejectedly. She asks God (I think) how this could have happened to her.

“Listen, it’s just how it happened. Some stories come out of my pen-pussy as teenagers, sometimes even adults. This wasn’t one of them,” I say.

“Your pen-pussy. Unbelievable.”

“Yup. My ball point uterus. You’re going to make a metaphorical crawl up that Fallopian tube and after I gestate you for a period of approximately two weeks, you’re going to pop out in the truly gruesome event of creative man-birth as a girl named Diana or Dana. You’re going to have to ride a rollercoaster with somebody.”

“That story sounds horrible. Even if it is about me, I hate rollercoasters. Also, I hate your writing.”

“That’s no way to get into my pants. Want to know how to get into my pants? Want me to scratch that non-infectious itch down in your cock pocket? Make praise love to me, Mary. Call me the kind of writer you wouldn’t want to read in translation.”

“Why not? Maybe the translator could make it less shit.”

“This is shocking coming from you,” I say.

“What does that mean?”

“You write like a trash compactor dreams, babe. Sorry!”

“I thought you hated Tom Robbins metaphors,” she says.

“I do. That’s a simile, to begin with. To end with, what would a trash compactor dream of? Turning little garbage into bigger garbage. You write the same way, you turn the little garbage of your life, like your shoes—your fucking shoes—into big garbage on the page.”

“How about this for a metaphor? Your dick reminds me of flash fiction.”

“Well, being a better writer than you, flash fiction to me does not mean that I can’t get to a good ending. It means I got to a good ending too soon. In your pussy. Does this mean you’ve been faking it?”

“That doesn’t even make any sense! You’re a bastard. I’m just going to fuck the first guy I find. I don’t need you. Other things have cocks.” Mary looks around the basement I live in and spits on my floor.

“Fine. I lied. The story is about you.”

“No it’s not. Don’t lie.”

“There’s one part that is about you. The girl I’m making love to on a regular basis—I’d even say dating,” her eyes light up and I continue, “she’s got a ton of positive traits.”

“Then praise fuck me, Jason.”

“I’d love to. Your hair smells like watermelons, your skin tastes like kiwis, I like to think of your vagina as my personal banana peel, and your clit kinda reminds me of a raspberry.”

“What the fuck? Am I just a fucking fruit smoothie to you?” she asks, as an angry rage comes over her face.

“I really like fruit smoothies.”

NOT THE END, ACTUALLY THE BEGINNING

Clay Heller is a writer who lives in Irvine. He has been trying unsuccessfully to get his story ‘Fruit Smoothie’ fully understood by someone — anyone.

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  1. Sorry Clay, but I didn’t get it.

  2. i really enjoyed this story. i really understood it. i wish it had more f***ing in it. like a pussy tornado

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