Brandi Wells

Liz was not looking for love, because she had a laptop and couldn't imagine loving anyone the way she loved that laptop. She liked sex though. Liz only slept with men who were virgins. She found them everywhere. She could spot them buying groceries or walking their dogs or waiting in line at the post office. They had a certain look, a certain smell. She liked to sleep with these men because they had no sexual experience or previous partner to compare her to. She got these men to whistle and click like dolphins. She had them cover themselves in yellow mustard. She dressed them up and down, had them make noises or gestures, and do complicated dances. Liz never ran out of new ideas. Sometimes they would have actual intercourse but mostly she would beg off. Oh I'm so tired, she'd say, wiping the mustard from her face. Couldn't possibly, she'd say. They understood. They knew that sometimes a woman changed her mind and they hoped they hadn't done anything wrong, hadn't grimaced noticeably at her requests and turned her off.

These men believed everything she said, because Liz had slept with so many men and had glorious tits. They believed in tits if nothing else.

On the night before her birthday Liz took a new man, named Mark, home from the bar. He was very tough inside the bar, flirting and showing her how to play pool even though she was pretty good at pool. He made a big show of grabbing her ass in front of his friends. He admitted his virgin-hood on the ride home. He whispered so their driver wouldn't hear, but she repeated it loudly. Mark didn't flinch, so Liz said it again and still he didn't flinch. He was looking at her, making all kinds of eye contact and not even glancing at her tits, which were sort of wild and free that night.

As soon as they got through her front door, she told him what she always told them. Don't worry. I'll tell you what to do. You'll be a natural. I can tell.

Mark nodded and started kissing her.

No, not that, she said. Take off your clothes. Crawl around on the floor. I love it. Bark like a dog. Yeah.

Mark crawled and barked and didn't look ashamed. He got into it. He nipped at her leggings and tried to hump her leg.

Bad dog, she said. Bad. She swatted at him and he crouched, wiggling his butt and averting eye contact.

Make me dinner, she said, because she was kind of hungry. Gets me super hot, she said.

He made her a very small pizza and told her she could eat it all, so she did.

Cover yourself in soy sauce, she said, and he did. Cover yourself in honey. In lime juice. In pickle juice.

Dance, she screamed. Dance like you are at one of those dance-a-thons and if you quit dancing nobody gets a heart transplant ever.

Mark danced and danced. He sweated. Clearly everyone was getting the heart they needed.

Cut your face, she said. Laugh while you do it. Open your mouth wider. Wider, she screamed.

Mark was crying but obeying.

It went on that way all night. Mark was horribly disfigured and very tired. He spooned her in bed. She could feel the blood on the back of her neck, slick and cool.

Make the dolphin sound again, she whispered, and he did. He made that dolphin sound until she fell asleep in his arms and she slept that way all night.

Brandi Wells' most recent book is THIS BORING APOCALYPSE. She lives in Los Angeles.

Detail of collage on main page courtesy of Mariana Fossatti.

Read BW's postcard, and see more of her work in the archive.

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