BDSM – A short story

Mega-mullet. Ocean City, MD. On Kodak Ektar 100 35mm, via Canon EOS Rebel G.
Mega-mullet. Ocean City, MD. On Kodak Ektar 100 35mm, via Canon EOS Rebel G.

“I’ve never been to San Francisco.”

Beth stands awkwardly on the steps outside her apartment, a fourth floor walk-up somewhere in Manhattan that she shares with three other girls and a guy but still pays too much in rent, looking kind of downward and sidelong at the homeless man asking her to elope to the City by the Bay.

“Well that’s just fine, hunneh,” the homeless man burps, “neither have I. We’ll have our first time together.”

Beth laughs inwardly at the apparently unintentional double entendre. She scratches her head even though it doesn’t itch. She keeps talking even though she wants to go inside to her goddessly gorgeous fiancé Diane Soder-Marquette, who is at the present moment unconscious.

“What would we do once we get there?” Beth asks the homeless man.

“Weeeell…” The homeless man pauses to remove the sweat-stained ball cap from his head and smooths back his wavy blonde and gray hair. “First thing we do is get married, ya see. And theeen, well. And then we live together forever and all that.” He smiles a smile at Beth that is not creepy at all, but lit with the satisfaction of purpose.

Beth is unable to contain her amusement this time, humming one of those close-lipped chuckles of condescension. She glances up at the street where a couple of teenage Asian boys are unloading a blue denim sofa from a U-Haul van. A woman who appears to be their mother is making sure they know not to drop it. She’s white maybe. Dark hair, skin like tile grout, has a face with a nose and eyes and a mouth. Maybe she is Asian? Or mixed. Whatever.

Beth looks back to the homeless man, who is now looking at her feet with his eyes closed. The slightest sway swells from his knees to his shoulders. He suddenly opens his eyes and straightens up. He looks maybe sober. Pretty handsome for a bum, though clearly insane, Beth thinks.

That satisfied smile peeks back into the corners of his mouth as he raises his hand a bit, about nipple height, as if to speak. He then vomits an oblong streak of creamy golden liquid speckled with what looks like ham that lands exactly six-and-a-half inches from Beth’s toes, splashing of course all over her slipper-looking shoe things.

“ ‘pologize, miss.” The homeless man replaces his hat and walks loosely down the sidewalk toward the park at the end of the block.

The humor not lost on her, Beth is frozen between laughter and shouting something to the man about getting his life together. Her mouth agape, she peers down at the amorphous strands of egg-nogish splatter decorating her from the knee down. A chunk of the mystery meat rolls gently off her right toe. At that very moment, a bird swoops past and makes a deposit to the spot between Beth’s shoulder blades where it can slide neatly down her spine beneath the back of her blouse.

“What. the. ffffffUCK YOU!” Beth doesn’t really yell, but says it in that volume teachers use to get their pupils’ attention.

This startles the two boys across the street, and they of course drop the denim sofa, one end scraping a car parked behind the van. Their possibly Asian mother stands, mouth agape, looking alternately at the sofa, the boys, and Beth.

“Fuck YOU!!” She screeches.

“What…?” Beth looks up and realizes what’s happened.

“Oh, no! No, no! I was, I just…”

The whitish lady takes one slow step off the curb, lips in a tight line across her face, then begins marching at an ominously not-too-quick pace towards Beth.

“Hey hold on,” Beth whines. “I wasn’t talking…”

She’s quitting this situation, she decides. She closes her mouth and pulls her bag around off her side. With one eye on the incoming missile, she fishes her keys out from under her wallet and tampons and lipstick. She turns to the door and slides the key into the lock.

“Hey! Where the FUCK are you going, huh?!”

Beth peeks back ever so quickly to see her new neighbor reaching the near curb at an ominously quicker pace. She turns the key, enters, slams the steel door or whatever it’s made of, and sprints the four flights up to her floor. Somewhere between the second and third floor she begins laughing. As her eyes reach the height of the fourth floor landing, she sees a person on the floor.

It takes a few more steps for Beth to realize it’s her beloved fiancé Diane Soder-Marquette, peacefully splayed out on the polished conglomerate. This realization breaks her concentration, of course, so she clips the top stair with her right foot. Poor Beth, having been climbing at full speed, and now horizontal in the stale but homey air above the fourth floor landing, is still moving forward at a considerable rate and so glides precisely head first into her door, instantly achieving a concussed, unconscious brain. She crumples like a stomped soda can and comes to rest with her face on the smooth, cool floor beside Diane’s left foot, her vomity legs cradled by Diane’s breasts and swollen abdomen.

See, Diane had been artificially inseminated, and also implanted with a fertilized egg of Beth’s (so neither could claim to be the “real” mother at some theoretically contentious future junction) – both women’s eggs receiving the same donor sperm – after a lengthy and diligent year of discussion and planning that almost ruined their engagement. Earlier in the day, this day – in which Beth was both barfed and shit upon, Diane Soder-Marquette reached the fourth floor landing and strode toward the door as her water broke. Somehow it snuck right up on her, the amniotic fluid gushing out mid-stride and splashing under her right foot. She stepped in it, of course, and slipped. Diane went full horizontal and cracked her head on the polished conglomerate.

So now the two lay head-to-foot in an incredibly horrible and glorious and twisted sixty-nine, bathed in bird shit and vomit and baby juice.

They’ll be fine. The child will be fine. He will be born hours later and grew from Beth’s egg, but no one knows that. He will grow into a carefree, confident man with wavy blonde hair and a bit of a drinking habit.

The homeless man’s name was Joseph, by the way, but the guys call him Perkins. He is frequently charitable with his alone time – “Nothing better than jerking off for money!”

The child probably isn’t his, statistically speaking.


What are your thoughts?