She was a real supermodel, long of limb, with perfect skin, Apollonian poise, a leonine gaze that made lingerie, diamond rings, lipstick, and private wealth management brochures fly off the shelves, and like all of her breed the imperfections were hard to find, so when you found them—and, boy, did you look—they slapped you in the face with all their ungoddesslike vulgarity: stinky feet, swamp gas flatulence, voluminous ear wax, a porcine snore—poetic justice, you might call it for God getting everything else perfect. But a tapeworm inside my Clea—that I didn't expect!
Of course, Clea wasn't coy with her appetites. The other models I ran around with before I met my fiancée limited their diet to Ryvitas, yogurt, celery, tofu, shots of wheatgrass juice, packs of Marlboro Lights, the pert plastic nipple of an Evian bottle always at the ready. But Clea was different. Clea never smoked, and she ate like an ox—deep-fried, stir-fried, non-fried anything—always two entrées worth, following appetizers of sushi, ceviche, steak tartar, and, of course, dessert. She was the only person in L.A. who didn't have a personal trainer, nor did she even go to the gym or need an abercizer, like I do with my beachball abs. "It's just not fair," her friends would bitch. Others thought she was bulimic. "It's just her metabolism," I'd counter, though I was never sure what happened when she frequently disappeared in the bathroom to "freshen up." "I'm in love," I announced to my colleagues one night as we snorted coke and brainstormed blockbusters. They thought Clea was just a maneater, that she only wanted me for my money, that she wasn't too bright. "You're just jealous," I sneered. I told them that Clea already had enough money, that there was a lot going on inside her head, she was beautiful inside and out. Furthermore, she had talent. I was already developing a pair of vehicles to launch her screen debut—Killer Cockroach and Left Behind 2. "This is the real deal," I bragged. "To death do us part."
So, the tapeworm. We'd finished brunch at the Michelin-double-starred, Zagat-29-pointed Café Boudin, a half-dozen mimosas decimating our romantic inhibitions so that we were smooching in our booth, one-upping each other with a catalog of nasty things we'd do to each other at a picnic we'd planned up in Topanga. I'd eaten eggs florentine, while Clea had devoured a smoked salmon omelet, a fresh berry-mounded gauffre, and a steak-frites, along with a side-order of Café Boudin's world-famous handmade saucisse. Before I summoned the valet to fetch my convertible Jag, we visited the restrooms. Quick as always, I waited outside the second-floor woman's and when Clea finally emerged, she declared that she was insufferably horny—did I mention she's a nymphomaniac?—and within seconds we'd found a linen closet and locked ourselves inside.
The room was small and ramshackle, the ceiling paint chipping, the sole window grimy, the floorboards damaged so badly that here and there you could see the bobbing white hat of the sous-chef sampling a roux in the kitchen below. We began with slobbery kisses, quickly shedding our clothes. Clea oraled my ear with breathy nibblings before her thick, pouty Brazilian-Norwegian lips whispered, "Let's soixante-neuf!" And so we did, our bodies inverted commas on a bed of café au lait-stained tablecloths, bloodied chef aprons, and lipstick-smeared napkins. Necks aching, tongues tiring, jaws locking, we attacked each other until the sum of our separate thirty-four-and-a-halfs achieved the elusive goal of synchronized flesh-flicking bliss, and right as my mind slobbered over a clever idea for product placement—Pledge™—in my next eco-thriller—Clearcutter—I noticed a tiny flap-like imperfection protruding from Clea's rectum. At first I thought it was a remnant of toilet paper, now flesh-colored and damp, that was caught in her asshole, which was perfect, by the way, as good as assholes get, a perfect, bleached model asshole worthy of a full-page spread for Tucks™. I would have chuckled had I not feared Clea's dental reaction. Ignore I tried, but going about the lubricious, rubbery mechanics of pleasuring her sweet oyster, I found that I had nothing else to look at—comfortably, that is—and so I decided to do her a favor. But as soon as I tweezed it between thumb and index finger, I found that it was turgid and slick, and when I pulled, it would not end. And it wasn't until I'd extracted about seven inches that I realized I was face to tail with Taenia saginata.
At this point, Clea was getting very excited. "Mmmm!" she gurgled, probably assuming I was spicing things up with some coy digital probing. The more I pulled, the more there was: one foot, two feet, three feet, four... And I couldn't help thinking that this viscous, wiggling tapeworm had to be in tapeworm heaven, given that it was devouring the gorgeous compost of an international supermodel.
"Don't stop!" Clea moaned, and I did my best to multitask as the worm's slippery, peristaltic body rushed over my cheek. It was widening now, as I hurried my hand-over-hand, thick as a bungee cord, thick as a goose's neck, then thick as my arm and full of irregularly shaped lumps. An image from elementary school science class came to mind, one of those pythons swallowing a rabbit, but these lumps were no lapin, no, they were sixteen ounces of entrecôte steak—saignant, s'il vous plait—with chanterelle mushroom sauce, a lustily buttered baguette, a terrine of pâté, three plump links of grilled duck blood sausage, and more. It was like a tug of war now, and as I heaved and hoed, I wondered, without limbs, what could the beast be holding onto? The word VISCERA sprang onto the whiteboard of my mind and then I thought, My god, this is The Blob meets Alien meets Snakes on a Plane!
Clea was grunting now, shuddering, her beautiful body seemingly flattening as her ecstasy approached apogee, and I have to admit I was feeling pretty good myself. A bundle of squishy stuff flew by my head, something resembling small intestines, and when I could barely get my hands around the firehose of the tapeworm, I detected the odor of bile. But at this point, the tinglings in my penis were incredible. "Faster!" I moaned, and I found the faster I pulled, the faster she sucked, and soon I was heading into my own selfish vortex of orgasmic inevitability. The world and Clea shrunk around me, the house lights seemingly dimming. My arms accelerated like chugging pistons, the girth-challenged worm streaming by my steam locomotive fire of desire. As the pressure became exquisite, I noticed that Clea now was just a head, a buttocks, and a 2D cartoon of flattened limbs, like one of those freshly unpacked inflatable dolls losers make love to because they can't afford real flesh-and-boned women. But I felt myself coming so I yanked harder, the room a glistening mess because the tapeworm was swirling across shelves of linen, over-heaped hampers, sliming the yellowed wallpaper before slithering into a hole in the floor in search of a warm, dark host. And right when I felt my cock quiver, Clea's flat legs and arms retracted inside of her like a power cord into a vacuum cleaner until she was just a deep throat now, all lips and tonsils and outstretched tongue and I felt myself curl as I hurtled into the slow-mo, Chariots of Fire victory spasm, and with one hard yank I was spurted in the forehead and I saw the excellent cremini cap of my glans, my urethra wailing with operatic joy, then my longer than average shaft, and suddenly I felt myself folding, even better than my yogi, and the sensation was unbelievably terrific, womby, amphibian, downright primordial, as I was sucked into the tight maw of maroon darkness and felt myself melting, melting, melting into the perfect, lumpy ecstasy of Clea's beautiful flying flesh.
About the author:
Paul Takeuchi has had writing published in Exquisite Corpse, The New York Times, and Tokyo Journal. His first novel, The Hashimoto Complex, which is currently being read by agents, was shortlisted for the 2007 William Faulkner-William Wisdom Novel Competition. Last spring he was a finalist in Glimmer Train's Short-Story Award for New Writers. A recipient of grants from the MacNamara Foundation, the Atlantic Center for the Arts, and the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council, Takeuchi is also an internationally exhibited artist. Over the last two decades, his award-winning photography has been published in dozens of magazines. For more information, go to www.paultakeuchi.com.
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