Marianne Faithfull’s Fruit

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Marianne Faithfull's Cunt by Justin Chin  

Excerpted from the forthcoming Chick for a Day, a collection of

stories where men suddenly find their plumbing isn’t what it was the day before . . .

Being a mondo faggot, I am horrified. The difference between gay men and straight men is that gay men honestly love and pamper their dicks like family pets, while straight men tend to take their dicks for granted like the beat-up beer-and-nacho-cheese-stained sofa in front of the telly. Then I read the attached tag, which I discovered I was not supposed to remove until after I

tore it off, that this minor switcheroonie would only be effective for a day, twenty-four hours, clock ticking.


First off, I log on to to figure this thing out. Again, being a mondo faggot, I never thought about the female genitalia all that much, much less seen one this up-close and in full-on Technicolor. I explore, poke around. It’s certainly not like what you see in artsy photos at the art gallery, or even the shaved, primed and oiled ones in the porno-wank magazines. They look nothing like the Lite-A-Vulva candles sold at street fairs, and foreign films with full frontals are no help at all. And in spite of what I’m told, it does not look like an overripe persimmon. The website is no help. All it shows is cross-sections and line drawings. Noting on Diagrams 1.1 through 36.4a seems to match what I have. Maybe it’s me, maybe mine is somewhat wrong. The website suggests naming my vagina to help me be comfortable with it. But what do I call my newfound friend? Certainly not a proper name, I had a hard enough time trying to name the cat. Maybe they mean something friendly to call it, something like pee-pee or woo-woo or ding-dong or man-poker for the dick. I run through my vocabulary of nouns. “Vagina” sounds so clinical, so Webster’s. I try “pussy” but my cat is sitting across the room with a feline disdain. “Twat” sounds too much like a sound effect from the ’60s Batman television series (Pow! Boff! Wham! Twat!). I consult the thesaurus: “princess” (eek! too My Little Pony), “pearl” (just doesn’t make sense), “fanny” (a little girl in the enchanted forest, too nursery-rhymey, and wasn’t there a musical?), “bearded clam” (something roasted on a bed of rock salt and served with linguine in a wine sauce), “gash” (eugh! no, no, too Boy Scout First Aid Handbook), “lettuce” (I keep thinking iceberg, iceberg), “muff” (too Detroit auto industry), “minge” (evil character in comic book), “minnie moo” (tropical drink, possibly made with rum, coconut juice, 7-Up and something citric, served in hollowed-out fruit), “beaver” (cute furry animal who chews trees and builds dams in faraway lakes in Canada). What a dilemma. I think to myself as I have in so many messy situations: Hmmmm, what would Marianne Faithfull do? What would she call it? She would most certainly call it a cunt. It sounds so rude, yet so fashionable, so wicked, yet so

alluring; so Marianne. In fact, as I wake this morning with Marianne Faithfull’s cunt, I’m counting on the fact that she has record promotions to do and won?t notice it missing for a day.


I have Marianne Faithfull’s cunt. Mick! (those lips!), Keith! (those jowls!), Keith! (Moon!), and best of all, the sabine tickle of The Fur Rug (luxurious! pelterrific!).


That deed done, I dash to the Victoria’s Secret store to buy some snazzy underwear for Marianne Faithfull’s cunt. Victoria’s Secret is way overpriced but so soft and silky and those constant advertisements make them so irresistible. I want Marianne Faithfull’s cunt to feel like a slutty supermodel’s crotch, projected on the Jumbotron in Times Square, but angelic at the same time. I put the sheer silk French-cut lacey panties on, but alas, the effect is ruined by the spider legs poking out the sides. I never noticed how bushy it was, and just because I have it only for a day, it doesn’t mean that I have to eschew good grooming.


Armed with a small pair of scissors, a pair of tweezers, a squirt bottle of water and a Norelco X-47B hairdryer, I trim and shape until it is a manageable mound, not too pointy. I considered shaving it all off for that proper Victoria’s Secret look, but I remember my friend Beth, who shaved and later described it as looking like a poppy-seed bagel, which terrified me to no end and till this day, I will eat only onion, whole wheat, egg and, occasionally, a good old plain bagel with just a light schmear of lox spread.


Marianne Faithfull’s cunt looks so great, Mick would’ve wanted sloppy seconds. With Marianne Faithfull’s cunt perfectly groomed and clad, I decide that I simply must test it out.


I drag Marianne Faithfull’s cunt to one of the city’s premier sex clubs. Marianne Faithfull’s cunt protests — it/she/me just wants to stay at home and read magazines and watch reruns of Intimate Portrait: Iman on Lifetime: The Women’s Channel. When the guys find out about the goods, they go potty. They’re used to Chicks with Dicks in this jaded sexual ferris wheel of a town, but here’s a Guy with a Cunt, whoo-hoo, and soon, they’re all clamoring to try it out. Marianne Faithfull’s cunt is pleased it/she/me didn’t stay home after all; it/she/me likes attention.


The first guy wants to eat me like a seven-course dinner. He starts with the hors d’oeuvres, and by the time he gets to the soup, he’s made a mess in his Y-fronts and loses interest. The bastard runs off leaving Marianne Faithfull’s cunt unfulfilled and rather pissed off. The second guy straps a huge dildo mounted on a leather harness onto Marianne Faithfull’s cunt and wants it/she/me to fuck his mucky poo-hole. All I have to say is, if you’re going to go to the sex club and want someone to fuck your pooper, you should at least wash a little first. Now it’s my turn to protest, but Marianne Faithfull’s cunt wants to try something new, so we go for it. He is leaning over the platform moaning

like a goat in heat, while Marianne Faithfull’s penis-wielding cunt is poking his butt in firm, hard, mean strokes.


“Oh, Momma! Beat my ass! I’m a bad poopy-boy!” he whines.


Marianne Faithfull’s cunt is amused. I, on the other hand, look down at that mean shit-smeared dildo and get all teary-eyed and nostalgic. Marianne Faithfull’s cunt quickly gets tired of the shenanigans and refuses to play Mommy anymore. Shoving the dirty dildo in the poor boy’s mouth and ignoring his cries for more, more, more (how d’you like it!), Marianne Faithfull’s cunt goes in search of more boys. Guy #3 walked in with a big-dick swagger. I am impressed but Marianne Faithfull’s cunt looks on with disinterest. “Oh please, can’t we try this one out?” I plead. After much cajoling, arguing and negotiating, and that one unfortunate incident when I snapped the panty band pretty hard, Marianne Faithfull’s cunt reluctantly agrees.


Guy #3 has a big dick and proceeds to stick it in without much foreplay or lube or anything. Hey, I’m an easy guy (with Marianne Faithfull’s cunt, no less). I’m sort of enjoying how the hetero-testero guy is so into the fucking, like we were on some bad porno shoot, but Marianne Faithfull’s cunt is bored. Oh, no, it can’t be, it better not be … oh shit, Marianne Faithfull’s cunt is humming “Broken English” while #3 is grunting his hefty man-thing in and out. I am so embarrassed. I hope he doesn’t hear it/she/me going into the key-shift and segueing into its/her/my rather vast repertoire of Kurt Weill classics. Thankfully, he pops his load and is strangely embarrassed and grateful. Marianne Faithfull’s cunt is now getting demanding; it/she/me now wants to choose the next one.


“Okay, that’s fair,” I say. And it/she/me chooses this weird-looking twig-like accountant-looking guy.


“You’re determined to repulse me,” I scold Marianne Faithfull’s cunt.


“I have a feeling about this one,” it/she/me replies. “Now shut the fuck up and get those panties down!”


Guy #4 turns out to be the talker. While fucking, he insists on reliving his exploits with a bevy of hookers in Southeast Asia.


“I’ve been looking at you ever since you came in,” he says. “I had a girl in Thailand who looked just like you, she looked just like a little boy, little titties and a big, wide pussy. I like little boys, too. She liked me to do this.” He tried to poke really hard but Marianne Faithfull’s cunt is tough and nonchalant about his efforts to show how he hurt the sad little hooker with no tits. Why is he even telling me all this? Does he tell this to every woman he

has paid to screw? And when is the last time he even had a real date? Does his mother know what he’s up to?


“You like me to spank you? And beat you?” he asks. “I’ll even pay you?”


“Not only will I kick your ass, I will hack your dick off and shove it into your left asshole,” I tell him. Marianne Faithfull’s cunt is snickering. He continues to fuck in a pouty, mopey silence. Marianne Faithfull’s cunt suddenly decides to do some strange contracting thing and darn near snaps the poor guy’s dick off.


“Owwww! My cock!” he whines. “You’re too much.” He limps off with his injured dick in his hand.


“What the hell was that?” I ask. “That wasn’t one of those famous female orgasms was it?”


“Fuck, no, I’ll let you know when I get an orgasm,” Marianne Faithfull’s cunt says. “I just wanted to see if I could bend his dick, twist it while he was in the midst of his fun, that?s all.” Marianne Faithfull’s cunt is evil, that’s why I love it/her/me so. But the night is certainly not as I had planned.


“That’s it, we’re going home,” I tell Marianne Faithfull’s cunt.


“Wait, wait,” it/she/me protests. “There’s someone in the corner over there …” But the lacy panty muffles it/her/my protests.


At home, Marianne Faithfull’s cunt decides that it is time it/she/me gets taken care of. “Where’s your vibrator?” it/she/me demands.


“What? I don’t have one …”


“Oh never mind, just stick your fingers down there and play around,” she commands.


“Should I wash my hands first?” I ask.


“Just do it. Now.”


“Yes ma’am.” I am playing with myself in a way I have never played with myself before. It’s not like massaging one’s own prostate; it feels different, strange, titillating. Like five hundred years of guilt poking out of crotchless panties.


“A little more to the left, a little right. Now more force, more direction, more purple!” Marianne Faithfull’s cunt directs my efforts. Suddenly, without warning, my legs quiver and I’m in these muscular contractions as if I were being plugged into a wall socket.


“God, I needed that,” Marianne Faithfull’s cunt says in her husky growl. I’m too gob-smacked to speak. “We’ll try for the female ejaculate next time. See you next year!” it/she/I says, waving goodbye.


A new Victoria’s Secret catalog has popped in the mail, there’s something on page 18 on Tyra that I want and I know there’s an old Good Vibrations catalog around here somewhere. I can’t wait.

Chick For A Day: What Would You Do If You Were One? is edited by Fiona Giles and due out in mid-February. The above story was reprinted with permission of the author.

©1999 Justin Chin and, Inc.