Dating Confessions by You "I think that tattoos are ridiculously trashy. I want another one though."
The Nerve Insider by Nicole Ankowski What's new in the Nerve universe. Today: What do hiccups and herpes have in common? Behind the scenes with Stuff Nobody Likes.
My one and only female was an acrobat on the mattress, and the truth is, I miss her still. This was just before the Second Coming — before He came, bearded and sandaled with blessings and rage, and ruined all we hold dear — when space and time were warped enough to drop a superhero into the suburbs. I was a gay man living in a nondescript Pennsylvania town; not a congenial match, I'll admit, surrounded as I was by churchgoers and conservatives. One day, Wonder Woman leapt over my home and landed in my just-mowed front yard. The petunias needed watering, and I was outside in a pink bunny costume I sometimes liked to wear around the house, to keep in touch with the animal nature of the human being. Somehow, I had become ensnared in the pricker bush and needed saving.
She looked just like I remembered her from the 1970s television show: gaudy gold tiara with the communistic red star, bullet-repelling bracelets, truth-inducing lasso at her hip, a bikini bottom that showed the outline of her plump vulva, a breastplate barely covering her bunched-together tits, mushroomed black hair and those icy blue eyes. And, of course, the red plastic
promotion
boots in which no respectable drag queen would be caught dead. Her outfit was really an unwise invitation to sexual assault. I nearly told her so.
She rescued me from the pricker bush. I thanked her, then she looped her flimsy lasso around my nice shoulders and yanked it tight. I was still holding the tin watering can. My bunny ears flapped a bit.
"I have you in my truth-inducing lasso," she said. "Now tell me — think of the Rod Stewart song if you'd like — do you find me sexy?"
"I rather do. But honey, that outfit has got to go. You should fight crime less scantily clad. The criminals will be inclined to take you more seriously."
"This from a man in a bunny suit," she said.
"And really, that hair," I said. "It's a bit puffy, don't you think? It's not even humid out."
"All right, goddamn you, enough truth," she said, taking back her golden rope.
Wonder Woman had a Wonder Tongue; her Wonder Orgasm shot from her center.
"I need to lie down. That last leap over your house exhausted me."
"Lie down? On my bed?"
"Work with me, please. I'm having a crisis."
Wonder Woman was having a crisis on my front lawn. "Oh, what the hell," I said. "I'm between boyfriends. Let me escort you in. But I'm telling you, you're losing that outfit. It's an affront to the aesthetics of my home."
Of course, I would have preferred Superman, with his square pecs and pulsating bulge, but comic-book heroes were hard to come by. One took what one could get. Wonder Woman stripped and lay atop my goose-down comforter. Nobody had told her of the modern woman's penchant for genital grooming. Her pubic patch was an impenetrable morass, long enough to braid. I trimmed it with my electric razor — not bald, because I find bare genitals dull and uniform, but just enough to grant the necessary access and still retain scent and flavor. I knew more about female machinery than all the straight men in Pennsylvania.
Wonder Woman had a Wonder Tongue, ten inches long and heaven on any given rectum; a Wonder Mouth that worked like a tornado; a Wonder Cunt, beautifully muscled and mighty enough to ruin the day of any uninvited penis; a Wonder Clitoris, as long as her pinky finger, long enough to make me feel right at home. Her Wonder Orgasm shot from her center like Old Faithful; it glazed my face and restyled my hair. Wonder Woman made the sounds Wonder Woman makes when in the throes of ecstasy.
Afterward, she said, "I'm depressed, Bunny, and in need of salvation. I've tried liquor and Christ. Neither worked."
"Wait here," I said, and went into the bathroom, where I kept my stockpile of antidepressants, pills I had been hoarding for years: Paxil, Wellbutrin, Zoloft, Prozac, Ativan, you name it.
"Try these," I said, and she swallowed every last pill in three large gulps with a bottle of sparkling water.
"How long 'til they take effect?" she asked.
"Ummm, two to three weeks, usually."
"Hold me," she said. "I'm feeling bloated."
"I will, sugar, but first we really need to do something about that hair. I'll be right back."
