LITMIR.BIZ

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that happens, if you rub your neck, dark, sticky little rolls form that smell like pus. So you either have to wash from the face down or you have to rub these rolls off your neck regularly. But the important thing is that your face never comes in contact with water. I haven’t put my head underwater for years—not in the bathtub or in the school swimming pool. I have to climb into the pool by the stairs like a granny, and I can only swim the breaststroke because your face, or parts of it, go under water with any other stroke. If someone tries to dunk me, I turn into a fury and scream and beg and explain that it would ruin my lashes. That’s worked so far.

      For years I haven’t seen water from below the surface. Obviously that means I never wash my face either. I think it’s overrated anyway. When you take your makeup off with makeup remover and cotton balls you’re kind of washing your face. Just keep your distance from the eyelashes. That’s the way I’ve been doing it for years. Only one or two lashes have gotten stuck in the curler. And they grew back. So I’ve proved that your lashes don’t all fall out if you don’t remove your mascara every night.

      My ex-boyfriend Matt watched me curl my lashes once and asked me whether a row of eyelashes was the same length as the inner pussy lips.

      “Yeah. Approximately.”

      “And you have two of these curlers?”

      “Yep.”

      A gold one and a silver one.

      He laid me down on the bed. Spread my legs. Pushed aside the ladyfingers and gently clamped my dewlaps with the eyelash curlers. That way he could hold the inner labia away from the hole and look deep inside. A bit like when they force Malcolm McDowell’s eyes open in A Clockwork Orange. He asked me to hold the curlers and pull them as far apart as felt good. Matt wanted to fuck me immediately and cum on my stretched lips. But first he wanted to take a picture so I could see how pretty my pussy looked all stretched apart. We clapped our hands with joy. Well, he did. My hands were busy.

      When you stretch these crinkly flaps of skin all the way out, the total surface is as big as a postcard. At some point Matt drifted out of my life, but his good idea stayed with me.

      I like the feeling I get from stretching my lips with the lash curlers until they look from my perspective like bat wings. Actually, I wonder if that’s why they’re so big and peek out from the ladyfingers? No way. I’m sure they were always so big and long and frayed grayish pink along the edges. All of this goes through my head as I’m ignoring Dr. Notz. Now he wants to leave.

      But here comes Helen with the photos of her ass.

      He needs to tell me which side is up. I can’t make out an asshole anywhere. No matter which way I turn the camera.

      I look at him. He looks at the photos and quickly away again. He’s disgusted by the results of his own surgical work. No wonder he didn’t want to tell me beforehand what he had in mind.

      “At least tell me which way I need to hold it to see what it looks like down there.”

      “I can’t tell. In my opinion the photo was taken too close up. I can’t tell which way it goes, either.”

      He sounds angry. Is he crazy? He’s the one who did this to me. I didn’t mess around with his ass. As far as I’m concerned, I’m the victim and he’s the culprit.

      He keeps glancing at the photo and then looking immediately away again. Hopefully he’s able to keep his eyes on wounds for a bit longer when he’s in the operating room. What a sissy. Or does he enter another world in the operating room? Looks at everything closely in there and just can’t stand to be confronted with it afterward?

      Like somebody who always goes to a brothel and does the wildest, most intimate, filthy things with the same hooker, but who, if he runs into her on the street, looks away and would never say hello.

      He didn’t greet my asshole very nicely.

      He doesn’t want to see it again.

      I see panic in his eyes: Help! My little operating room asshole can speak, ask questions. It’s even taken photos of itself.

      There’s no point. He just doesn’t know how to communicate with the people attached to the asses he operates on.

      “Thanks a lot, Mr. Notz.” That’s supposed to signal that he should leave. I dropped his professional title. That does the trick. He walks out.

      After the operation and the explanation by the esteemed Dr. Notz, I should now be crapping merrily. One sentence in his long-winded talk caught my attention: I will be discharged from the hospital only after a successful bowel movement with no bleeding. That is the indicator that the operation’s been a success and that everything’s healing properly.

      From this point on, people who have never been introduced to me before come in every few minutes and ask whether I’ve had a bowel movement. Noooo, not yet! The fear of the pain is insurmountable. If I were to press a log of crap past that wound, my God, what would happen? It would rip me open.

      Since the operation I’ve had only granola and whole-grain bread. They tell me my granola shouldn’t sit in the milk too long before being consumed. It should make it into the stomach and intestines in a fairly dry state. That way it will absorb fluid in the body and swell, pushing against the intestinal walls from the inside and thus signaling that it wants out.

      The urge to crap should be greatly heightened that way. They’re chucking bombs in the top but down below I’m all cinched up with fear. I’m not going to crap for days. I’ll just do as my mother does—wait for everything to disintegrate inside.

      Can you eat pizza while you’re waiting to take a crap? I don’t ask anybody; I decide that it’s important for rectal healing to eat things you like. I call my favorite pizza delivery service, Marinara. I know the number by heart. It’s easy to remember, like those phone-sex lines. I’m really excited, but I don’t let it show. I try to sound as belligerent as possible: “One mushroom pizza. Two beers. Saint Mary’s Hospital, room 218. The name is Memel. And make it quick. It better not be cold when it gets here. Just go to the front desk and they’ll call me.”

      I hang up as quick as I can.

      There’s an urban legend that made the rounds a while ago; I think a lot about it. Two girls order a pizza. They wait and wait but the pizza never comes. They call the delivery service a few times and complain. Eventually the pizza shows up.

      It looks a little funny and tastes odd. By coincidence, one of the girls is the daughter of a food inspector, and instead of munching the rest they put it in a bag and take it to dad.

      They all think maybe the pizza’s gone bad or something. Instead it comes out in the lab analysis that there are five different people’s sperm on the pizza. This is how I picture it getting there: The guys at the delivery service are annoyed by the phone calls. Since the complaints are being made by girls, the delivery guys have rape fantasies. The usual. They talk about it, come up with a plan, and all whip out their cocks to jerk off on a pizza. The pizza baker sees all the other guys’ cocks. And not just in their normal state. Fully erect. Being jerked off and coming. That’s why I’m envious of men. I’d like to see the pussies of my friends and schoolmates. And the cocks of my friends and schoolmates. Especially when they’re all coming. But you hardly ever have the chance. And I don’t dare ask.

      I only get to see the cocks of men I’m fucking and the pussies of women I pay.

      I want to see more in life.

      That’s why I love to break into the public pool and go drunken skinny-dipping after a night out clubbing.

      The whole trespassing thing is a little problematic. But at least you get to see a few cocks and pussies.

      Anyway. I’m always extra mean whenever I order pizza. And I complain even when it doesn’t take long. I’d love to eat a pizza with sperm from five different guys on it.

      It would be like having sex with five strange men at the same time. Okay, maybe not exactly sex. But it would be like having

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