Mannequin – Erotica

The more he looked, the more he liked her. The mannequin was imperfect, one eye slightly lower than the other, and brown while the other was blue. She could have been a person once, he thought. She was always in the front window display at the lingerie store.

He had no wife or girlfriend, and the types of lingerie the store specialized in was a little too intimate to give to his mother or any of the other women in his life, so he had no reason to visit the store. He was only a custodial worker at the mall, and he had always lingered a little too long at the display. Looked a little too longingly at the mannequin with the imperfect eyes.

She could have been a person. A real person. He imagined her taking him, cold hard, plastic hands and leading him to the fitting room where she’d undress. Under her bra, two pink hard nipples, the perfect line of her belly leading down to her intimate plastic places. Did she have to be plastic, then? Undressing? Or could she be a real woman? She certainly looked like she could have been real. He always thought about this. It never left his mind.

Her hair was a blonde bob, but sometimes it was brunette curls that ran all the way down the S-curve of her spine. Her hair was as changeable as her arms, her hands, he legs. He wondered how she’d been pieced together in such a perfect and intimate form. Did the other men and women see her this way? A vision in hard, cold plastic, waiting to be turned into flesh and blood in the blink of his fantasies?

It was easy for him to think of her this way, he was always alone in this section of the mall at night. It had always been his dream to undress her, to feel her come to life and caress his skin. It had come time when he could no longer stand it. Tonight, he thought, if he lost his job, it’d be worth it to worship her molded frame, her sleek trim belly, her long shiny legs.

It would be a dream, he thought, if she came to life. But of course, she couldn’t, because she was only a doll. But that didn’t change his imaginings. Her name was Josephine, he decided. And she was just another med student modeling her body for a few quick bucks to pay her way through. He admired her through the glass display window.

The gate had been pulled down over the entrance to the store, but he had the keys. He unlocked it, removed Josephine from the display window and brought her around to the fitting room, with a bench and a floor length mirror inside. He locked the door behind them, and slowly undressed her. First her teal colored tier bra. Her nipples were not there. A shame, he thought. But he could imagine them just the same as he caressed her left side, that lump of hard molded plastic in the shape of a breast. He unsnapped the garters that held her stockings. All of these were the same teal. It wasn’t her best color, but she did look beautiful underneath.

“What are you doing?” A voice faint as a whisper said.

“Why are you undressing me?”

He looked up to see his beautiful molded woman come to life. Or he thought he saw her. Her blonde bob was instead the brunette curls that ran down her back. The teal of her bra, garters, stockings, panties, were a deep crimson.

“Is this what you wanted, Andy?”

The woman asked him.

“I… I. I don’t know.”

She slapped him hard across the face. Her plastic hand was instead firm, muscled flesh, but her palm was soft and plump.

“I asked if this is what you wanted? Because I’ve wanted you, too, Andy. I’ve seen you watching me. I’ve seen you during those long nights, when you’re emptying the bins and mopping the floors and wiping the benches. I’ve noticed you, too. And if you do not want this, then leave me now.”

Her bra, the deep crimson instead of the teal he had slid off of her shoulders was a bundle on the floor. Her nipples were an earthy brown, erect and pointing at him. She drew his head up from where he sat on the bench in the fitting room and used her hand to open his mouth, directing her nipple inside of those waiting lips and moaned when he flicked his tongue over her.

She was warm. A warm, flesh and blood woman. Real. One brown eye, one blue eye. Her makeup perfect, her skin flawless. He pulled down her panties with one hand while the other massaged her breast from underneath. He slipped his hand up to her cunt, and it dripped down onto his forearm. He couldn’t contain himself. He ripped down his pants, and threw her against the wall of the fitting room, forcing himself inside of her.

She moaned and groaned and grunted, pulling his hair, devouring his face. As he pumped he smelled her perfume, sweet spice, like clove and cinnamon and sweat. He lapped at her neck and twisted his fingers in her hair, thrusting until he was spent, her legs wrapped around him, letting out a final moan of satisfaction.

“Now,” she said, “Well, now you’re like me.” Much to his horror, Andy stood in front of the mirror next to the mannequin with the blonde bob, he himself now becoming the same molded plastic, though his body had become more perfect in this form. His penis was now only a suggestion. As his muscles became stiff, transforming into something trans-human, he pulled up his gray boxer briefs and admired himself in the mirror.

The next morning, when the shop opened, a new window display was set, a man and a woman, locked together in a lustful, though tasteful embrace.

 

“Try our new crimson line. He’s dying for it.” The sign read.

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If my name weren’t Gretchen

Matilda Macsworth, after working for several years as a cashier at the local used bookstore, realized suddenly, that she had no interest whatsoever in the written word. Just like everything else, she saw books as an opportunity and the bookstore as something of a watering hole. She liked the way the men looked at her when she was pouring over some volume of some obscure writer (made less obscure by the frantic online searchers of her would be suitors), but had no real interest in anything the volumes held.
Matilda was of the sort who could, all at once, appear to be agile of thought, startlingly innocent but hyper sexualized with her tight cardigans and subtle use of red lipstick and black eye liner. It was no accident. She intended it. Yet, she had not read the masters. She had not read anything, and simply used a catalog to find whatever a customer fancied. Anything your heart desired, a couple of choice key words typed solemnly, “thoughtfully”, into the system, and Matilda would flit away with the appearance of determination. She could not comment on this author’s style, that illustrator’s mood swings, or that playwright’s affection for liquor, but she could bite her lip and nod knowingly in an idiosyncratic way that made the heart melt and made the male member swell with thoughtless, ignoble passion. The final thought of each man leaving the store was “What a gem. A priceless, worthwhile gem. Someone to while away the hours, sitting up in the evening citing passages of love and tumultuous lust from Neruda, getting drunk on kisses and the best wine. My darling, my love, my Matilda.”

After days, weeks, months of carrying on in this way, in the used bookstore—having read no books since her freshman year of high school (a cool eight years prior)—she disappeared abruptly one fall morning, much to the chagrin of her coworkers and regular customers. She was found, sometime later, off the coast of Spain, with a man of immense popularity, affluence and influence, married and happy and completely, mind-bogglingly drunk off her ass, laughing at jokes she didn’t understand and being felt up by intelligentsia.
And so ended Matilda’s reign as the girl who worked at the bookstore. The end of her reign marked the beginning of another, as each dynasty that falls is oftentimes replaced by something new. This new dynastic leader was me—fatally less glamorous, far more bookish and something of a homely, boorish sort. But, my passion for stories bordered on obsession, and I had enough friends to go mostly unnoticed by outside influences. I kept to my friends, and they kept to me and that was a good world for a 24 year old. A great world. The best world.
To my own delight, I was hired mere days after Matilda’s disappearance, the owner muttering something about being understaffed. He did seem truly heartbroken that Matilda had gone. I would catch him muttering to himself, and practically hear him thinking “How could she? I had given her so much. My love, my darling Matilda.” Devastated, clearly, that she had not, somehow, hopped on board his own weak mustachioed, balding ginger-headed train to love and excitement and become the Lady Chatterley to his self-abhorring lover.
It seemed odd to me that it was so easy, being hired, but then, I’d never applied before Matilda left. I’d hung around often enough, tracing the smooth spines of the books and trailing my fingers along the shelves. I was a regular fixture before they paid me to be there. Twice a week, I would plop down between the role playing game section and the cooking section, the small nook that seemed reserved for my own small frame. I would fold myself into something like a packet—a packet of a girl named Gretchen—and sit and read the books I could not quite seem to afford; even at their reasonable, gently used price. A library would have been better, truth be told, but I didn’t bother anyone, and they did not bother me, and on cold days, I would bring coffee to share with Karl, who had been a former friend or begrudged lover or something from a high school incident where there was an accident or a bond or something that I can’t seem to remember.
It happens often enough, that I forget the most important bits.  How I meet people most of all. I remember the vague things. The way a smile curls, or the fingers tap, or the ash collects too long on the end of the cigarette then slides off to tickle the carpet with gray and black and white and orange.
And, being folded up that way, my knees up to my almost non-existent breasts, my hair, (always stringy, as it were) falling in greasy, sloppy spirals and bunches from my haphazard ponytail. Nothing in the right place, but I fit there, between the gaming books that no one touched because they were outdated and replaced by more streamlined versions with better math, and the low carb cookbooks that one might look at momentarily, consider buying and then realize that cutting out carbs means not eating bread.
Folded like a packet. Over, over, over, under, over, under, this side, that side. And I remember that. The hair out of the corner of my eye, and Karl at the counter with a smile and a wave, his blonde curls falling like some dread baby cherubim that would catch me in my throat. Had I kissed him? I couldn’t remember.

Probably.

Maybe.

Yes.

I can recall, vaguely, my lip being bitten, and the smell of blistex. But, which night? And it must have been him, because I recall his eyes closed and then open, and his lips, dry and cracked and peeling  (even with the smothering, waxy medicated lip balm) against mine. And then the smell of whiskey, and my hair pulled back from my face, and the taste of sick and the smell of toilet and cleaning products wafting into my nostrils as I wretched (however violently) into the toilet. And that bitch, Nancy, laughing—and she left with Karl that night—and I suddenly recall why I hate remembering.
And Karl looks up and I’ve been staring for way too long, and I blush and return to whatever book I’m reading, inhale the words, and try not to think about being seventeen with horrible acne and kissing an angel.
It was around this time that I moved into an apartment with Ada and Adrian; two people who on the outside seemed like perfect matches, but upon moving into the apartment simply plagued me. It wasn’t that they were bad, but they were blunt. And it wasn’t that they were cruel, they were rude. And, it wasn’t that they were dirty—they were out and out filthy. This supplied a daily amount of anxiety, only cured by Ativan, Maalox, and a fresh string of complaints each morning for Karl as we opened the store.
“Why does she even have a cat?” He asked me.
“I don’t know. I’m cleaning up after it. I’m feeding it. I’m holding it. It just sort of hisses and spits at her. I don’t even want a cat.”
“Hmm.”
“You have to understand. No, listen. The litter box was fucking filthy. There was no littler left. Just shit and piss and I gagged dragging it down the stairs. I couldn’t even use the scoop. I had to dump the whole thing in the dumpster out back.”
“Gross.”