fear adding to my excitement. She did things with her tongue to make it not-so-rough, and began licking my genitals.
At one point, she lifted her head and said, “By the way, my name’s Edie,” and I realized this was no longer a dream, that it was happening for real. She licked and licked and licked, and I shuddered and exhaled, and then she licked me clean.
“There,” she said. “Feeling better, are we?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how to feel about that.”
“You could say thank you.”
“You know,” I said, “I haven’t been able to have sex for almost a year.”
“I hate to point out, sweetie-darling,” she said, “but you still haven’t.”
“My ex-wife Alice hated it for some reason. It was always such a chore. Even when we were actively trying to get pregnant, it was just something to get over with. It’s one of the reasons we split up. After a while, I got tired of begging, and my libido just sort of went away.”
“Fascinating,” Edie said. “Look, I’m famished. You wouldn’t have any crickets, would you?”
“Crickets? No. Why?”
“Never mind. Be back in a little while.”
She climbed off the bed, and padded out of the room. The sound of breaking glass. I soft-footed out to the living room, still naked. One of the two front windows had been broken, its hole vaguely ocelot-shaped; a breeze drifted lazily in, stirring the hairs on my body.
“What the fuck was that?” the wombat yelled from the bathroom.
~
Several hours later, I don’t know how many, the ocelot hadn’t returned yet, and the wombat opened the bathroom door. I’d been staring at my reflection in the television screen, and the sudden sound made me jump, my heart quick-thumping, the base of my skull crawling with imaginary ants. I still hadn’t dressed. My legs wobbled as I got to my feet. The wombat stood half in view, the rest of his body hidden behind the door, tapping absently on the wood with his dark claws.
“Come here,” he said.
Filling the entire space inside in the bathtub was an enormous creature, the size of a bull, covered in bright pink scales like a fish, its head hanging downward and obscured by a frill of stiff blond bristles that surrounded its neck like a collar. The smell of the creature was incredible, as if a sewer main had been opened directly beneath it. It sighed heavily and the smell intensified; breathing seemed laborious. Irrationally, I wanted to hug it.
I turned to P.S. “What . . . what . . ?”
“A catoblepas,” he said, scratching at his nose. “He won’t talk to me or tell me his name. Stupid fucking beast. Cunt!” The wombat ambled out of the bathroom and shouted, “What the shit did you do to this window?”
I sat down on the lid of the toilet and stared at the catoblepas. It emanated waves of sadness along with the stink. It sighed again and said, in a stentorian tone, “Please, close the door.”
I did so.
“What’s your name?” I said, hand over my nose and mouth.
“We don’t have names,” he said. “Only initials.”
“Like P.S. out there?”
“No,” he said, “not like that. His initials stand for something. Mine does not.”
“So what are your intials?”
“D.”
“Just D.?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you so sad?”
“Because I cannot lift my head. Were I to look you in the eyes, you would instantly drop dead, a cruel trick of fate. Catoblepasi are peaceful and compassionate, we wish no harm on anyone, and yet we are cursed to never lay eyes on a single living being lest we cause their death. Does that seem fair to you?”
“No,” I said. “It sounds horrible.”
“All I can do is look down to the ground, avert my eyes, stay out of the way. I have forgotten what the sky looks like. The whole of my vision consists of grasses and insects and rocks, and it fills me with ennui.”
He sighed again. I didn’t know what to say.
“Actually,” he said, “I lied just now. I do have a name.”
“What is
At one point, she lifted her head and said, “By the way, my name’s Edie,” and I realized this was no longer a dream, that it was happening for real. She licked and licked and licked, and I shuddered and exhaled, and then she licked me clean.
“There,” she said. “Feeling better, are we?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know how to feel about that.”
“You could say thank you.”
“You know,” I said, “I haven’t been able to have sex for almost a year.”
“I hate to point out, sweetie-darling,” she said, “but you still haven’t.”
“My ex-wife Alice hated it for some reason. It was always such a chore. Even when we were actively trying to get pregnant, it was just something to get over with. It’s one of the reasons we split up. After a while, I got tired of begging, and my libido just sort of went away.”
“Fascinating,” Edie said. “Look, I’m famished. You wouldn’t have any crickets, would you?”
“Crickets? No. Why?”
“Never mind. Be back in a little while.”
She climbed off the bed, and padded out of the room. The sound of breaking glass. I soft-footed out to the living room, still naked. One of the two front windows had been broken, its hole vaguely ocelot-shaped; a breeze drifted lazily in, stirring the hairs on my body.
“What the fuck was that?” the wombat yelled from the bathroom.
~
Several hours later, I don’t know how many, the ocelot hadn’t returned yet, and the wombat opened the bathroom door. I’d been staring at my reflection in the television screen, and the sudden sound made me jump, my heart quick-thumping, the base of my skull crawling with imaginary ants. I still hadn’t dressed. My legs wobbled as I got to my feet. The wombat stood half in view, the rest of his body hidden behind the door, tapping absently on the wood with his dark claws.
“Come here,” he said.
Filling the entire space inside in the bathtub was an enormous creature, the size of a bull, covered in bright pink scales like a fish, its head hanging downward and obscured by a frill of stiff blond bristles that surrounded its neck like a collar. The smell of the creature was incredible, as if a sewer main had been opened directly beneath it. It sighed heavily and the smell intensified; breathing seemed laborious. Irrationally, I wanted to hug it.
I turned to P.S. “What . . . what . . ?”
“A catoblepas,” he said, scratching at his nose. “He won’t talk to me or tell me his name. Stupid fucking beast. Cunt!” The wombat ambled out of the bathroom and shouted, “What the shit did you do to this window?”
I sat down on the lid of the toilet and stared at the catoblepas. It emanated waves of sadness along with the stink. It sighed again and said, in a stentorian tone, “Please, close the door.”
I did so.
“What’s your name?” I said, hand over my nose and mouth.
“We don’t have names,” he said. “Only initials.”
“Like P.S. out there?”
“No,” he said, “not like that. His initials stand for something. Mine does not.”
“So what are your intials?”
“D.”
“Just D.?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you so sad?”
“Because I cannot lift my head. Were I to look you in the eyes, you would instantly drop dead, a cruel trick of fate. Catoblepasi are peaceful and compassionate, we wish no harm on anyone, and yet we are cursed to never lay eyes on a single living being lest we cause their death. Does that seem fair to you?”
“No,” I said. “It sounds horrible.”
“All I can do is look down to the ground, avert my eyes, stay out of the way. I have forgotten what the sky looks like. The whole of my vision consists of grasses and insects and rocks, and it fills me with ennui.”
He sighed again. I didn’t know what to say.
“Actually,” he said, “I lied just now. I do have a name.”
“What is
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