The first time Louie’s hand came down to the mat, six inches from my face, that’s when I spotted it. That his hand was not covered in skin, was not flesh. That it was plastic. Continue reading →

There’s something off-putting about someone placing a hand on a hip while they urinate. I am sitting in lukewarm bath water, soapy and scrubbed. And he turns from the vanity mirror, his fluffy bathrobe still open. He strolls his portly belly over to the toilet and, throwing back the half of robe nearest me and leaving his hand there on his tan-lined hip, begins pissing. His aim is weak, as is the stream which smells of asparagus. This is all easier to take in than his stubby sausage-fingers pressing and pulling on the loose leathery skin draped over his probably prosthetic hip. I stare. His phallus hangs discolored and veiny and he shakes the drippings from the tip. I bring my hands to my chest, aware in this moment of his gaze, feeling a brief instinct to hide. He lowers the toilet seat with a stretched grin and drops his fat ass on to it, the inevitable slap only muffled by the thick robe. I bring my gaze back up from the murky water, pausing between his knees. He’s now become devastatingly erect. And a look of muffled dismay must’ve snuck through my dark bangs, because he says, “I just want you to watch me, Bella.” Continue reading →