Director

As a great admirer of the female form, Paul felt he had a good idea what women were supposed to look like. The proportion of leg and butt to neck and breast was supposed to form a golden ratio, but the more subtle parts of the fractal were in the curves of the ankles and wrists and nose, brachistochrones all three.

“Next,” he called. The woman in front of him, though beautiful, even strikingly so by some social standard, did not pass mathematical rigor.

“I’m sorry? I haven’t even started yet.”

“I’ve seen enough.”

He’d been at this all morning, and had started to find a pleasure in deflating the egos of these models who thought they were special. After thousands of sketches of the ideal woman, anything less was a disappointment.

“Are you casting completely on physical appearance? Is that what you’re doing? Because I thought you were looking for dancers.”

“Listen. I’m sure you’re very talented, but we have a clear idea of what we have in mind.”

The woman kneeled down to her boombox and started her track, a tango. Paul sighed, but allowed her to continue. Her routine was more rooted in ballet, but it fit the music in its own way. She simulated a partner out of air and gesture, and the two of them functioned in a necessary symmetry.

When she finished, Paul clapped for her, and she smiled, coyly. He looked her over again. Her proportions weren’t exactly phi, but better than his own, he had to admit.

As they switched consciousnesses, he felt pleased with himself that he had taken initiative, whatever she chose to do. Whatever her standards were, his were higher for himself.

“Next,” he heard behind him.

#closeted, #dysphoria, #microfiction, #misogyny, #psychics

Sabbatical (balloons)

Most of the other parents dropped off their kids and left, but Harold was determined to be fun. After ten years in a company that offered no satisfaction, he had taken time off to meet his 7-year-old for the first time. Josie’s parents were good hosts, and they wanted him to feel welcome, though he had no reason to stay. They gave him a reason.

“Why don’t you blow up some of these balloons?”

His daughter had already run off to play, and though he wanted to spend time with her, that would come. Right now, he just had to be available. He thanked Josie’s parents, and started on the pile.

The balloons were small and stiff. He put one in his mouth and tried to blow, but he wasn’t expecting so much resistance. Josie’s mom laughed at him. “No, you’ve got to pull at it a little.” She grabbed one and massaged it in her hand, stretching it in repetitive motions forward and back. Harold watched her with great fascination.

He mirrored her motions. As she brought the latex to her mouth, he paused. She filled the balloon in one continuous contorted breath. When she removed it from her lips, she gasped as air slid back into her. She tied the balloon off in one smooth gesture. She hadn’t overfilled it. The balloon was comfortable, not overstretched, and still retained a healthy areola. “Now you try.”

His balloon looked just like hers. He grabbed it with both hands and rubbed his fingers across the top. He made a slight moan, he hoped a subtle one.

Josie’s mom smiled, as if at a joke. Josie’s dad looked at him. His daughter and friends looked at him.

He coughed. “Excuse me.” He would meet his daughter eventually. Maybe after prom.

#balloons, #closeted, #paraphilia, #secrets, #the-fetishists, #workaholic