Homunculus
Men’s fiction by John Owen
A New Yorker meets the mysterious woman of his dreams.
Whenever Harry’s in a fern bar and hears a dame order her drink, ‘with a twist!’ he mutters to himself, “Twist this.” Women. It seems like eventually they all fall into two categories: Old Style or Lunatic. Harry knows when he’s being politically incorrect but sidesteps the issue by thinking that as long as it’s his little secret there’s really no irreparable harm done, right? It feels so good to have a clue. Don’t you wish everyone did? Besides, where’s it written that just because it’s unpleasant it can’t still be the truth? Please. That’s just the way it is. Once Harry was in a club and a chick bounced over to ask what his sign was. “Slippery When Wet,” he’d smirked, not missing a beat. She vanished in a huff snorting, “Decrease the dosage, asshole!” but not before Harry had seen that frisky twinkle in her eyes cloud over and turn to hurt. Classic. They wanna play games all breathless-like, then turn into two year olds when Daddy spanks ‘em. To top it all off, they expect to treated like Yale Ph.D.‘s. Right. Pheminist Dipshits! Hey, that’s pretty good! Too bad I can’t share it with Cry Baby over there. Without realizing why, Harry felt his mood go sour. He was beyond grumpy, he was angry and guilty. He was angry at himself for feeling guilty and he didn’t deserve either one, dammit! Jesus, calm down! Have another beer my friend. What’s a hep cat like you doin’ in this stupid club anyway? This place would make a woman hater outta Broadway Joe Nobody Beats The Fuckin’ Wiz Namath! HEY… CAMCORDER THIS!
Why do women fake orgasms? Because they think we give a shit. Harry was now feeling pure ugly. He considered renting a porno, imagined himself in a taxi speeding towards his favorite strip joint. Even more pathetic, saw himself (really clearly) blubberingly confessing all his lonely insecurities into his best friend’s answering machine. Sheesh, babe, get a grip! You really let that bitch get to you. Wait a minute… maybe there’s something to the phone idea after all. Am I tryin’ to tell myself something? Why not try one of those escort services out? Harry decided to take a bus back to his pad. This would be his first whore and he needed time to mull over the decision. At the bus stop Harry Schwartz waits, the picture of sensitive male in his store-bought distressed motorcycle jacket, leaning nonchalantly against the florescent rectangle of Kate Moss, goddess of all the lonelies. Soon enough he sees the florescent slab of the M101 approaching. As soon as he gets on he feels lighter, relaxed, pure. Certified by the clink of his token. The bus is almost empty. He makes for the back like always. He arranges himself in the rear seat, slides open a window four inches and surreptitiously lights a cigarette, exhaling cool into the passing rectangle of night.
Contrary to popular opinion regarding the bullfight, it is not the bull that becomes enraged by the waving of the red cape, but the cow. What infuriates the bull is being mistaken for a cow. Harry loved this joke. It spoke to him. Summed up life and yet seemed like secret wisdom. He imagined a conspiracy of grizzled, joyless ancient Spaniards. Those corrupt perverts, leaders of their own desperately sick military industrial complex, bent on preserving a convoluted tapestry of lies in order to shore up a dilapidated patriarchal oligarchy. Somehow their secret has been preserved, even allowed to flourish within a rigidly stratified society constantly attended to by armies of brainwashed masses, have-nots who in their every waking moment unthinkingly reinforce its archaic codes. Oh, the irony! That the very essence of maleness, the massive, savage, utterly dignified and heroic black Spanish bull should be sacrificed in a ritual of humiliation which has as its very core the repudiation of maleness itself! And this is masked by a vast, repugnant deception of an entire nation. And these bulls, each and every one sleekly obsidian in their own bovine perspiration of utter steadfastness, fight this injustice to the death, unshaken in this, their final, existential conflict of the purest essence: personal identity! Assertion of their primal maleness! That which should be glorified but instead is tragically snuffed out every weekend for the edification of grunting peasant truck-drivers as they stuff their faces with spicy beef and wash down said beef with hideously colored sodas. To Harry it was like betting against the home team… and winning! And winning and winning, year after year, generations of insanity yielding untold countless billions of pesetas. The Generals knew, the Captains of Industry knew, the Pope knows for sure, look at him smiling! Sweet merciful Christ, THEY ALL NEED TO DIE!
“Excuse me, but the smoke from your cigarette is beginning to bother me.” Oh boy. Hold the phone. School’s out. Harry didn’t take kindly to people interrupting his thoughts. Especially not at 1:45 am on a wash-out Friday night. But this voice was female. This could be good. Harry paused, cooking up just the right insult before slowly turreting in the direction of the enemy. The first thing Harry noticed about her were her eyes. They carried an expression of sympathy so overwhelming as to dissolve any intention he may have had of delivering some cutting coup de grace. That was the plus side. On the minus side she was a little chubby and an enthusiastic proponent of the Goth lifestyle. She smiled. Harry smiled back at her idiotically. Harry was perplexed, nonplused, momentarily hype-mo-tized. The rapidanalysis chip in his brain had gone goofy; he couldn’t quite clock this one. Was it Old Style camouflaged in Trash & Vaudeville or Lunatic, the predator who deceives with kindness? He felt like brushing his face in a series of quick, downward strokes a la Curly of the Three Stooges in an infantile attempt to regain composure.
Like the disenfranchised star of his own personal Bright Lights, Big City episode, Harry had finally gotten it. It. And free. Thrown right in his face… which aint gettin’ any younger I might add. Had heard the voice of all time fave Telly Savalas echo across the void, “Who loves you, babe?” “Roger that and back atcha, you nut, you old Player, you!” As he rolls off her soft white shoulder, Harry imagines her teal blue parrot tattoo gliding across the chafed red sunset his stubble had given her. She called herself Cyndra, ‘The Sincere Cinderella of Sin,’ and she had some routine! Yea—uuh, Boy—eez. First of all the talk. Endless. Girl had some things on her mind. Used a lot of Thees and Thous, references to the diurnal, wolves and bats, blood, her pussy, her pussy filled with blood… Oh, and all her imagery was always lit with ‘lots and lots of those little Catholic candles?’ Then there was her scent. Musty and frilly with light florals at first, complimented nicely with stale sweat and tobacco, then rounded off with the rude awakening of something earthy, dangerous. Harry didn’t even want to look at his middle finger, much less smell it. But these were merely external observations. Sex with Cyndra had been unbelievable. She was the original demented kitten. She’d turned Harry’s brain to mushy oatmeal. He’d become a perpetual drool factory. He told her he wanted to live inside her pussy. She’d simply lit more candles, murmured some indecipherable incantations, fucked him silly again. Later, as Harry’s brain slowly molded itself back into its former shape (cauliflower), it formed this question: Is it possible for a chick to be both Old Style and Lunatic? And by being so, thus become THE PERFECT WOMAN?
It’s 8:30 am on a rainy Monday and Harry’s stoned. He’s a schmeer, crust on the surface of his smelly bed, who at this moment imagines himself nailed to his ceiling. He looks down on himself. After lengthy consideration, he opts against being soaked in his own urine and grudgingly hauls himself off to the bathroom. Pulls down heinous boxers to properly admire the battered organ. Valiant little man, silently enduring a non-stop weekend of Cyndra’s relentless voodoo ceremonies. Really, that mugwort sauce with the tiny garland of woodland flowers for his penis head was going too far. Look at him go, just like Old Faithful! Unvanquished and uncomplaining, ever at the ready to perform life’s mundane sanitary chores. Man’s best friend! What have I done for you lately? I shall compose for thee… The ORGAN Symphony by Harry Schwartz! Harry felt the nascent stirrings of narcissistic self-romance even in the midst of his depression. Oh yes, Harry was depressed. He didn’t know it, but he was. That’s why he’d smoked pot at 8:00 am on a Monday; a single unconscious act that would ensure the depression lasted the rest of the day. Why was Harry depressed? Why is anyone depressed? Shouldn’t the question be why isn’t everyone depressed? Perhaps he was feeling separation anxiety from Cyndra. Perhaps loss of self. Perhaps it’s because Cyndra is perfect, therefore Harry must be an insect. It only stands to reason. Harry gazes down at his still draining member, and is jolted from his self-absorbed musings. It seems smaller somehow. Could it be? Surely there’s some rational medical explanation. The recent overuse, the pot, or this exceptionally long urination must have somehow resulted in minor shrinkage. “TEMPORARY SHRINKAGE!” he blurts out loud, startling himself. Where had he heard that? Harry was too bothered to glimpse himself in the bathroom mirror. If he had, he’d have noticed the rest of him was getting smaller too.
Close up on a pair of pudgy pale hands as they unzip a black knapsack and withdraw a crowbar and small sledgehammer. These implements are brought up deliberately to the heavy rusted padlock which hangs from an equally rusted ornate iron door. A light rain falls. It is early morning, 8:30 am to be exact, precisely the same moment that our Harry is having his little anxiety attack. Dull clangs ring out as a lone figure toils unnoticed by any living thing at the far end of the old cemetery just out of town. Cyndra takes a break, leaning against the mausoleum wall. She chugs her own home-brewed tea from an old Snapple bottle. Ahh, it’s good to be alive! Takes out a point and shoot, sets date and time, and holding the camera at arm’s length, snaps off a few of herself. These will turn out quite well, her jet black big hair looks really cool against the marble; you can actually see the beads of moisture on each heavily sprayed and teased tendril. Plus if you raise your arm slightly and point down, at the same time scowl slightly at the camera, this’ll help conceal your double chin and give it that album cover effect. A girl learns a few things, you know? A couple more whacks and the padlock’s kaput, a heave and the door’s open, Cyndra’s in.
“I suppose you’re all wondering why I asked you here today…” she chuckles to herself. She places the empty Snapple bottle on top of the massive crypt in the center of the dimly lit chamber. She lights an ancient yellow candle, all the while humming some weird Latin shit. Suddenly she freezes and cocks her head. The faintest dry fluttering can be heard in a far corner. In one phenomenally quick move she spins and hurls the candle with deadly accuracy at the source of the noise, then gleefully pounces on her prey. You’ve never seen a girl this size move like this. Cyndra raises a maimed and twitching brown moth to within an inch of her nose for close inspection. Its wings posses giant black eyes in typical insect anti-camouflage. To Cyndra these eyes are the windows to the collective souls of this hallowed vault. “Hello, little man. I am your seer-seducer, sent to help you navigate that treacherous journey from the light unto the dark.” With a flick of the wrist she snaps it into the Snapple bottle. She then does a methodical sweep for various bugs and spiders which she also deposits in the bottle. As she stares at her victims, Cyndra becomes aroused and begins a slow striptease, exposing the folds of her pasty white flesh to dozens of shiny compound eyes. She’s moaning now, waving her arms around, smelling and licking herself. Unable to wait until her return home, she upends the Snapple bottle over her gaping mouth, hungrily munching the bugs that fall in. The others she crushes and smears on her large slack breasts. A wing fragment with the eye lands squarely on an engorged pink nipple. She grabs her camera and takes more photos of herself. Then, yielding to a sudden and powerful urge, squats and lays out a huge moist black eel of a turd on the stone floor. Our plump little witch relishes her act of transgression as well as the warm sense of vacuity she now experiences in her colon. She turns and gazes at the product. It seems to stare back at her wetly. Arrogant, magnificently formed, sleekly obsidian, fat with incipient truculence, it appears to challenge its creator in a kind of surly defiance, while nonetheless standing in mute testimony to the best that is within her. Cyndra is a bit fearful but proud, indeed exhilarated, and decides to take one last picture. Still crouching she moves in close, composing the shot so that date and time will nicely stamp the lower rear quarter of the mass. Ever so quietly she murmurs to herself, “Free Willy.”
Back at his apartment Harry sits on the toilet sullenly reading yesterday’s USA Today. Is all this color really necessary? Harry has zero tolerance for the foibles of the masses. Now that he’s found love he’s discovered the world hasn’t become brighter or full of promise, it’s still the same old burnt orange rancid tandoori-ball of baleful resignation glazing over an out of control epidemic of pain and misery, bitterness and hate. Yesterday a gaggle of gangsta youth and welfare cheats stood and watched as a fifteen year old was pulled out of the toxic waters off Red Hook. An altercation actually erupted over the corpse’s sneakers. And people still posses an unrelenting need to chuck newborns in dumpsters. How many do you suppose we never find out about? Harry shifts uncomfortably on the toilet seat, which feels different somehow. He turns the page. Aw, look at this! Brad Pitt’s nude ass thrown in for the housewives. Harry cannot possibly accept that Brad Pitt’s ass is precisely the one thing on planet Earth which is bright and full of promise. It’s enough to make you go out and form your own militia! Harry imagines himself as a kind of homespun poobah of pop culture, fueling hysteria and dispensing punishment. Think Andy Rooney meets Raoul Cedras. This could be great! A bevy of cool coeds cull the media 24/7 in order to keep him up to the minute on what’s hot, as well as provide factoids to buttress an ever fattening file of pet peeves, rancorous rants, and fallacious filibusters. Once an issue has been isolated and defined, Harry dons camo and bullwhip and solemnly steps up in front of a gigantic American flag to deliver verdict and sentence. This just in: Brad Pitt’s ass has been officially deemed Offensive to the Ideals of Democracy and is hereby sentenced to 20 spastic stabs with the pencil Bob Dole perpetually clasps in his withered right hand. I’ll show you full of promise! Full of pockmarks is more like it! YO, WHAT’S PAR FOR YOUR ASS, PRETTYBOY?
“Hi, honey, I’m home!” It’s the little lady returned home from her morning rounds. “Harry… where are you?” “In here, sweetie. I’ll be out in a minute.” Our hero finishes his business and sighs, signaling to himself an end to his personal quality time. Oh well. She’ll probably… funny, I never realized how high this sink was before… she’ll probably want me to act interested in her latest revelations. But Harry was interested, more than he knew. The minute he exits the bathroom his spirits are lifted at the very sight of his beloved. More exactly, his defenseless mind is passively given over to whatever Cyndra says, wants, or needs. “Where’d you go this morning, honey?” “Nevermind that, thou must come hither unto me.” Harry moves to her, nuzzles her ample bosom, oblivious to the tiny dismembered bug legs strewn about mere inches from his nose. Mah gal may be big but Ah loves her ta bits! Healthy critter, still growin’. Gettin’ bigger all the time, matter of fact. Cyndra guides her lovebug gently to their alter-like bed. Time for morning ceremonies. The ambient light filters softly through diaphanous purple scarves. Sitting on the edge of the bed in front of him, she unzips his pants. Harry loves this part, the last moment prior to genital contact. The Cure whines on the stereo. Cyndra, realizing power lies with the one doing the undressing, hastily removes her clothes while she pulls off Harry. It’s quite easy for her to take his clothes off with her other hand as he’s now diminished by at least a full size or two. “Does my little Harry want to play with Cinderella’s slipper?”
As Harry’s cock hardens, his mind begins to soften. He flashes back to an afternoon spent exploring the woods when he was a little boy. While poking along a cool little stream he notices old pop tops glittering among the pebbles. Cursing adults as pigs, he removes them and looks for the cans they came from. A little further on he sees something strange. Among some ancient rusted cans of Schlitz he finds some crusty fingers someone has cut off of a thin rubber glove. Now why would a grown-up do that? Little Harry holds a dried finger up to the sun, trying to determine what manner of prehistoric glue lies cracked at its tip. At that moment he sees it. He stands beside a deep clear pool. At bottom, amid the stones and tadpoles, lies a perfectly preserved dead rabbit. Its eye, a round, sleekly obsidian pebble, fixes young Harry in an unblinking gaze, ‘how dare you? don’t look at me! …got any lettuce?’ Harry drops the finger and crouches at the pool’s edge, peering in for a closer look. Tender strands of long moss waft gently in the currents, giving the scene a restful pastoral effect. Harry’s a bright kid, the symbolism of it is not lost on him. Or is it his adult mind editing memory? Though the eye makes young Harry uneasy, he can’t take his own eyes off it. ‘come join me, sleep with me… all your dreams will be sweet…’
Harry feels himself engulfed in the warm comforter of Cyndra’s body. There’s something so unbelievably hot about the way her mass hangs on her frame. Harry holds her, grips her, he slides around on her. The slopes of her body are as vast and supple as the hills of Simi Valley, her homeland. At the base of two great slopes there’s a verdant hot spring Harry knows about. He loves to go there. Whenever Harry finds himself there, he’s excited. As he goes towards it he can smell it, feel its heat. His erection salutes each oncoming sensation. He knows he’s getting close now. Just up ahead is the dense tangle of junglet he so loves to return to. As he enters the moist shade of its canopy, he’s magically nude in an instant. He slogs through the rich undergrowth with only one purpose in mind. Ah, up ahead! Only a few moments more… There it is! Before him lies the spring, its warm waters bubble so invitingly. This Is What It’s All About! He flings himself in, it’s deliciously viscous and smooth. AND IT’S SO GOOD! If he could only just stay here, camping out for free in Paradise for the rest of his life.
Harry does exercises in Paradise. I kid you not. Push-ups and sit-ups mostly, with various leg-lifts and swivel-stretches thrown in. Got to. Gotta keep from growing soft. Feels good, though. Feels so good. Think I already said that, didn’t I? Yes I did. Oh, yeah, that feels great. I love it when you do that. Cyndra slowed her rhythm, opened her eyes and stared at Harry, “You love it when I do what?” “Huh?” replies our hero. “Just what I said, you know what you want, don’t you?” Harry’s heart is beating like a trip-hammer; can she read his mind? “What do I want?” “Must I spell it out for you? You want to be up in there, permanently.” Harry pulls to a stop, he’s petrified. The dreaded mid-fuck interrogation! “H-how’d you know?” he stammers. Cyndra reaches for a cigarette, exasperated. Harry plops out of her and literally drops onto the mattress below (he’s now about 3’ 2” and shrinking rapidly). “I’m a witch. I know. That’s my job.” She lights up, extinguishes the match with a superfast whip of the wrist, drags deep, then exhales in one practiced gesture. “I guess it’s kind of a universal male thing?” offers Harry tentatively. Cyndra fixes him with a steely glare, “Only for you it can come true.” Merely hearing the assertion was enough to send Harry over the edge. He watches himself shrink down to doll size in seconds. He does want it, and he’s terrified. What are the consequences? What awful piper will have to be paid? Each moment he lingers in indecision Cyndra grows bigger. And the bigger she gets the more pointless it is to resist. For one brief moment Harry considers making a run for it. He flashes on a fugitive future among the dustbunnies of Cyndra’s floorboards. Ironically it is this very delay, as he imagines an escape, that she seizes to seal his fate. She corrals him by enclosing her massive legs around him, her feet meeting sole to sole. Bats him senseless with huge fingers. Chases him around with the flame from a huge Bic lighter while alternately soothing him with Gaelic lullabies. A curious thing happened: Harry found himself becoming less and less troubled by his thoughts. Thoughts for someone Harry’s size were coming to the end of their usefulness. With his last conscious effort he squeaks “What do I have to do? I’m me, Harry Schwartz. I just have to stay me, OK? Please?” The very act of asking is, of course, no longer questioning at all, but the beginning of acquiescing, as we all know. “Do not worry, little man,” purrs Cyndra, “Thou may stayest thyself. Only within me, and for the restest of thy life.” The new order. Her word becomes law. She who speaks it makes it so. As for Harry, when your brain is a peanut, abstract theory is, well… a little too abstract. Harry Schwartz succumbs, folds in on himself and is no more. In his place stands the proxy: a nine inch naked pink sensate figurine, mute and free of all thought. BEHOLD HOMUNCULUS!
Ever so gently Cyndra guides her little man towards her pussy. Homunculus sees the great sloping folds part before him to reveal Shangri-La. The fragrant jungle perfumes excite and beckon him onward. He moves towards his destiny. He knows what he must do. He reaches the great outer lips and extends a miniature hand in wonder. Homunculus makes contact with the Mother Ship. Cyndra hears the first faint strains of a piccolo waft up from far below. Homunculus grabs a handfull of fur on either side of the intoxicating divide and hoists himself up into it. Writhing now amid the tensile outer lips, he fully lubricates himself in this tropical Eden. He senses something change, a blossoming, then magically, a vast wet pit seems to yawn beneath him. Again he understands. He dips first his feet and, finding that to his liking, both legs full up to his waist. Far above Cyndra throws back her head and gasps. French Horns sound the call, 60 eager beagles crest the slope howling, followed immediately by countless thundering hooves. The chase is on. Homunculus feels powerful wet muscles drawing him down, deeper into a wet world of bliss. Across hill and dale Homunculus tumbles and spins, squirming as never before enjoying every single second of his simple existence as if it were his last. He surfaces for air infrequently, finds small pockets within, stays under as long as he can. Oneness with his hostess is now his sole purpose in life. He begins to sense within her the coalescing of a distant goal. This vague feeling of impending importance gradually increases in intensity. It’s undeniable, inevitable. What could be happening? The hounds are all clumped up, tripping over themselves, confused. They have the scent but are temporarily outfoxed. Homunculus’ tiny proto-brain, nothing more than a ganglion, registers a crude unease but he plods on. The little bugger is single-minded, I’ll give him that, though he possesses nothing that can actually be called a mind.
Nausea. Homunculus doesn’t feel well. There’s something building deep within him, too. Cyndra is squirming and moaning, clutching herself; the girl needs resolution. She reaches down and finds two Lilliputian feet just barely protruding from her torrid tunnel of love. She grips them firmly and thrusts away for all she’s worth. Along her spinal column a thousand violin strings quiver in a momentous celestial symphony. This is it! The hounds have visual target lock on their prey. The French Horns are going crazy. Horses and riders make magnificent leaps over stone walls, swirl in unison, banking off small hillocks. Cymbals crash! Kettle drums boom! Homunculus feels his head swelling; he’s turning purple. Oh God, he’s gonna be sick! Then the first beagle jaw nicks the neck of the little red fox. Instantly the others are upon it, snarling, tearing. In a second the little thing is in a hundred pieces, one with the cosmos. Homunculus can’t take it any longer, his little body is turned inside out. He pukes! He’s ralphing like there’s no tomorrow! Splattering his thick goo all over Cyndra’s tormented insides! God it feels good to get it out of his system. Cyndra’s howling like a banshee, ripping the sheets, cursing Homunculus and screaming out her love for him, climaxing as never before. It’s so intense her interior spasms almost crush the poor little fucker but he manages to squirt out just in time. There he lies on the sheet, bruised, limp and exhausted, drenched in the fetid afterbirth of sex. Mission accomplished! All was quiet for a moment. Then silence was broken by Cyndra. “I think I want you in my ass tonight.”
It has now been six months since Homunculus has dwelt exclusively in Cyndra’s ass. If he still received mail it’d be addressed to him there. ‘Homunculus, Gloryhole.’ Communication as we know it has long ceased. Of course Homunculus knows all, his sole source of nourishment being whatever nutrients he can glean from within Cyndra’s ass. As such, he can detect mood swings with an analyst’s accuracy. His mouth has evolved into a tiny sphincter-like sucker rimmed by thick powerful lips adapted for clinging. This symbiotic relationship helps Cyndra to maintain a healthy colon. Heavy roughage does pose the occasional risk, however. It’s just that, well… his arms and legs are gone. “Not gone really, they’re sort of like… melded to his body?” Cyndra keeps a grungy string tied around Homunculus (which dangles out unobtrusively) for emergencies and the occasional cleaning. On his most recent outing, Cyndra was surprised to notice Homunculus’ nasty little gnarled body had turned a shiny black, in fact you might say sleekly obsidian.
John Owen lives in Brooklyn, NY, with his wife and, uh, homunculus.