10.3 / May & June 2015

Arm Candy

“I want to tell you something, Fi-fi,” she says, leaning in and over, her cinnamon breath on my face, and the peaks of her new breasts visible under my Miley Cyrus tank top which will never be the same. It’s a tiny bathroom.

She pauses to yank up the top of her pants as they slip down the tops of her thighs. Her business is done, but her belt isn’t, and anyway, she desperately wants me to see. She stands up to throw the toilet paper into the wastebasket to garner a few extra hopeful moments of revelation, but it matters for naught, as I won’t look.

“Once I gave up on love, Fi-fi, I gained a new freedom. Nobody can ever hurt me again. And I no longer have to live up to anyone else’s standards. I’ve also never paid for a drink a day since then.”

I think how this will no longer be much of a consolation if she goes back to AA tomorrow like she’s been planning.

“I want to share them with the world!” she says, fondling her new mountainous flesh formations. I think of Mary Tyler Moore turning the world on with her smile, but I suspect she would have no idea who that is.

“Eventually they will require maintenance,” she whines. “No one ever talks about that aspect of augmentation.” Her pants are up now, her belt is fastened.

“Let’s let some douchebags tell us how pretty we are,” she declares. I hold the door.

She knows I’ve written about her before, and sometimes I feel like she’s putting on a show in hopes that I will do it again. Men can give her only five minutes of pleasure while I offer an eternity.

Our relationship is complex. We’re more like sisters, and then she reads my mind: “I’d really like to sit here with my sister, mister,” she says to the man sitting next to the only open barstool. “Move now, and you can sniff our seats later.”

Her crudeness is a punch and a hug. She is a punch and a hug. Everything is offset by her good looks, a genetic blessing with a timestamp and a gender clause. She knows not to push it with women unless they’ve been prescreened.

The man moves.

Like a date, I’m often proud to have her on my arm.

But sometimes I want to clamp my hand over her mouth knowing that she would squirm and bite. It would be the ultimate indignity in her mind, next to being 86’d by a fat, ugly bouncer.

There are nights when we are together where I’ve never felt closer to another human being.

Later, she fucks a man from the bar in the bed I’m trying to sleep in, scream-moaning in mock ecstasy to ensure I will awaken in case I’ve finally fallen asleep. I concede defeat, and get up and move out to the couch.

If I try to look away she will always find a way to make me see.

I am not entirely innocent. The next morning, we both take an extra long time before we get into the shower, circling each other naked, but only I keep eye contact the entire time.

Fiona Helmsley is a writer of creative non-fiction and poetry. Her writing can be found in anthologies like The Best Sex Writing of the Year and online at sites like The Weeklings and The Rumpus. Her book My Body Would be the Kindest of Strangers is forthcoming later this year.
10.3 / May & June 2015