LASER SLUTS FROM MARS:
PART VI: THE SEXY WRATH OF THE SPACE TITS UNDERGARMENTS
Juliette set her tea cup down onto the saucer. What had motivated her to use her grandmother’s good china for tea today was beyond simple explanation. Nonetheless, she had been drawn to the good china, and she felt a slight sense of coy scandalousness for having selected it.
She stepped out onto the balcony of the house she could somehow afford, and looked across the lawn to the waterfront . The wind whipped up and pressed coldly against her chest, leaving her with a familiar wistful feeling. Her wavy hair was lightly buffeted by the wind, somehow, because her hair really should have been blowing around quite a bit harder, but that’s bad for the audio.
The Atlantic lapped gently up against the shore, belying the wrath of her water spirit which was usually reserved for cruelest winter. That’s the Atlantic’s water spirit, not Juliette’s. Because, Juliette was a pisces, so she might have a water spirit, but the water spirit of Mother Atlantic is key for the Oprah demographic.
From the wood shed just out of frame- sorry, just at the edge of the water, emerged Daniel. Daniel tugged at the threadbare waistband of his caravan sweater, and pulled it over his head, revealing his impossibly hairless underwear-model body. He cast a sullen and mysterious glance back at Juliette. Was Juliette wrong to have seduced this younger man? Daniel cast his deep blue eyes back upon his axe, and he continued laboriously chopping wood. He worked up a sweat that smelled of sagebrush and cedar, and not at all of ass stench and skanky cheese. The cold wind hardened his nipples to a terrifying diamond sharpness, and the utter lack of body fat on his twenty-something frame only deepened his sullen mysteriousness. Some would argue that an older woman might have some difficulty finding any mysteriousness in a man this young, but Juliette knew the depths of his soul, and knew that this biochemist had only returned to his small hometown to care for the orphaned sea otter cubs.
Daniel put down his axe, and walked in implausible slow motion towards Juliette. Juliette dropped her eyes, and drew her wrap more tightly around her slender frame- A frame which showed no obvious signs of extensive personal trainer effort, largely because she was caked in make up that most preternaturally thin women require to disguise their lack of pleasing curvature.
Daniel drew close to her, flipping his hair out of his face, only to have it fall back again. He stood a head taller than her, except during the kissing scenes, when he was somehow the same height as her.
“Talk to me like the wind”, he said to her, homosexually.
“I have daddy issues.”, she said, truthfully.
For a moment they stood in silence. There was time for that, because this was a Wednesday, or possibly Thursday, but in this place, in this moment, in this burgeoning love, neither one of them had anything better to do, and yet both could still afford to live and eat.
Daniel departed tenderly, like a beef tenderloin might depart, and then he repaired the leak under the bathroom sink without using the appropriate tools. Likely, he would emerge from beneath the sink with a greasy rag in his hands, which he would set on the counter in a motion that would mimic casualness. His shirt would also likely remain off, unless he needed to seem mysterious for some reason, perhaps disguising the scar on his back caused by some childhood abuse from a stranger, and not at all by a family member like the way those sorts of abuses actually occur.
Juliette would later prepare a meal for the two of them, which would end up hilariously wrong. Then, she would dance with Daniel to the sound of some Motown tune that she was inexplicably fond of, despite her so clearly having been raised in the seventies. One thing was certain, the two of them would dance to a song that you used to enjoy until just a moment ago, and they would fall about the floor laughing with youthful abandon. In any case, you will never want to hear that perfectly good Motown song again.
Later still, as the film draws to a close- or the novel- whatever, later still, I will shit blood unceasingly from having experienced this. If I am unlucky, I will return to my apartment and Manswers will be on TV, and the double edged sexist stereotype blade will disembowel me.