Today I will share a personal Halloween Horror Story: The Belly Rubber!
It all started last summer on a bright and steamy day. I was walking home from the train. My hands were full with junk I purchased from the store and I felt rushed as I sweated the long trek home. I approached the Big Box O’ Justice and tried not to bump into any angry people who were standing outside waiting to get in — courthouses are never places where the happy and content meet to chat and share the day — when I spied someone up the sidewalk ahead of me staring at me.
She was standing in the criminal courts line. My gut was telling me to cross the street because when someone is eyeing you like that it is best not to test comity or intent and just remove the temptation of any kind of communication. I decided to be brave and to stay the course — because I wanted to get home faster.
As I approached her, the circus that she was, slowly came into focus: She was a “big girl” with decorative branded scars on her upper arms and winding, slithering, grey tattoos on her forearms; her hair was poofy and braided and held in place with yellow plastic elastic ties; she was wearing bright pink pants and a light blue and white horizontally striped shirt that almost covered her protruding, stretch-marked, belly.
Her eyeshadow was lime green; her lips were outlined in black. The horror began. She locked onto my eyes. Her white, moist, tongue glimmered as it snaked its way out of her mouth to lick her lips wet. In slow motion, she lifted her shirt with one hand and started rubbing her big belly in a circular motion with the other.
I think she was grunting.
I broke our gaze and looked forward and down at the sidewalk as I passed by my new admirer: The Belly Rubber.
The young woman began smacking her lips and I felt her twist her torso to follow me — me, the object of her wanton desire — and as she continued to rub her belly, she shouted, “Mmm-hmmm! I’m gonna get me somma that, yes I am! Break me offa piece a THAT dessert!” I reached the end of the block blushing and sweating even more and I quickly crossed the street — shaking just a bit — wondering what I have done to deserve that horrific display of misplaced passion and public wanting.
Yes, I am a beautiful man. Yes, I am desirous in many funky ways. Yes, I am completely irresistible — but what had I done that day to attract the attention of the local circus lady with the lip-smacking and the belly rubbing?
I have been haunted by the terrifying “What Ifs” ever since! What if her crime was murder? Or stalking? What if she had the envy of other women in some parallel universe in which I did not spin or understand and I had just turned down an offer of love and smacking lips like no other?
How many other men had she rubbed her belly over in the span of her young life — and did she ever end her desire with a knife and fork in the heart of a man so she could feed her unfulfilled desire for a broken desert?
The lesson in this horror story is — when your gut tells you to cross the street, go! — or you tempt the haunting of your life each night when darkness folds and your eyes close and you begin to drift into dreams that start with grunting and belly rubbing and always end with your body parts being licked and massaged by a white, serpentine, tongue.