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Authors: Carlton Mellick III

The Haunted Vagina

BOOK: The Haunted Vagina
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ERASERHEAD PRESS

205 NE BRYANT

PORTLAND, OR 97211

WWW.ERASERHEADPRESS.COM

ISBN: 0-9762498-8-X

Copyright © 2006, 2011 by Carlton Mellick III

Cover art copyright © 2011 by Ed Mironiuk

www.edmironiuk.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

Printed in the USA.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I miss Andre the Giant.

 

- Carlton Mellick III 4/14/2011 8:48 am

CHAPTER ONE

I’ve been scared to have sex with Stacy ever since I discovered her vagina was haunted.

When we first met, I didn’t notice her vagina was haunted at all. It seemed perfectly fine.
Better
than fine. It was great! At least, for the first year. But after we got engaged, and she moved in with me, I noticed odd sounds coming from her while she slept.

At first, I just thought it was her snoring. Then I thought there was a television left on somewhere in the house. I heard voices in the dark—whispers, then laughs. Then cries. Then howls. The sounds were muffled, but seemed to become clearer and clearer with each passing night.

“Where the heck are those noises coming from?” I asked Stacy one evening.

She blinked herself awake. “Huh?”

“I hear voices. Coming from the walls,” I said.

“Oh . . .” she said.

“I’m serious,” I said.

“That’s not coming from the walls,” she said. “It’s coming from me.”

“From you?”

“From inside me,” she said, pulling off the covers and pointing at her crotch.

I snorted at her.

“Listen,” she said, pulling my head into her lap and pressing my ear against her vagina.

It was like listening to the ocean in a hairy flesh seashell.

“You’re playing!” I said.

She giggled. It was all a joke.

But then I heard it . . .

A voice, inside of her.

I couldn’t understand the words. A woman crying, babbling in a deranged language. Then she screamed into my ear and I jumped out from between Stacy’s legs.

My girlfriend laughed at me, squinting her dark brown eyes.

“What the hell!” I screamed.

“Told you!” she said.

“What is that?”

“A ghost,” she said.

“What!”

“I’m haunted,” she said, touching her vagina and smiling.

“How did a ghost get in there?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s been in there for a long time now.”

“Why don’t you do anything about it?” I asked.

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know . . . call a priest?”

“What’s a priest going to do? Stick a cross up there and cast the spirits out?”

“Maybe . . .”

“It’s really not that big a deal. I’ve gotten used to it.”

“How . . .”

“Actually, I kinda like it.”

I frowned at a sailboat on the wall behind her.

“Yeah,” she said, spreading her legs across my lap. “Who else has a haunted vagina?” She flattened the bush of pubic hair and spread the lips to examine it. “My other boyfriends thought it was kind of sexy.”

I shook my head at her as she smiled. I found it repulsive. But the fact that I was scared of her vagina seemed to turn her on.

She made love to me after that. For her, it was the wildest sex we ever had. She had me pinned down underneath her, sucking on my crusty lower lip, sliding my penis into her ghostly regions and getting off on the terrified look on my face. But for me, it was the most awkward sex I’d ever had. I swear I could feel strange things inside of her that night. Ghostly breaths against the tip of my dick.

But we were madly in love! I didn’t even consider leaving her because of her ghost vagina. She meant everything to me. I loved her this >< much! (That means infinitely).

I’ve been consumed by her ever since the day we met. We were strangers who somehow passed out on a city bus together, my head in her lap, her curly brown hair encasing me like a blanket, hot breath on the back of my neck. When we awoke, she said “That was cozy,” and I smiled at her. She was very tall, especially for an Asian girl. Almost a foot taller than me. With silky curled hair and tiny oval glasses.

Then she said she had a snugly bed at her place if we wanted to continue sleeping. I agreed. I thought she wanted to have sex. The whole walk home my eyes were glossy at her, trying to hide my hard-on under my coat. But she really just wanted to sleep. It was late. Both of us worked the swing shift. We went into her studio apartment, the floor covered with laundry that she insisted was all clean, and stripped down to our shirts, underwear and socks. She was right. It was definitely a comfortable bed. It was the biggest, fluffiest bed I’ve ever been in. She snuggled me like a teddy bear all night. We didn’t even know each other’s names, but it was one of the nicest moments I’ve ever spent with another person.

The next morning, we introduced ourselves.

“Steve!” she said, hopping out of bed to the kitchen counter, “I hate that name!”

I could see her cocoa nipples through her t-shirt. She must have taken her bra off sometime during the night.

“Sorry . . .” I said.

“Ha-ha!” she said, eating Lucky Charms out of the box.

“When do you want to do this again?” she asked me.

I shrugged.

“Tonight?” she asked.

I nodded, pulling on my pants.

On the way out the door, she said, “Meet you on the bus.”

For three weeks, we slept in the same bed together. We never had sex. We never kissed. We never took off more clothes than our pants. We just dreamed together.

The conversations were brief. We didn’t go on any dates. We didn’t get to know each other. It was just a sleeping arrangement. To her, I was just a stuffed animal with a heartbeat.

But eventually, we started to talk.

I found out her favorite food was stuffed grape leaves and her favorite films were all Russian. She was born in Thailand but was adopted by a wealthy African American couple before she could walk, and spent most of her life in an upscale suburb outside Los Angeles. She spent ten years at the university here in Portland, getting degrees in every subject she could acquire. She wasn’t interested in a career. She just liked learning new things, and her parents paid for everything until she turned thirty. That’s when they cut her off and she had to drop out to get a job. Unfortunately, her degrees in Philosophy, History, Russian, Anthropology, Psychology, and Humanities were useless in the job market, so she worked at one of the hipster clothing stores downtown. That’s when she decided her real passion in life was fashion design, and she’s been saving up her money to go back to school ever since.

“I never went to college,” I told her.

“Never ever?” she asked.

“I was busy trying to be a musician. I sang and played guitar. I wanted to be like Beck or the guy from Soul Coughing. But after 10 years of going nowhere, I gave up. Crowds just didn’t like me. Night clubs stopped booking me for shows. I kept playing my music at open mic night at Produce Row, but eventually quit. I got sick of the lack of applause. I got sick of people ignoring me, talking at their tables like I wasn’t even there. It was just a big waste of time.”

“Did playing your music make you happy?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Then it wasn’t a waste of time,” she said.

That’s when I realized I was in love with her.

I didn’t realize she was in love with me for months after that. She always said I was cute and small, but that didn’t prove anything. A terrier is also cute and small, and I wanted her to love me more than she’d love a terrier.

BOOK: The Haunted Vagina
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