almost okay

When I slept I would dream of the girls.

In my favorite recurring dream Beyonce would be sitting on my face and Jessica would be sitting on my crotch, the two of them facing each other and making out while I ate and humped away. The girls were perfect in my dreams... perfect lips, perfect hips and perfect boobs. When Beyonce farted, it smelled like vanilla and her pussy tasted just like butterscotch. Jessica pissed lemonade. The girls had multiple orgasms in every one of those sweet dreams as they cooed and moaned my name, and I nearly always had one lengthy, extremely messy earthquake of a climax myself.

Unfortunately, reality was nothing like my dreams.

Even though the instructions and proportions for mixing the silicone I'd used to make Beyonce's face were very simple, I must have done something wrong because the concoction didn't set fully. Of course, I didn't figure that out until long after I'd mounted her...

Once I had waited the prescribed time for the silicone to set up, I rushed to my work room to check on the results. Even without the paint, eyeballs and teeth, my handiwork on the Beyonce face impressed me, and as I touched her soft cheek for the first time my hand trembled with excitement. So did Li'l Marty.

Before I could stop myself, I'd fetched the Beyonce doll, positioned the face so that the mouth lined up with the hole in the doll's head and duct-taped it into place. Then, overcome with animal lust, I laid her down on the sofa and dropped on top of her in a male superior sixty-nine position, tonguing away at her as I eased Li'l Marty between her soft, full lips. Who cared whether she had eyes? Not me. And no teeth? The way I figured it, that was probably an advantage in the long run. No, all I was really interested in were those magnificent lips.

After three minutes of frantic thrusting I pulled my face away, arched my back and braced for the oncoming gusher. With my eyes closed I imagined a real life Beyonce covered in sweat, working me with gusto, her lips painted with bright red lipstick. That's the ticket, I thought. Why bother with the paint and teeth? All I'd need to do was put a little lipstick on her and... and...UNNNNGGGHH!!!!

It was the best orgasm I'd had in almost an hour, and it left me completely spent. I collapsed alongside my favorite girl and fell soundly asleep. Upon waking, I was vaguely aware of something sticky and soft clinging to my groin and when I looked down, was horrified to see that during our passionate love-making session, Beyonce's half-finished face had peeled away from the head of the love doll and was now practically melted to my body, Li'l Marty poking pathetically through right in the middle of the gooey mess.

I grabbed a can of mineral spirits and a rag and worked desperately to remove it, but the solvent wouldn't touch the silicone. After fifteen minutes of futile rubbing, I had to face the fact that I would need something a tad stronger. I had some lacquer thinner in the garage and just the thought of dousing my manhood in it made me wince, but I didn't know what else to do. I sure as fuck wasn't going to go to the emergency room. This would be worse than that time I showed up at Beaumont with a melon baller up my ass.

I went into the kitchen, pulled out a trash bag and wrapped it around my waist, covering the still-sticky area to the best of my ability. Then I threw on my robe, made the dreaded trip to the garage and grimly got to work. Four hours later, what was left of my beautiful Beyonce's face had been reduced to hundreds of snot-like balls of silicone stuck haphazardly to the cement floor of the garage, and I'd gone through four rolls of paper towels, a half-dozen cotton rags, an entire gallon of lacquer thinner and two layers of skin.

I was weak, raw and high from the fumes and skin exposure, and every hair - pubic or otherwise - that had been stuck to the goo was gone, either pulled out by the root or melted by the solvent. I hobbled into the bathroom, jumped into the shower and turned on the tap.

My skin in the affected area was already red and hot. I was looking forward to a nice cool shower, but as soon as the lukewarm water made contact it was like a million white hot needles had been shot into my groin. Fuck! Li'l Marty practically screamed, and my testicles ran for cover, climbing so high I could almost feel them in my throat.

After the shower, I slathered on an entire bottle of skin care lotion, put a couple old towels on the bed and gingerly lay down to try and get some rest. Sleep didn't come easy, though, with Li'l Marty still throbbing in pain and my skin feeling like it was on fire, even with the generous layer of lotion.

It took eleven beers and a pint of tequila before I was able to nod off.

As the days turned into weeks I gradually got better. I couldn't bear to look at either of the girls and the last thing on my mind was sex, so I read a lot. I drank a lot, too, in order to sleep. And sleep I did. A lot.

One morning, as I was just starting to feel like my old self again, I sat in front of the computer and read the day's headlines. What was this? Beyonce got married? And Jessica Alba was pregnant?! When did all of this happen? Shit! If Beyonce got married, it was just a matter of time before that Jay-Z bastard had her knocked up and she started turning into her mother!

That's when it all fell apart for me, my scheme to have them all to myself, to create the perfect woman. Over the past few weeks I had vaguely thought about getting back at it, this time with the Jessica face, perfecting the mix and then making my beautiful Beyonce once again. After all I still had the mold. It wasn't really all that much more work.

But when I began to picture Jessica pregnant, her belly swollen with some dumb actor's demon child growing inside, and her delicious navel, once adorned by a sexy silver ring now pushed out like an end of ring bologna... well, I just couldn't get Li'l Marty excited no matter how hard I tried. And he was just as uninterested in Mrs. Jay-Z.

So the dolls stay in the closet most of the time now. Every once in a while, I get Beyonce out, push her face down into the bed and drive one high and hard, but it has to be a special, extra-horny occasion. Jessica is pretty much just collecting dust, but the dreams haven't gone away...

“What's that, dear?” I say.

“When you're ready, I want you to pull out and squirt all over me,” Beyonce says.

“Yeah,” says Jessica. “Just splash it all over her and I'll lick it off.”

“Ooh, yeah,” says Beyonce. “That will be hot. Right here on my breasts.” The girls kiss.

“Are you ready, girls?”

“Mmm, yessss!” they both say, still touching tongues.

“Here you go... I'm...cum... CUMM... CUMMINGGG!... UUNNGGGHH!!!...”

“Mmmm, oooh... yesss!” they say. Then in unison, as they drool over my juices: “You are the sexiest man alive, Marty Sherman! THE SEXIEST MAN ALIVE!”