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A Meeting with the Lady Upstairs

The tapping had become irregular, frantic, needy. She would tap little beats, ditties, and it would go on all night. As soon as I came home from work there it was, like the sound the pipes make when a toilet flushes, or a shower runs, but these were directed at me. I stepped into the bathroom, there it was. I sat down in my chair in my room: another tap, another beat. I imagined her upstairs laying with her ear to the vent, with one hand next to her head for tapping, and one near her furry bit for pleasuring. I think she thinks the best moments are when she hears my pee hit the water in the toilet. The tapping after I pee always sounds like a wink and a smile. 

I realize this sounds all very narcissistic, like not only am I the center of my own world, I am also the center of hers. But it's true. I don't know what she does all day, but I feel that when I get home from work, like a dog, she is happy to hear me and wags her tail.  I try tapping back, but it does not have the same effect; for her to produce the result all she has to do is tap the floor with a foot, or a finger, expending little energy. For me to communicate through tapping requires the throwing of a ball, and often times the ball misses it's target and goes bouncing to destroy things. Besides, she can hear everything I do, even the sound of the keys being hit right now. In fact, she probably knows I'm writing about her.

Then one day, last Wednesday, I had eaten some chocolate sauce, and it scattered my faculties, and the tapping started up, and it just so happened she was beating out my tune, whatever that was. At the time it sounded heavenly. I'd go up there explaining to her in my calm voice to quit that tapping, but underneath the surface my ulterior motives would be seen.

I rushed upstairs, and came to her door and knocked on it like a normal person. It felt soothing, to tap back at her. There was no answer. I knocked again, but this time with a beat of my own. This was therapy. I knocked again with both fists, and ended the number by kicking the door. Still no answer. I knocked again, restrained, tentative, but ever present, like Chinese torture. No answer. I was about to turn around, but then decided to give the door knob a turn. And it was unlocked. 

"Hello," I called, while opening the door and looking in. Until that moment, I had assumed that all the apartments were laid out the same: Two rooms, a bathroom and a kitchen. This place was different, though. I walked in a little more, curiosity getting the better of me. The lights were off except for red and blue lights lighting what appeared to be a pile of pillows at the far end of the room. It was just one room, with a bathroom somewhere, and the floor, instead of being linoleum, was shag rug. From the door, leading to the red and blue lights was a soft, red throw rug.

"Hi, Sugar Pie," the pile of pillows called. "I've been waiting." From the pillows I recognized a mouth, then some manner of hair. It was her, the Lady Upstairs. Her voice was deep and husky. I could hear the fat gurgling in it. "Come here, love muffin. Come and give big mama some candy. I won't bite. I've just eaten." And she laughed, if I'm not mistaken I heard bits of chicken and some mustard hit the floor. 

What lead me down that red rug was curiosity more than anything, and some remnants of a dying ideal, a promise I had made several years ago: The promise to face my fears.

As I approached I smelt a mixture of perfume, incense and fart. As I got closer, obeying the laws of perspective, she got bigger, and bigger! Soon I thought she might fill up the room, but her size had a cap to it.

"Sit down, baby. Take a load off."

I did as I was told.

"You're the Man Downstairs, aren't you? Oooohh..." And she twirled her finger around on the shag rug, and she laughed again, like a bubbling brook of melted fat.

I neither nodded nor spoke, but stared in fear and somewhat in awe.

"I'd like to give you a bit of chicken. Would you like some chicken? Would you, big boy?" And her finger circled one of her nipples. I looked on in horror. I hadn't noticed she was naked, confusing the rest of her body for bountiful pillows, but there she was, in all her glory. I didn't answer her question, because I couldn't, my mouth was dry, and I was resisting all logical advice to RUN! But stayed frozen in horror.

"Are you shy? Is my muffin shy? Well, here you go, baby. Here's some chicken." And from a roll on her stomach she pulled out a leg of deep fried chicken and handed it to me. I managed to take it so as to defer an attack. Whereupon she circled her lips with her tongue and wiggled her eyebrows.

"Would you like some alligator tail? I have some. It tastes good. It's good for you. Go on ahead and have some."

Fearing what crevice she would pull that from, I shook my head no.

"You want to get straight down to business, do you. You're naughty." And she laughed again.
"O.k. you naughty boy. Here I come."

And like a whale being rolled from a pedestal the Lady Upstairs rolled herself from her pillowed perch, falling two feet to the ground, shaking the entire building in the process. She used the shaking building as a diversion to the steam emitting from her ass. Instantly my nose hairs sizzled, my eyes started burning. Outside the plants were dying.

"Pardon me, honey bunny, Mama had a bit too much chips. Heh, heh, heh." I wanted to tell her it's not funny, that people are dying from the smell, that there is something rotting inside of her, but I couldn't speak, for fear the smell will enter through my mouth and cause paralysis.

"Show Mama where the biscuits are," she said. "Show me some biscuits."

I shook my head no.

With the fall, and the elevated heart beat, she gets quick to anger.

"Show Mama your man thing! Bury it in my love hole!" She yelled, furious, slamming her meaty hand upon the ground, rumbling the floors. "I want your syrup! Your frosty topping! Get in there and do it like your supposed to."

Tears welled up in my eye.  I was being bombarded with images and smells that I had no capacity to process, except for their having in common the worst things possible.

"O.k., fine. Playing hard to get. I'll make it easy for you." And with great huffing, and puffing, and grunting, the Lady Upstairs moved her mass, so as to position her hind quarters not two inches from my face, while she rested the front half of her on her forearms. An alligator tail and other choice meats get unburied in the process. One landed on my leg. I looked on through teary eyes, as though it were a car crash, I didn't want to, but couldn't look away. 

"There you go, Beef Dog, put your face in there, your man parts in there."

That which confronted my face was like darkness itself. The darkness loomed closer, and closer, until I was enveloped in it. Complete darkness.

I woke up several days later, in the forest by a brook. Two squirrels were eyeing my nuts. I was completely naked and covered in slime. I had to ask a man walking by where I was and for some underwear. I didn't know to hide my bits or not when talking to him. We were men after all, it's not like he hadn't seen that before. He gave me his undies, but he too was lost. I wished him well, and thanked him for the undies, telling him I'd mail them to him if he gave me his mailing address. He looked at me funny, and then ran away. It took several hours to find out where I was, and three buses to get home. The tapping continues.


JMH said...

This demands comment. This disgusts me, but I admire that. I like to increase my tolerance for the disgusting. I should probably take up eating dumpster foods when hungry, only when hungry.

John Dantzer said...

They often throw out perfectly good donuts.