Thursday, June 14, 2007

Tina and Her Talking Nipple

The idea for this one came half way through a bottle of Shiraz after dusting off a six pack of Bud. It was in the Winter, when I was still living in the crack house on Murder Row. I don't remember the exact time or circumstances of it coming to me ... it was a bunch of slurred words in my digital recorder the next day. There were a lot of grunts and, I think, barking, and there was no denying it was my barking, my grunts, but all I could make out was ... Tina ...(bark, grunt, sloppy breathing sound)and her talking nipple.

It had to be written. And I'm writing it. While working on a few other stories at the same time, including the sequel to Still Life with Muse and Sax.

Here's the first part ...

Tina and Her Talking Nipple

Tina was tall, blond, blue-eyed, big-breasted, long-legged, slim-waisted, high-cheeked, perfectly contoured, and completely full of herself. Wherever she walked she left a wake of smoldering lust dripping in the air. She loved being eye-stripped by men, especially when their wives or girlfriends were beside them, and especially when their wives or girlfriends did their own share of eye-balling her. If there was one thing in the world of which Tina was aware, it was herself.

She had a small red heart tattooed on the top of her left butt. Tiny, beautifully scripted white letters in the center of the heart spelled Tina’s favorite word:


None of her relationships had ever lasted more than a couple of weeks – something about acknowledging the existence of another human being was beyond her understanding of how the universe was supposed to flow around her. Even during sex, she stared at her men in deep puzzlement. Her men, being pigs, didn’t mind this, but ultimate self-love needs to be thoroughly centered, so Tina treated her men like a mean-minded employer who laid people off before it was time to pay benefits. This was also why she didn’t have pets.

Her girl friends were few and her contact with them was seldom. Self-absorption is just one of those things that demands, well, self-absorption.

Tina had set herself up as something akin to a goddess, something unapproachable, impermeable, carved in alabaster and quartz … no … music – she was carved in music and the tune of her was the smoldering lust dripping in the air of her wake. When she walked through a mall, she was a symphony of show, a rock opera of presence, a chant to self-concept.

She lived in a world populated almost exclusively by herself, but, amazingly, she wasn’t lonely. She was happy. She was all the company she needed, and all the conversation she needed was that profound interior monologue that delved into life’s recurring mysteries, like should I wear the dark blue pumps, or the light?

Of course, it had to end. These things always end. Tina’s ending came the day her nipple started talking. It was the right nipple, the one she considered just a bit perkier than the other, the one she fondled most with her left hand when her right hand was between her legs in those quiet times of self-absorption.

She barely noticed it at first. She was in La Senza, shopping for something that would look yummy in her mirror, when she heard a squeaky female voice say, “You need to get something red. Yeah, something cherry red … no … fire engine red, red like strawberries and ketchup. Red.”

She looked around. A young brunette clerk who was showing more underwear than outerwear, rang in a pair of sheer stockings for a heavyset woman who was eyeing the young brunette with more than just envy in her gaze. Another clerk rearranged clothing at the back of the store. There was nobody within twenty feet of Tina. She shrugged and picked up something black that had barely enough fabric to qualify as a thong. One thread less, and it would have been air.

“No, the red one,” said the squeaky voice. “You’re already wearing black. You need more red. Get the red one. Red. Red. Red.”

Not only did she hear the voice clearly this time, but she noticed that, as it spoke, her right nipple felt strange, as though it were shaking or twitching or something. She looked around again. There was nobody close, definitely nobody with a squeaky, high-pitched voice. Quickly, she scratched her right nipple. It was one of those light, wispy scratches. The kind that almost always increases the itch, but they don’t look like you’re scratching, and Tina didn’t want anyone to see her scratching her nipple.

“Thank you,” it said. “That felt good. Now, get the red one. The red.”

Tina jumped. Her head shot from left to right and behind her. Nobody was there. She was alone in the thong department. “Where are you?” she said. Even spooked, her voice was smooth and dreamy, the stuff of soft porn and secret fantasies.

“I’m here,” said the squeaky voice.

“Where’s here?” said Tina slowly. Her fluster was quickly melting into something close to a confused whine, something to which Tina was not accustomed. She was much too cool and perfect for confusion and whining. But one thing couldn’t be ignored, even in Tina’s self-absorbed universe – her right nipple had moved. It had moved at exactly the same time that she’d heard the voice. She looked down. Two magnificently rounded breasts bulged bralessly under a thin black turtleneck sweater.

“You got it,” squeaked the voice. “I’m right down here. You’re up there. Now, we have to make a fashion decision. You need to go with the red. Men like red thongs. Oh, pardon me – wrong motivator. You like red thongs. You’ll look great in a red thong. Think of all the quality mirror time. Maybe a photo opp. Go with the red, Tina, the red.”

There was no denying it. There was movement under her sweater at exactly the same time she heard the voice. Her stomach tightened. It was a perfect stomach. A stomach well-worked with crunches and sensible diet. Tina took care of herself. But now her stomach was tight with stress and a heavy sense of foreboding. She looked around again. No one was watching. She walked to the changing rooms, looked around, and slipped in. She ducked into the closest booth and locked the door. She lifted her sweater to reveal two enormous mounds of well-sculpted mammary fat. Men had popped their corks just at the sight of them. These were weapons grade bosoms, the kind to trigger wars and wooden horses. Tina stared at the left nipple. It was pink and erect, surrounded by rippled flesh, a masterpiece in balance and form.

The skin at the end of the nipple curled in and moved very much like the movement of lips when the mouth was talking. “Say … I’m not bad at all,” it squeaked. And Tina would have sworn that the nipple was actually pointing toward the mirror, as though it were looking at its reflection. “I’d look great under a red bra.”

Tina was not about to let herself be shaken any more than she already had by a talking nipple. “Who are you?” she said.

“Who do you think I am, Tina? I’m your nipple.”

“No you’re not. Nipples don’t talk.” She looked around the booth, then began to examine her sweater closely. “Who are you? Who’s doing this? How are you doing this?”

Again the end of her nipple moved and the voice said, “I’m your nipple, Tina. And we’re going to have lots of fun together – shopping and going to movies and going on dates with boys and having sleepovers with each other and taking long leisurely baths and going to the beach and …”

“Shut up!” said Tina. She closed her mouth quickly and listened, thinking Did they hear me? The last thing she needed was to have two La Senza clerks overhearing her talking to one of her nipples. Satisfied that no one had heard, she whispered, “Breasts don’t talk. Who’s doing this?”

“I’m not a breast. I’m just part of a breast. I’m your right nip…”

“Nipples don’t talk!” said Tina. I must be dreaming, she thought. She pinched the nipple.


There was something about the tone of the squeal and the movement at the end of her nipple as it enunciated the word that convinced Tina that her nipple was, yes really was, talking.

“Why did you pinch me?” said her nipple.

Tina wasn’t sure how to respond to the question. She stared into the mirror with her sweater up over her breasts trying on this new reality like a piece of clothing that she might decide was too loud, wrong for her eyes, or just not her. She decided that it just wasn’t her. She wouldn’t be buying it. Nope, she would put it back on the shelf and look for something else. Talking nipples weren’t in season.

“What are you thinking about, Tina?” said her nipple. “Are you thinking about the red thong? I really like the red thong. It would look great on you. Why don’t you just buy the red thong and we can maybe go to the food quart and get something with tofu in it.”

That was enough of that. She pulled her sweater down. She’d had her fill of talking nipples. She brushed by the clerk who’d been rearranging shelves at the back of the store, a too-skinny girl with eyes that were too wide, who was now searching the changing room with her eyes, looking for whoever she’d heard talking to the stuck-up blond.

Tina marched out of the store and into the mall. It was early evening quiet, with a sparse crowd of shoppers milling aimlessly, not buying, just looking and milling. Tina wasn’t sure if this was a good thing, or if it would be better to have the commotion of a Saturday afternoon in which the voice coming from her chest wouldn’t be noticed.

“You should have bought the red thong,” said Tina’s nipple. “Why didn’t you buy the red thong? It was made for you. Are we going to the food court now? Can we get some frozen yogurt?”

A tall man wearing a red ball cap stared at Tina, but it wasn’t the normal lusty stare – this was a stare of puzzlement, though with a healthy dose of lust. Shit, thought Tina. “Can you please keep it down?” she said. “People are staring.”

“But people are always staring at you, Tina. You’re so beautiful that people can’t stop themselves from staring at you. I don’t think I’d want to be anybody else’s nipple. I’m a nipple on the most beautiful woman in the world and I can’t tell you how proud that makes me feel, Tina. So … can we go to the food court now?”

Tina quickened her pace and walked out the main exit and into the parking lot.

“Oh boy!” said her nipple. “We’re going for a drive! I love going for drives. Where are we going? Can we go to the beach? Can we go swimming? I love swimming. Can we buy veggie dogs and smother them with mustard?”

This isn’t happening to me, thought Tina. I’m having a bad dream. Somebody slipped drugs into me. I’m stressed out. I haven’t been paying enough attention to myself.

“What are you thinking about, Tina? Are you thinking about all the fun we’re going to have at the beach, running through the surf and building sand castles and looking for shells and …”

“Why are you doing this to me!” yelled Tina. Her eyes darted around the parking lot to make sure no one was listening. With the exception of a few dozen cars and vans, probably most of them belonging to store clerks, the parking lot was as empty as the mall. “I haven’t done anything to deserve this. I gave at one of those Santa things. Once.”

“Oh, Tina, you’re so funny when you want to be. So, are we going to the beach? There’s still enough sun left for an hour or so and then we could go to a coffee shop or something, maybe get a veggie sub or …”

“How are you doing this?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Nipples don’t talk. How are you doing it?”

Tina’s nipple was silent for a moment.

“What are you doing?” said Tina.

“Thinking,” said her nipple.

“Thinking about what? Nipples don’t think.”

“You asked me how I was talking and I was trying to think about how I was talking but then you tell me I can’t think. Well, Tina, you’re right. I can’t think. I can’t think because you keep interrupting me so will you puuuulease give me a little space here.”

“Don’t take that attitude with me,” said Tina. “You’re my nipple and I want you to stop talking. I want you to stop talking right now.”

She was standing by her car – a white convertible Porsche with pink trim and pink interior. She stood with her hand on the door latch and listened. She looked down at her sweater, at the prominent bump produced by her right nipple. She waited a few moments more before opening the door and slipping into the custom pink leather seat. She looked around. She loved her Porsche. It was so much like her – perfect. She never actually put the top down. That would be a disaster for her hair. It might loosen the exacting application of her makeup. Not that she used much makeup. Perfection was a hard thing to improve upon. She turned the key. The engine hummed. She put the car in gear, eased up on the clutch, fed her baby some gas. She was in her Porsche. The voice was gone. Things were as they should be. She was the gorgeous blond in the white Porsche men would dream about for days after seeing her for just a flicker of a second as she breezed by leaving a wake of smoldering lust dripping in the air. She relaxed into the soft leather of her seat as she eased into traffic and Kenny G oozed out of the sound system. Things were back to normal. She breathed easy.

“Got any Rock n’ Roll, Tina?”

She slammed on the breaks. A blue Punch Buggy almost rear-ended her, swerving to the side and missing her by inches, horn blaring angrily. She slammed her hands down on the steering wheel. “Go away!” she yelled. “Just go away! Leave me alone! Why are you doing this to me?”

“Does this mean that we’re not going to the beach?” said her nipple.

“The beach! The beach!” Tina grabbed her right breast and squeezed the nipple hard. It hurt, but she didn’t notice. “We’re not going to the beach, you little bitch. Forget the beach!” She shook her breast twice and noticed the people on the sidewalk staring at the crazy beautiful blond woman shaking her breast and talking to it. She let go. It still hurt, but she noticed even less now. She drove away, leaving behind an angry Punch Buggy driver checking the front of his car for scratches or dents.

“You really need to calm down, Tina,” said her nipple. “Have you ever heard of road rage? Do you want people to accuse you of road rage? And if you didn’t want to go to the beach, all you had to do was say so. I don’t think I feel like going to the beach now, anyway. Sun’s too low. Maybe we could go to that coffee shop now?”

“There’s no way I’m going anywhere public with you yakking your head off, or whatever it is …” She threw her arms up. The car swerved. She grabbed the wheel angrily. “I’m talking to my tit!” she screamed. This time she didn’t bother to look around to see if any one was watching her. She didn’t care.

To be continued ...

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Anonymous Anonymous said...

I can't wait to read the rest :)


11:39 a.m.  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

cool stuff...

2:56 p.m.  

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