Blow-Up Doll

[cranefly]

Inside, there's lots of cardboard, Styrofoam, bubble wrap and a plastic shroud. All I can see clearly is a button. It is labeled "auto unpack/assembly." With a shrug I push it. Two hands appear and quickly set to work, first laying all the parts out around the box, then retrieving them in quick succession for assembly. Fudge is gone in an instant, slinking out the open kitchen door headed for the backyard to hide under the catapult. Meanwhile, the assembly proceeds in fits and starts like a timelapse video of a skyscraper going up. While it's hard to see details because of the translucent shroud, this construction clearly favors curves. Suddenly the shroud leaps ghostlike from the box to land on the carpet, a cocoon soon to split open, revealing a technological marvel.

She is intensely Japanese. Long black hair, oval face, eyes emphatically Asian. She wears a yellow halter top, ankle-length red skirt with scandalous side slits, and precipitous stiletto heels. A generous portion of her midsection remains exposed. The advertising copy mentioned an hourglass figure. Little did I imagine it would be an actual hourglass, sand sifting through it. While you'd think this would detract from her realness, it's a superb design choice that somehow enhances her flesh appeal. She is absolutely gorgeous.

"Hi, I Atom Bomb, ready and go. What you idea." She smacks fist to palm. "We happen!"

It's a resounding smack, a bit frightening. And now I realize I'm not at all prepared for the moment.

"Well, uh. I was just finishing up dinner."

Fist to palm. "We happen!"

Uncertain of exactly how to embark on our relationship, I return to the table and sit down. She follows, walking pigeon-toed with a herky-jerky motion, almost Frankensteinian, fingers stiff and widespread, eyes wide open, with a precarious lean. It's freaky, and not nearly as smooth as I had expected, but also hot -- you know, bride-of-Frankenstein hot.

She grabs the chair opposite me and tosses it aside, then assumes a sitting posture. She doesn't even need a chair. Gripping fork and knife, she inhales deeply, then slams her fists to the tabletop. "Swallow time!"

I choke on my beer. "Uh, what would you like?" I'm not looking forward to telling her there's only moldy leftover Meyer lemon chicken and rice.

"Ooooommmm, I like fat men -- and little boys!" She grins wickedly. "Joke thirty-three! Good, uh?"

It takes me way too long to get it. Then I laugh. "I'm glad you know English. It's a relief. I was worried communication might be a problem."

"Yes, me no English. Me Japanese. You no English too. You American. You Obama boy."

I try to assure myself that things will smooth out once we get to know each other better.

Atom Bomb stabs her fork in my direction. "You want sex? I have sex. Big hippo sex. I give it goooo-ud!" She delivers an odd mechanical guffaw.

This is all happening way too fast for me. Still, this is what I got her for. "Sure, we can do that."

"Okay!" She leaps up with an expansive gesture, upending the whole table. I fall over backwards in my chair. She tilts her head, plants hands on hips, and looks down at me. "No kitchen pow!" She grins widely. "Bed-ROOOOM!"

I lead the way to the bedroom, glancing nervously behind. Atom Bomb lurches after me, mantis-like. In the bedroom I retreat to the foot of the bed and just stand there. I haven't a clue how to proceed with something like her. It's like being handed an unfamiliar power tool with way too many blades and switches.

"Uh-oh," she says, looking down at her hourglass. The sand has finished sifting through it. "Poopee time!" She drills index fingers into her dimples, eyes crossing. Then she jerks her way down the hallway to the bathroom, hair tossing side to side. She hesitates outside. "Excuse, please." She twists her body about to face me. "Which is lady?"

"There's only one bathroom," I tell her. When that seems to confuse her, I quickly add, "Yes, that's the ladies."

She goes in, closes the door, and the whole house shakes to the loudest fart I've ever heard.

She emerges a few minutes later, patting her replenished hourglass. "Goodbye poopeeee!" She makes a wide gesture of dismissal, blowing a kiss to infinity. Then she averts her gaze and touches her chin, looking coy. "Excuse my frank." Then she leaps onto the bed and spreads her legs. "Foreplay please!"

Steeling myself, I venture to sit down on the edge of the bed. "So. What exactly do you like?"

She flops onto her stomach, tugs down her skirt, and sticks her butt in the air. "Goochee-goo!"

To my surprise, there's a windup key back there. I proceed to turn it, and turn it. Every time I ask if that's enough, she says, "More screw please!" I turn the key over 200 times and my whole body is aching by the time she finally says, "Okee-doke." I fall back on the bed, exhausted.

Atom Bomb turns over, arches her back, and her eyes get big. "Close windows please! I make loud sex!" Then she begins to vibrate.

The light fixtures shake. Pictures fall off the wall. The windows rattle. She's like a jackhammer. Through all this I manage to hear the phone ringing.

I run into the living room to answer it. "Yes! Hello! Hello!"

"Hi, it's me."

I recognize Lady Cranefly's voice. "Oh, hi! Everything okay?"

"I'm fine. How are you? How's Fudge?"

"We're fine. Fudge is outside right now."

"What? What's that noise? I can barely hear you."

I look towards the bedroom. "I'm vacuuming."

"Vacuuming? I'm so proud of you. But couldn't you turn it off while we talk?"

I think fast. "Sorry, the off switch is broken. It broke completely off."

"Silly. Then unplug it."

I think faster. "Well, uh. I can't. Our power's out, so I had to plug into Dave's place. He said we could use his power."

A pause. "You have an extension cord running across Burgoyne Street?"

"Yeah, pretty crazy, huh?"

"You know that a street sweeper comes through about this time. Couldn't that be a problem?"

"It's okay," I say, struggling. "I've got the cord propped up off the street."

A pause. "How high off the street? Some pretty big trucks go by our place."

"Happy writhe time!" shouts Atom Bomb from the bedroom. "Happy writhe time!"

"What's that noise? Do you have the TV on too?"

"Uh, yes! Yes I do."

"You have two extension cords running across Burgoyne?"

I've never been a good liar. "No, just one. But I'm using a splitter."

"A what?"

"A splitter," I repeat, not knowing what I'm talking about.

"What? I can barely hear you. Maybe I should just call you back later, after you're done vacuuming."

"Okay, bye!" I rush back into the bedroom, because Atom Bomb is making new noises.

"I smell -- fission!" she cries, emphasizing the last word. "I smell -- fission!"

What does she mean by that? Is there a malfunction? Might she actually have some sort of bomb in her?

"I smell -- fission!"

If so, how do I defuse her? Do I whet my thumb and forefinger and snuff out the fuse? Do atom bombs even have fuses? If so, it's likely a very short one -- like a trillionth of a nanosecond!

I squeal as she snags my wrist. Her grip is like a vise.

"Anchovy time! Big passion!"

Her hourglass is a raging sandstorm. Sand grains pound the glass, louder than ten thousand popcorn makers.

"So big passion! Me explode! Load please! Load torpedo now!"

But there's no time for anything. She springs into the air -- hourglass aglow and spinning madly -- and for a moment she is spread-eagled against the ceiling, looking down, long hair writhing, eyes ablaze. Then she tumbles back into bed, landing on her back, chest heaving.

"Kapow!" she says dreamily. Her breathing slows -- or the mechanism for it dampens. "Big time kapow. You number one."

As she lies there, I look at her. It's the first opportunity I've had to really see details. Her skin glows. She is flushed and sweaty. She even smells sweaty. The realness amazes me. Everything about her amazes me. I brush strands of hair away from her face, which, so intense before, has taken on an angelic sweetness. Her eyes flutter drowsily, and I wonder if she is capable of sleep.

Suddenly she tenses. "Oopsy." She props hips up on hands. "Clear runway please. No look. No look! I--" She crinkles up her face. "--peeeeeeeeeeee!"

"Nooooooooooo!" I shout. But it's too late. All I can do is roll aside as she gushes. The stream arcs high, nearly hitting the ceiling, and engulfs the weapons rack at the foot of the bed. There is a mortifying hiss and sizzle.

"Bingo! Monsoon done!"

I spend the next half hour frantically wiping down all our weapons, giving special attention to Lady Cranefly's antiques. I have no idea what came out of Atom Bomb. But if Lady Cranefly had any inkling of what had just happened to her "cutlery"... Then I collapse in bed beside Atom Bomb.

"You know, we do have a bathroom for that sort of thing," I murmur. Still, I don't want to be too harsh. We're still in the early stages, just getting to know each other. I rest my hand gently on her shoulder, but nothing more. I'm more exhausted than if we'd had sex.

She sits up abruptly. "Okay. Good fun, eh? Now teevee."

"What?"

She punches my shoulder so hard it stings. "Teevee! Where teevee? We watch teevee now!"

I cover my head with a pillow. "Couldn't we just sleep a while?"

"No sleep. Watch teevee. Have Sex. Now violence. I want ... Ichi the Killer!"

I lift the pillow and give her a tentative look. She is pouting. It's a nice pout, all puckery, like a gaping hole into hell. "Ichi the Killer?"

"Ichi the Killer! I want Ichi the Killer!"

Amazed at this turn of events, I slip out of bed. "Sure, we can do that." I pull on my pants. "That would be fine." Then I pause, looking back at her. "Do you climb ladders?"

"Climb ladder?" She dangles an arm like it's broken. "Warranty kaput."

I slip on my shoes. "That's okay. I've got a catapult."