Lois on the Down Low by Paula Ray

Lois on the Down Low
by Paula Ray

The thing is, he never used to be like this--glued to the mirror with his cell on speaker phone. These days, he watches the way he responds to callers, practicing his performance, his public appearance. I liked it better when he mumbled “buzz off” with head turned away. It’s not that I’m not glad he’s talking, it’s just that it pisses me off--the way he only speaks in cliché, as if he has no personality of his own.

When Clark and I first hooked up, I thought for sure he’d come out of his shell, eventually, but when he didn’t, well, let’s just say, I resorted to drastic measures. The ad read, “ guaranteed to boost confidence and curb introverted tendencies.” I thought what the hell, he could use some confidence, we all can. I was tired of having to give him the same worn-out pep talk every time he had an interview or we were invited to a party.

Okay, so maybe I got a little carried away with the hypnosis. They recommended a thirty minute session once a day and I figured, if thirty minutes would help him, then an hour would cure him. Now he’s like a freaking parrot, repeating every phrase I read to him from the book. “I’m just happy to be a part of it all. You are far too kind. I’m no hero. I just did what any man would do, in the same situation.”

The man wears his spandex costume to bed. I swear. He wears the whole get up--the cape, the gloves, the boots, the onesy with "S" logo stamped on the front. I don’t mean to be graphic, but he has to strap the boy down, you know, hide the sausage. The reporters claim his package is a bit too big for the G-rated front-page and he’s all about the front page, lately. Sometimes I dream I’m dating a giant prick trapped in a condom. The only fun thing about all this is watching his farts crawl up his back like a hamster under the covers and they can’t escape ‘til they get to his neck. He might be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but he can’t outrun his own silent but deadlies.

He proposed last night. I told him maybe. I didn’t have the heart to tell him, I’ve been having fantasies of an engagement ring made of kryptonite or that I’ve been trying to breed spandex eating moths in the garage.

Author bio:

Paula is an emerging writer from North Carolina where she teaches music, performs in various ensembles, composes, and writes. Her poems and stories have appeared or are forthcoming in: Word Riot, Pequin, Mad Swirl, MicroHorror, Up the Staircase, and Nerve House.