In college, I worked on the literary magazine, reading submissions– one of which explored the desire of a man who wants to sleep inside his lover.
Like, his whole body.
And he does this.
Somehow, he squeezes in a foot, then a leg, torso, and so on.
To her, it’s not physically painful, just boring. In her uterus, his mouth yammers on, reverberating through her tissue, talking about video games and tequila trends. She turns another page of Better Homes then rolls her eyes and slaps off the lights.
“It tickles.” she says. “You tickle, dummy.”
But, still, she allows him to drift off and snore– to stay there, inside herself, in full.
In the morning, he refuses to get out. Instead, he smokes cigarettes. Orders whiskey and cokes. Wonders about global warming.
She cooks eggs with this hairy arm sticking out of her vagina, giving her a thumbs up.
It’s a nightmare. She loves him.
Tonally, the story felt humorous because it was so poorly written.
I think, maybe I wrote that story.