Authors: J. R. Rain
“
Your father!” Mother replied, her eyes gleaming. “Your father is coming.”
I was at once excited and a little frightened, for I had never met my father, Hrunta. He left on the krill hunt before I was born. The males who remained behind to protect us acted distant and aloof—except for the time old Hrōta nearly drowned me. For her part Mother ignored them also. But I could see that she felt differently about Father. She was excited, moving her flippers in circles and blinking—now and then giving the water a thunderous slap with her tail. I felt a swelling around my heart and very proud—proud that my father was one of those chosen to hunt the krill, proud that he was coming home at last. The rest of that night Lewtë and I chased each other in circles while keeping up with the pod.
At dawn we sighted five silvery spouts on the horizon. All the pod whistled shrilly together. In a few minutes came an answering whistle. For a long while we raced silently on the surface while the distant forms drew closer. At last we saw five huge shapes rise from the water as one, white flippers flashing in the rising sun, and land with five enormous splashes. In a few seconds all the adults were greeting them. I hung back, on the edge of the circle, watching to see which one my mother went to. She swam up to the very biggest and they nuzzled, flipper to flipper, rolling for a moment on the water. Then they lay cheek by cheek, slapping the water and making happy little whistles and grunts that didn’t mean anything.
Needless to say I was impressed by my father’s size. I noticed that he, like Lewtë, had splotches of white along his sides above the flippers. But when I saw my mother act silly around him, I wasn’t sure I would like him. In fact, for a moment I almost disliked him. I felt she might forget me now that Hrunta was back. But when they swam over to me my feelings changed.
“
So this is my son,” Father said in a deep voice, eyeing me from flipper to fluke. He sounded proud and smiled an enormous smile, showing yards and yards of black baleen. He took me between his flippers and gave me a squeeze, wringing the breath right out of me, then leaped and threw me into the air, catching me neatly with his flukes and turning to face me. “We’ve got ourselves a prize, Hreelëa,” he said. Mother smiled and snorted shyly.
Flattered and breathlessly excited, I could only squeak. I knew from that moment he and I would get along. I started off to tell Lewtë. We ran head on into each other, she jabbering about her father and I about mine, and we swam back and forth between them arguing over whose was the biggest and the best.
My father’s flippers were longer than I was. He was gigantic and black, except where the albino splotches spread up from his belly and chest. His back was salted with barnacles and his beautiful bow-shaped flukes shone white underneath and scalloped along the back edge.
That night I went to sleep cradled between my mother and father. Now and then they’d both turn over, rolling me like a pebble between them. I’d laugh and scream with delight at the massage until I lay limp as a jellyfish.
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Girls Don’t Poop
Lessons in Anatomy, Hygiene & Sexual Promiscuity
by
Jen Ashton
(read on for a sample)
Chapter One
My brother and I were latchkey kids. While Mom was in beauty school, we often found ourselves unsupervised for several hours at a time on school days. This became a prime opportunity for my brother to bully me. We would race off the school bus to the kitchen, fighting over the snack drawer. He always won, therefore declaring him King of the Twinkies. He hoarded those delicious yellow sponge cakes—for years—and left me no choice but to settle for second fiddle; the Ding Dongs. I didn’t mind so much. I loved their chocolaty goodness and creamy filling. At least I still got to partake in that scrumptious Hostess cream filling. It tasted so good. This was the age of innocence. The time when I actually just ate my Ding Dong, instead of staring at it first, seriously considering how they actually got that white fluffy stuff inside the holes.
Everyone knows Ding Dongs paired well with an ice cold Coke. And like any other product of eighties pop culture, my after school snack was not complete without two unique cultural experiences. One: removing the “pop top” of my soda can without breaking the tiny ring on it. (I was told these little collectibles could be exchanged for kisses from boys. So I proudly saved them all in a Ziploc baggy, waiting for the day to cash them in on my crush.) And two: smashing the wrapper of my Ding Dong on the counter into some abstract piece of flattened, tin foil origami art.
“
Hmm? Looks like a hippo today,” I said to myself one afternoon, squinting my eyes and stretching my imagination, “sitting on a cloud with a sword in its hand.”
Speaking of swords, it was time to get out He-Man and a Skeletor. It wasn’t uncommon for me to get at least one battle in before my mom got home. But that particular afternoon, while playing on the floor in my parent’s bedroom, I decided I wanted to wage a full-on Masters of the Universe war. The only problem was that I didn’t have enough action figures. I needed more soldiers. After searching the house over, I ended up with He-Man, his tiger, his castle, Skeletor, two Barbies and a Ken doll. Not the most desirable army, but it would have to do. Now, all I needed was some weapons.
Skeletor had a staff. He-Man had his sword. I needed something awesome for the Barbies. Hmm? Where could I find something cool to use as a gun? My little girl eyes turned to my mother’s bathroom. Surely, she would have something in her makeup case that would make a great gun. I crawled along the floor, setting my eyes on the cabinet under the sink. When I finally opened the doors, I was met with an array of womanly products; perfumes, makeup, curling irons, lotions and potions galore. And just beyond all the bottles, far in the back, hiding under a bag of makeup, was a white box with the letters o.b.
“
O.B.? What the heck is that?” I asked aloud. The only “O.B.” I knew up to that point was Obi Wan Kenobi. Surely my mom wasn’t hiding him under her sink!
Pushing all the other products aside, I reached deep for the little box and retrieved it without a hitch. I lifted the lid and peeked inside. No Obi Wan. All that was inside was a few white bullets shrink-wrapped in plastic. I had no idea what they were, but they would make great guns!
“
O.B.” I repeated. “Official bazooka!”
That’s all I needed. I grabbed the white bazookas and secured one under the arm of each Barbie. Ken had two. I was prepped and ready for war.
“
You’re going down!” I announced in a low voice that was supposed to be Ken’s. “Feel the wrath of my O.B.!”
Skeletor cowered in the distance as imaginary missiles shot from the cannon of my O.B. and destroyed the drawbridge of The Castle of Grayskull. “Die, Skeletor! Die!” I shouted, making high-pitched shooting sounds that sounded like, “Pew, pew pew!”
* * *
Jessica has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. She talked like a sailor and walked like a man, even in the third grade. With country in her blood and an invisible horse saddled up between her legs, she was as manly as an eight year old girl could be. She lacked all things effeminate, which made us a perfect match. Rather than sundresses and bobby socks, we could be found wearing cut-off jean shorts and leather jackets, hiding behind the school bus holding a spitting contest. When the boys would try to out-spit our loogies, Jessica would puff up her chest and launch one twice as far, following up her winning shot with some hillbilly phrase like, “This dog’s too old to get fucked by the puppies.” There was nothing not to love about her.
Jessica and I were joined at the hip for years. We rode bikes, skated around the neighborhood and played in the mud together. We never wore shoes and always got into trouble. We played outside from sun-up to sun-down every day, rain or shine. She helped me with my paper route and I helped her with her appetite. Every day after school, we would load up my paper bag with rolled newspapers and throw it over my handlebars. Jessica would jump on the back pegs and we would ride over to an adjacent neighborhood to deliver them. Afterward, I would steer us over to the local grocery store for a snack.
“
You hungry?” I would always ask, even though I already knew the answer.
“
Yep,” she always responded with her husky voice.
We would walk around the produce section, sampling free cheese, crackers, fruit and cookies. You would’ve thought we were poor and our parents didn’t feed us. After the first lap, we often ran to the restroom, switch shirts and hats and went back for round two. Surely, no one would recognize us as the two girls dressed like boys who gobbled up half of the free samples just ten minutes before. Nope. Never. Unfortunately, we could never fool the bakery ladies, and they chased us off…every single time.
Once full of hors d’oeuvres, we would head over to the magazine rack to load up on all the Tiger Beat gossip and check out the new boy’s fashions circa 1987. One day, while stealing a centerfold of Joe Elliott from Def Leppard, the cheese finally got to me.
“
Hey Jess, I gotta go to the bathroom.”
“
Too much information,” she replied, never taking her eyes off the poster of Bret Michaels that she was ogling.
“
Come with me,” I whispered. “I’ve gotta poop real bad.”
“
Impossible,” she responded.
By this time I was wriggling around in my jean shorts, confused by her response and running short on time. “What do you mean,
impossible
? I think the cheese upset me stomach, I gotta go poop. Just put Bret down and come with me.”
“
Impossible,” she said again, turning toward me and looking at me over the top of her magazine.
Suddenly, my feelings were hurt. There I was, her best friend, requesting her company in the restroom while I sat on the shitter and she was so fixated on her poster of Poison that she was turning me down. What kind of best friend was she? She could see the urgency as I stood there, holding myself as I danced around trying to keep my insides inside. And it was obvious that our friendship meant more to me than my rumbling tummy and clenched butt cheeks because I hadn’t left yet.
“
Why is it so impossible for you to come with me?” I yelled in my best whisper voice, trying to remain calm so that my stomach muscles didn’t accidentally push anything out preemptively.
It was clear that Jessica was handling the situation more calmly than me. She stood there, in her jean shorts and jacket, with a ripped concert tee and a button that read
I heart Brandon,
staring at me. I was waddling back and forth, warming up with panic. Then, she looked me straight in the eye and told me something I had never heard before.
“
Girls don’t poop.”
“
What?!?!” I was confused and growing dizzy from running around in small circles.
“
It’s impossible, because girls don’t poop,” she reiterated.
* * *
I’ve wanted to be a model since I received my first compliment.
“
Aw, isn’t she precious,” my grandmother swooned.
That’s all I needed to hear. It was in my blood. I was born to model and I was determined to get a head start on the other girls. So, it’s no surprise that photos exist of me posing in my crib naked with a mink throe. All I was missing was a little lipstick. I was such an amateur then. But flash forward six years and I would finally get my chance to go pro.
One afternoon while I was reorganizing my Star Wars figures in my new Darth Vader case, my mom knocked on the bedroom door.
“
Jennie?” she asked sweetly. “How would you like to model tonight at my Tupperware party?”
I almost pissed in my Dungarees. Maybe there
was
an innate desire to be a girl somewhere under my striped Izod polo and dark denim jeans after all. Or not. Looking back, my mom probably just wanted to get me into a dress, but to me, this was my chance to strut my stuff. I had fantasies of becoming a big time Christmas catalog model. Every December I would flip through the pages of the Sears Catalog, circling images of the latest boy’s fashion—Oshkosh overalls, Michael Jackson Thriller jacket, soccer cleats—you name it, I was all about putting in years of hard work at Tupperware parties, family functions, or neighborhood picnics to earn my way up the ranks to model it someday. And now, here was my chance. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
My eyes lit up with excitement and I smiled bigger than ever before. Little did I know then, that this would be the beginning of a string of modeling assignments to earn my merits. And they would all start with, “Jennie, would you like to model for me tonight?” Those few words would soon take a strange toll—from sheer eagerness to pay my dues to absolute horror when I looked in the mirror—all for the sake of chasing my dreams to be a male model.