My Dentist Hates Me
Bill Cook

"My dentist hates me!" I said.

"No way, baby," she said.



Two sloppy hours after my dickwad dentist had yanked two more of my precious pearlies and declared without much to-do that a third was in need of a root canal, thanking god that my mouth finally felt mine again, I eagerly salivated over the incoming triple order of spicy tuna rolls, a basket of those deep-fried craggily tentacle sticking out everywhichway things, and a cooler-chilled four-pack of melon infused sake. "Load up on that there wasabi, honey," I said, "cause, I'm in for one hell of a ride once these here fine drugs wear off."

The plump Japanese-looking hostess smiled quaintly in return. Wryly examining my unscrewing mouth, she unsheathed her black-lacquered chopsticks and with dazzling dexterity plucked a freelancing stray from her in-style brow. Then she straightened her blue-splash kimono with a delicate slice of her down-turned palm. "You wanna take a wild ride on my rice-rocket baby?" she said. And we did.

After a quick windswept jaunt on her teriyaki special, the Japanese-looking blue-splash kimono hostess and I dismounted and strolled to a nearby hillside and watched the sunset melt into a smoldering basketball. She purred Persian-like, nestled her head into mine and stared-off all wonder-eyed.

"Isn't it brilliant?" she said.

"Yes," I said. Then raised a heavy head and touched the dissolving ochre sky with the tips of my outstretched corneas, dreaming of tooth fairies and perfect Hollywood teeth; and still, my mouth throbbed tremendously.

I herded my geisha girl closer.

I said, "Look in here," and hooked my upper lip and pried open my mouth wide enough to capture last light, exposing the dark-stitched mounds.

"You see what that motherfucker did?"

She squinted and peered slantwise. "Wow, no-fucking-way, baby. No-fucking-way," she said, twisting her face into a ghastly exclamation. Stargazing into her freshly peeled plum lips, her agape mouth glistening like twilight dew, my primordial imagination ignited and suddenly she was a giant hibiscus flower and I was a bee diving headlong into her succulent pollen.

She then bashfully turned the other way, looking childishly alluring as she draped her frizzed-out obsidian hair forward, dangling her bare breasts like fine-strands of hippie-beads. "Whata you think baby. Isn't it nice?" she said.

I expelled a stream of damp emptiness—I was utterly transfixed by Era's inescapable beauty—as my cool fingertips guided down her spine, tracing the raised outline of her new green-dragon tattoo, carefully, the raw heat of her paisley skin unhinging spasms of damnation and pleasure that quivered up my spine, and for a moment I forgot.




Click here to read the rest of issue 112


About the Author
Bill Cook lives in a semi-rural area in Southern California’s High Desert, and has stories published in Skive Magazine, Thieves Jargon, VerbSap, Juked, and forthcoming in Tin Parachute Postcard Review.
Email: oakwood85@earthlink.net


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