Man, you should have seen the way she moved.
Words by Georgia Alice Little & illustration by Georgia Little
I don’t have much stuff. Stuff just gets in the way. My bedroom is small, my curtains always closed. An ashtray sits proudly on my bedside table, always full of old cigarette ends. My bed is rarely made, and only when I’m bored will I rearrange the sheets. It gives me a sense of accomplishment, only to be made redundant by the following night. Old socks scatter the brown carpet like tiny rugs. I kick my pair of jeans a few inches to the side – they act as a timeline of my laziness. I wonder what it would be like to be clean. Stuff always gets in the way. Every day though, I use my hand to brush away the thin layer of dust that sticks to my laptop screen. This act is made out of my respect for Angel. She’s a classy woman, you know.
I came across Miss Angel Montana in the summer. I guess you could say it began like most relationships, built on sexual desire; an amalgamation of intrigue and excitement. For a while that’s all it was – sexual. She whispered dirty nothings which would make the corners of my mouth curl up. But then, one night, as I watched her golden hair with its loose waves, sway from her breasts to her back, I knew she was the one. She was this fucking goddess with a look in her eye, that look; a look that was vacant yet wholesome. Angel was soon part of my routine. I’d watch her whilst sipping my coffee – each slurp a strange mating call only she couldn’t hear. She’d move around on the silk sheets like a snake, man you should have seen it, her body; glossier than photo paper. When she looked at me, god when she looked at me; I swear i could locate the movement of blood within my arteries, heading straight to the tip of my manhood.
One early evening – say 6pm, I went to check up on her to see how she was doing. I like to see her during that time of the day, when the sun was low and sleepy, and stalked the thin empty line between the closed curtains. I opened my laptop, opposing the glare and speckles of dust, and clicked on the open tab. There she was, in front of the very lens I first saw her through, beautiful as always. This time she had a white lace separates on and some white strappy stiletto’s. Her red lips pouted. My nostrils flared. I wondered what was underneath her uniform for a couple of minutes. I imagined she’d smell like floral soap. I was aware of how close I was to her, my breath becoming heavy, my hands sweaty.
I whispered ‘yeah’ to the rhythm of her shoulder movements. I rubbed my thighs – stressed from lust. I clicked to keyboard, to prevent the brightness leaving the screen. I clicked the keyboard; clicked, and clicked. Somehow, as I did, I was taken to a BetFred pop-up advert. How dare they shove this down my neck, didn’t those third-party wankers consider I was having an intimate moment? Stuff always gets in the way. I’ve never been a betting man myself, I never understood why people liked sports and games so much, what does it mean to be a winner anyway?
I couldn’t get this pop-up advert off my screen and started to panic that I’d come across as rude if she saw I wasn’t looking at her. I clicked. I clicked. I clicked, thinking I was going back to her page but I was clicking on various pop-up’s. So many that I got angry. I shoved my fist in my mouth, took it out and analysed patterns amongst the indents on my knuckles left from my teeth.
WHERE IS SHE?
I couldn’t see her, from all the adverts, all the windows, blocking me out.
WHERE IS SHE?
I kept closing them, they kept coming back, shit, I might have a virus – I thought to myself. I thumped my fist on my desk to assert my manliness. Nothing changed. FUCKING STUFF! I stood up, I felt my blood cells rushing from my penis to my brain, like blind tadpoles. I don’t know why I had such a testosterone-charged tantrum in hindsight. Maybe it was my desperation to be with her or my frustration of things getting in the way. I flipped. I shook the laptop and with one swift swipe, knocked it over. The screen ripped.
I put my hands on my head, took a deep breath and sat on the edge of my unmade bed. My fury was quietly calmed by an epiphany that I needed to stop eating so much fast-food. This must have been brought on by the gravitational reaction to throwing my overweight arse on the bed and feeling the bedsprings dance. As I was feeling glum, I looked up over to the desk ever so slowly. Holy shit. An arm. Then a leg- Angel Montana breaking out of the broken screen!
A couple of tears dropped from my eyes, failing to wash the look of disbelief from my face. You should have seen her. You should have seen it man. No bigger than a Barbie doll. What was happening? Her stiletto heel pressed onto the keyboard, typing nonsensical words as she made her way onto the desk. My drawers were open, which gave her sock-filled stepping stones. She reached the carpet and looked around my room. The remaining sunlight streamed through the window, she was blinded, bewildered. She looked up at me, firstly to my hairy knee caps, then directly at my face. We stared for what felt like eternity, but it was probably seconds. Then she ran and exited via the open door.
And so, that was it. For a few days, after crying into my pillow and struggling with sleep deprivation, I gave up searching. Man, I searched everywhere – on Google, Craigslist, even Linkedin. No sign of her. I did find a forum thread, dated 2 years back, written by a man who had a similar experience with a beauty called Honey Capri. He said how Honey was special, and that she will grow like a tree; each moment of ‘something’ watering her roots, propelling her into the skies of this real and dark and beautiful world. Each ounce of respect, inch of trust, millimetre of hope, all personifying itself into her size and weight taking her further away from what she once resembled. He didn’t say how long it would take for her to grow into the size of an average human, but he said it would only ever happen when he wasn’t there. He wouldn’t even recognise her if he decided to leave his room and go outside. Angel is out there now, and I’m guessing she is 5’8, 130 pounds. I hope, if I do ever leave my room, I recognise her whilst picking up some stuff from the supermarket and my eyes shrink her down so I can carry her back in my pocket. Alas, my destiny is within my room, getting smaller and smaller until I become the size of the screen she escaped from.