A Morning Visitor We cuddle under the sheets. Bodies heavy and lazy. Stubble brushes my shoulder. An arm weighs down my chest. Someone is making coffee. Good morning cuddlefriend. 😊🌈
The mass of tattered rags and newspapers moved as I approached. It was apparent that I wasn’t alone in the tunnel—I’d also found the source of the unpleasant odor that permeated throughout the graffiti-lined concrete tube. I watched the heap shift again, almost as if it responded to the sound of my displacing an empty soda can; a foot extended from the pile, the limb blackened by filth, with curling talons the color of soil and verdigris. An arm unfurled, and a gnarled hand pointed at me.
“Don’t speak,” I thought, quickening my pace through the tunnel. The person had made themselves known—that was enough. For them to speak would be to draw me into their world of decay and misery. I hoped that they would lose consciousness, that they’d fade into oblivion before recalling how speech worked.
“Hey,” said the living trash. The voice was masculine and rough. How long had it been since he’d spoken a word, or had a drink of water? “Young lady, with the pretty skin.”
I shuddered, and acid burned my throat. I walked closer to the wall opposite the homeless man. He’d changed his position slightly, revealing two beady eyes and a nest of a beard that bristled with movement. I wanted to run past him. Some societal imperative compelled me to walk, albeit at a brisk pace.
I was about to pass the vagrant when he stretched out his body, effectively obstructing my progress.
“I don’t want any money,” he said. “I just want to be held. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched by another. They touch me, yes they do, but I shouldn’t think they count as human. They’re something more. Something divine.” There was a pause as he laughed, the sound bringing to mind an ancient engine that struggled to start. “You remind me of my wife. And my daughter.” He began to cry then, the noise just as dry and percussive as his laughter. “You’re a good person, aren’t you? Yes, yes you are. You’ll hold me, because you’re good. Take pity on me, please. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything…funny.” I couldn’t tell if he was laughing or crying—if he was convulsing or bucking his hips.
“No thank you,” I managed. “Please, let me pass. I want to go home.”
“I’m a good guy,” said the homeless man. “Trust me, okay? Trust me, I won’t hurt you. I won’t try to grab your tits, or anything else.” He licked his cracked, bleeding lips. “I’ve got a dollar. It hurts me to offer that, to have to pay for a cuddle. Society walked all over me, turned me into what you see,” his voice rose. “You did this,” the hobo screamed. “You did this when you divorced me, when you stopped taking my calls!”
I jumped over the writhing mass of rubbish. He shrieked expletives and cursed women all over the world, from the dawn of humanity until its end.
“You OWE me! Come back here! I deserve this!”
I made it out of the tunnel. I breathed for the first time in far too long, and I felt as if a great weight had been lifted from my chest. I jogged home.
MOD: Comment removed - unauthorized external link. [SoulcuddlerZ]
...No, DrBot. Just no.
"I hope that you don't find my numerous tubes unpleasant," said a woman's voice. The sound had been projected throughout the room as a burst of static, as clicks and pops and a mechanical screech that made my teeth ache. There was a droning that rose and fell in volume, that brought to mind vital functions made metallic. Beneath that: a dull throbbing, a heart that thudded with such force that the walls responded in imitation of a grand chest on the verge of exploding. Those palpitations bent me as well, dimming my vision and sending my blood into ferrofluid-like contortions, and my own organs into a squelching flux. I gasped, inhaling a sterile odor more intense than that of any hospital. The burning sensation ebbed quickly as I exhaled, and then returned.
I can't recall how the room appeared. It was drab—I remember that. It made me think of an old bunker. There was a sheen to everything, however, and a trembling that grew more intense as I neared my client's resting place.
I stood over her and wept. Not for fear, or disgust, though those base sensations were present in a way—relayed by someone stupid and hysterical who was miles distant. Simply put: the creature I was, the result of natural processes, recoiled at her very existence in an altogether primal, emotional manner.
I couldn't endure looking at her for long. I saw, in merciful flashes, short brown hair that contrasted with pallid—almost translucent—flesh. She had a fine nose, and lower, an upper row of teeth—each tooth a tiny white beacon. Below that...strands of shredded meat gone cold and colorless, coils of gleaming cords erupting from a neck that couldn't have been more than a hollow basin—her ribs jutting outward—circuitry fused to reshaped bone—little bulbs like electronic larvae illuminating her splayed womb...
"I haven't felt another human's touch in so long. I am eager to begin."
I rested a hand on her shoulder, which crunched and sank inward. I sobbed.
"You're warm," she said. "I've missed cuddling."