This is some dumb thing I just finished writing. I haven't written anything in a long time so I did this to make sure I still could. It's about some lady's day.



The Cucumber.
By Glen Wilbur.

A cucumber, one of a type of moss green phallic vegetable utilized in salads and sandwiches, this very particular one in question, the very subject of this tale, slipped down inside its plastic bag like an invitation - a call of deep suggestibility would become anyone wishing to feel the full impact of this description. Its weight tugged a harmless pressure down as it fell against the bottom of the bag, causing the ruffled, plastic lips of an opening to rub themselves around Mrs. Callas’ tightening fingers. She spent a brief moment more than was usual dangling the cucumber over her shopping cart, then placed it neatly beside a box of cherry tomatoes and continued on towards the breakfast cereal aisle. Her eyes twinkled blue beneath the flickering paleness that was the grocery store’s less than adequate lighting; her pink, plain mouth twitched nary a millimeter as she sauntered through the store, pushing her cart before her with open privileges offered to any eye wishing to examine its contents. Not a single drop of saline ashamedness seeped from beneath her pores; her manners were those of anyone else going about his or her daily routine. What more was to be expected from a grocery store patron? No one paid her any mind at all, and this was to her liking, in a fashion - and yet, she felt a minor sense of disappointment that no one noticed the cucumber. Later that day, when the lights were off and the deeds were done, Mrs. Callas realized that what she truly wanted as she strolled through the aisles, more than anything else, was for her cucumber to be noticed.

She finished her shopping and went to the check-out lanes, mentally scanning the lines to find the shortest, the one with the cleanest-looking people, the best. She spotted a line that suited her desires adequately: a slightly overweight young girl at its helm ushering a single man buying ketchup and Vaseline past the register as a couple of obviously homosexual men waited in the wings, their purchases your typical array of fruits, vegetables, packaged meats and sugar water. Mrs. Callas approached in the same easy stride she had kept throughout her business there, but as one of the couple glanced back at her and met her shame-free eyes with a passive glance, a twinge of guilt shocked her deep back inside her brain and she turned her cart towards the self check-out aisles. It was a minor defeat, one unnoticed by her fellow shoppers but a defeat none the less, though it hardly bothered her more than a mere moment, for at the termination of that moment she gripped the cucumber, felt its unyielding firmness pressing against her palm, and the defeat was forgotten.

A quick trip out to the parking lot, a jump across town to her home, and then the groceries were safely within their cabinets, their pantries and refrigerators, and Mrs. Callas was left with but one bag alone atop her kitchen counter. She picked it up and reached inside, removed the cucumber and tossed the bag in the garbage. She grasped the cucumber in her hands and put it to her face, sniffing its tip and catching the diminished sense of crispness so put upon it by the grocer’s refrigerated bin. She put it in her mouth and slid it in and out, tasting the green skin, feeling the small bumps and curves around its rind. She felt a heat building in her crotch. It was too much to bare. She fumbled with the buttons on her jeans then slid them down, stepping out of them and leaving them on the kitchen floor as she walked in her blouse and panties to the bedroom. Over the next twelve minutes, Mrs. Callas fucked herself stupid.

Copyright 2006 Glen Wilbur. All Rights Reserved.