Go sit in a public place and eavesdrop on a conversation. Turn what you hear into a short love story (no matter how much you have to twist what they say).
Well, it’s not really a love story, but it is about a man trying to find his perfect woman (mwa-ha-ha!)
Be warned – It may be disturbing, but appropriate for halloween. And, note: 90% of the dialogue was, indeed, overheard in a coffee shop.
How to Properly Work a Man
His hand stroked the cool, smooth skin of her arm. He liked the color, a rich, warm shade between tan and brown, but even more, he loved the softness.
“Men are much more closely related to baboons, genetically, than women are,” he said. “We depend on you for so much.”
Fingers lingered for a moment on the careful, fine stitches he’d labored over the night before. The effort of lining up the edges of bone was nothing compared to the fragile delicacy of sewing tiny blood vessels, connecting nerves.
Above the stitches, his hand trailed over paler skin, nearly white in the absence of blood flow. The donor of the upper arm had been older and heavier than he preferred, but she’d learned too much to be allowed to leave, and he’d had need of a good brachium and shoulder. Though, he pursed his lips at a faded straggling scar, he would have discarded the entire donor if he’d had any other option.
As he moved around the head of the table, he struggled with himself, with his urges. He shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be proper. But in the end, he lifted the sheet and examined her nude form. His body stirred.
“It is not good for man to be alone,” he said, voice shaking. “Woman was created to fulfill man’s needs, mind, soul, and body.”
Finding the perfect torso had been the hardest part. But he’d found her, so young, a beautiful girl. Her skin was the creamiest, warmest shade of gold. Hand trembling, he touched the still flesh just over her heart. With an act of pure will, he pulled his hand back. He did allow himself just a moment to enjoy the sight of that young body with its narrow waist and round hips before dropping the sheet back in place and trying to bring his thoughts back to proper order.
“Without a woman to hold him to the proper path, man is doomed to stray,” he reminded himself.
He remained troubled that the legs weren’t quite the same length. The young ballerina he’d selected had proven more reluctant than expected and in her attempt to leave had broken one of her perfect legs. He wasn’t willing to trust that the bone would heal after reanimation, so was forced to find a second leg. It irked him. He had so wanted a matching pair of perfect legs.
Finally, he stroked the jaw of the beautiful face he’d selected. Pale skin, free of scars or blemishes. Fine nose, round eyes of the robin’s egg blue, a smallish mouth with full lips. She’d had rather mousy brunette hair, but he had the skull cap of a lovely blonde and had carefully matched the two pieces. Once he had the brain to go inside, it would fit perfectly.
He’d considered many options for the brain donor. It would be so much simpler to use a complete head, but the mind he wanted wouldn’t be found inside the skull of one of today’s modern, vapid, young women. And though it shamed him to admit, he did want his helpmeet to be pretty. He dreaded the thought of trying to connect all the cranial nerves – the mnemonic “oh, oh, oh, to touch and feel…” started, but he cut it off before it became crude. The olfactory nerve, the optic, the occulomotor, the trochlear… oh, it could take so long to properly transplant the brain but it would be worth it.
“Today’s women weren’t taught by their mothers, and they were weren’t taught by their mothers, how to properly work a man,” he said as he turned to the selected brain donor. “To both their benefit.”
The woman he quoted kicked her bound feet and shook her head at his approach.
“You’re right, of course. Man wasn’t created for woman, woman was created for man. But that kind of woman just doesn’t exist any more, does it?”
Perhaps she’d been pretty in her youth, but that was long past. Lines marred her face, age thickened her body. He knew, though, that hers was the mind he wanted. She’d spoken so often on television and radio and in her many books of how a woman existed to serve and help man. She’d urged modern women to throw off the lies of feminism and to submit their husbands. To put their family ahead of any selfish ambitions for a career.
Yes, that mind in the body he’d constructed for her, that was the woman he deserved, the woman he was owed.
“Shhh…” he said, taking hold of her arm. “When you wake up, you’ll be young and beautiful. And you can guide me and serve me as you were designed to do.”
He inserted the needle, she let out one muffled scream of protest and went still.
And woman was created, to serve man.