She Wore Whip Cream On Her Chest by Sarah Bex Rice

Sated by Leland Cheuk
March 15, 2018
The Letter and the Bucket by Philip Kuan
March 17, 2018

https://vimeo.com/259528355

She Wore Whip Cream On Her Chest

 

That’s it.

I’m trying to calculate the intimacy level needed to be achieved to achieve the thing. The thing? Sex. The level? Like on a scale of 1 to 10, and 10 being the number to hit, like a carnival game begging for your quarters and nostalgia fueled (albeit manipulated, on so many greasy, fried levels) feelings. We want to achieve a thing. The number 10. Ding-ding. A teddy bear. Ding-ding-ding. We hit the scale as hard as we can, with all of our might – and we are mighty, I’ll tell you that. The meter in which our power is measured rises and hits its jackpot. We win.

Well, that’s the idea of it. We didn’t really win. What we are trying to do is win. Pretty much all of the time. Why do I keep referring to myself as a plural version of an entity trying to achieve said goals? My goals become our goals because I guess I’m referring to myself as a singular being with a brain thing and a heart such-and-such that think differently. We contradict. We, well, we, in a way.

Rather now, I’m exiting this carnival, which is like a fair. Fair to say, being empty-handed this go-round. I’m still calculating. Mathematically configuring a series of events that blend, lead, and do to each other things that result in a result.

Home now, this tiny fridge that holds the amount of things I can count out on all multiple digit sticks growing out of my hand, gives no options for sustenance that will hold me over until the sun glows bright 12 hours from now. Waffles tomorrow, but what tonight?

A cylindrical object speaks up from the recesses of a space that doesn’t really have recesses. “I’ll step up to the challenge”, he telepathically communicates to me, cold, hard metal to soft, squishy flesh.

That’s it.

I grab at the offering, one that is expired and past its prime, and grab at the thing offering, one that is nonsensical. A cylinder-sized thing always fits so spectacularly in a human’s grasp. Like the weak part of a man, or like, a can. In this instance: a whip cream can. But could it lead to the other? Could it crave two appetites in one? I knew the answer. The recipient of everything going through my brain had no idea the depths at which a woman denied, could take a submarine like vessel, probably German and WWII-era.

So I lived. As a woman, and as a person, any human, should. (But also, on paper, shouldn’t). And I did a thing I don’t recommend any human to ever do. To live is fairly weak-brained. I’d say weak-minded, but really, the physical attribute that leads to thought, weak or strong like a carnival-master, is a brain. Why beat around naming, literally, the accused? To give into denial and let it change you, let it betray you and control you and pull you down some dark tunnel that something with two able legs should never go down, is so terribly predictable, and as it is, so, so wrong. But proving useful.

I lived and by that, I mean I carelessly and carefully followed the circular makeup of my own (very slightly) womanly figure. Circles and circles, circles upon circles. We move in weird patterns, humans, hands with cylinders, cold, full of white fluff, that go and go and go until they topple. The whip cream rested upon my minute body well, building upon instead until it gave in to the gravity of the Earth, of our world. Surely, sloppy white substance is enticing enough to draw something in. Anything. A hungry dog (illegal), a pregnant woman with a craving (drop the pregnant part, we have a deal), or a man.

So specifically in this case, let’s call him a hungry man with a feminine side, a dog sniffing and hunting for a tiny piece of prey. I know where he is. Because he exists here. In my abode. My hole, with tiny fridge, tiny offerings, tiny potential. My hopes sit low. I dabble in touching up, I have an expertise at potential, but just, just missing. But that’s enough to get me there.

I walk out of my door. Don’t fret, this is not a wooden rectangular slab that slides and feeds towards a hallway that goes down. Down towards street level. Outside, as a simplistic human would say. I get caught up in the verbose.

I simply walk out of my bedroom hall. Turn left. Walk 3 yards. Knock 3 times, slowly. I wait.

“Yeah?”

I enter.

A look, peering above an open laptop. Probably one that helps feed a stream of articulated, precise, formulated words that are imbibed with “you want this, you know it” towards others. Real woman, with real mountainous bodies to build worlds with, and futures, with whip cream babies. The digital world we pre-occupy – so full, so open, so saddening to me…right now. I stand with the foamy cream falling to the floor of his bedroom and I know, this is my mess to clean up.

He doesn’t need to say a word. Just looks. You can build off adrenaline so easily, so artistically. A fall so far down, so easily and so non-artistically.

I give him two fingers, faced towards him. A pointer and a middle. Peace, truce. I was just trying to be funny. Oh…acknowledgement, a confused, half-attentive laugh from him. An awkward, strained, suddenly enlightened one from me. We exist on the same plain. Friends, roommates. Never lovers.

Ha ha ha. “Get it?” I take a finger – scoop and lick, though I die…inside. The outside already rotting with unrefrigerated, unconsumed edible material. Wasted. And millions go hungry. Me? I go back into my room. Oblivious to those in the world that really need the thing that I wasted. I turn the shower on and exhale a sigh held in for probably 10 minutes. Clean it off, begin again.

 


About the Author

Sarah Bex Rice is a film & exhibition studies graduate that dabbles in experimental filmmaking, programming, writing, music and pretty much all things that go well with a good beer. With a background heavy in archival work, she tries to achieve everyday living that promotes the resurgence of analog enjoyment as well as the importance of exploring and remixing our own memories.