Yankee Pot Roast


I Was a Virgin Sex Doll

Kevin Zeidler

I am an inflatable doll purchased at the Hustler store. The girl who purchased me inflated me, dressed me, then stuffed me into her single-occupancy desk before darting away in stealth.

I am trying not to look conspicuous, because I am an inflatable doll. It appears I am the only doll here, in fact. Lest I be cast as a pariah, I look straight ahead, unflinching. If I look straight ahead inconspicuously, perhaps then the professor will not see me. If he does see me, perhaps I will blend in.

My vaginal cavity is lubricated for the convenience of lonely men. The teacher is using diagrams to explain a pi bond. For an additional fee, I may be outfitted with a voice box which releases a sultry croon when my hand is squeezed. The pi bond has a maximum capacity of two electrons. I am not wearing panties.

The professor concludes the lecture and turns on the lights. I am made of supple plastic resins, and shine. Number of electrons, max, in a sigma bond? No one raises their hand. In the silence that ensues the professor looks at me. My hair is synthetic blond. Can you take that question? My breasts are enormous. Katherine? A large seam where two thin plies of polyvinyl chloride converge in a poorly concealed and bulging excess runs down the side of my head, down and around my arms, my abdomen, my legs, and up the other side. Katherine, I must say you’re looking rather different today. My fingernails are stained red, but translucent, and through them I can see the desk. In fact, you look rather … inflatable? The spout through which I may be inflated and properly deflated is located on my toes. While corporal punishment has been outlawed, Katherine, I think I’m judiciously entitled to make an exception. My inflatable shell has been pierced by a foreign object and my innards are flushing through the puncture wound with a whoosh. You are deflating. I collapse upon the seat and the tile floor. This is how it all ends. In laughter, in failure. I was a virgin sex doll.