VANILLA GIRLS

 

by

 

Cindy Rosmus

 

 

          We’re all blondes here. ‘Cos Our Idol loves blondes.

          We live to please him: platinum Mansfield clones; empty-eyed Rapunzels; one or two Ivory soap naturals. So many super-tall, and model-like.

           Then, there’s me: short, curvy, in a dollar-store wig. The kind you attach to dolls.

          And what else are we?

          Existing solely for his pleasure.

          That’s what he thinks.

          In this dystopian, “Neverland”-type estate. Like that ancient Playboy’s with his bunnies. ‘Cept here, it’s all 80s. Our Idol as a rock god. Glammed out, in silver spandex. Midriff shirts showing gorgeous muscles. Eye makeup perfect, even from where we stand. Long hair that could encircle us, all at once, around and around, if he liked. Hair pitch-black, like a midnight in hell.

         With the rest of us as blondes.

         All dressed alike: shimmery sweaters, the tightest jeans. Bimbos all in a row, on a chain gang of love.

         We were all here by choice. Even me.

         Till now.

          “We want you!” we all called to him. Hearts pulsing, longing for one look, one smile, from Our Most Beautiful Idol.

          Once I stopped, he noticed.

          All of us, lost in this time capsule! Neon pinks, oranges, greens; spangles everywhere. In each room, a massive TV screen. Instead of Big Brother, it’s music videos, 24/7: Billy Idol, Bon Jovi, KISS . . .  

          Beneath each screen, under hot lights, is a buffet: potato skins, quiche, mini-eggrolls, Hot Pockets. Desserts: vanilla pudding, vanilla wafer cake, melted vanilla ice cream. All vanilla, nothing but vanilla!

‘Cos we’re his “Vanilla Girls.”

          Please . . . Could he read our minds? Just one widdle piece of chocolate?

          From his throne, I caught his smile.

          Later, on my pillow, the chocolate appeared. Like magic.

          I’m busting out.

           Behind those TV screens and spangly drapes are windows. But, outside is … what? Trees that look plastic, like fake Christmas ones. A sky that looks painted on. In Our Idol’s secret paradise, is the sky really blue?

           Or black, like his hair?

           Tonight is my turn with him. I get dagger looks from even the blondest ones.

           As I approach his private suite, I adjust my wig, smiling.

           Inside, on a neon-green sectional, Our Idol waits. Sprawled, vulnerable. Drinking wine out of a huge, metal goblet. Like a king.

          “Blondie,” he calls me. Same nickname for each Vanilla Girl. There’s so many of us, we only get one turn.

           One chance to get away.

          Up close, I suck in my breath. He’s that gorgeous, timeless. Like from one of those videos we watch, nonstop. Who was he, back then? Which guy with intense, dark eyes? With, or without liner. I struggle to remember.

           Here he is, and it’s my turn!

           I want my turn.

           When his arm goes around me, I’m lost! I can’t feel my legs.

           He’s so perfect . . . He could be a doll.

           He’s intoxicating. Like that wine, that smells so good, I feel high from it.

           Smiling, he rubs the goblet against my cheek, then mouth.  No!, I think, don’t drink it . . .

           Except for tonight, I never saw him this close.

           Has anybody?

          A doll, I realize, just in time. He is a doll! Hard, shiny skin; a painted-on half-smile. But with real, feral eyes behind that mask.

           With both hands, I seize the goblet and smash his face. Chunks of cheeks go flying. Teeth break inward, which he swallows. As he grabs for me, his hands look gnarled, a century old. The black wig slips to the side. What was once his face is a leering skull. Only the eyes are still there, narrowed with hate.

           As I run to the door, a gurgled “Blondie!” follows me out.

           Past those neon-bright rooms, with rock music throbbing. Past the “Vanilla Girls,” all thrilled that I’m gone.

           I force an old window open, and crawl through. Nearly choking on dust, I pull cobwebs out of my blonde wig.

           That I don’t need, anymore.

           Back inside, the wig lands with a thud.

           I shake out my beautiful black hair.

           And slink off into the night.

 

 

THE END

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          Cindy originally hails from the Ironbound section of Newark, NJ, once voted the “unfriendliest city on the planet.” She talks like “Anybodys” from West Side Story and everybody from Saturday Night Fever. Her noir/horror/ bizarro stories have been published in the coolest places, such as          Shotgun Honey; Megazine; Dark Dossier; The Rye Whiskey Review, Under the Bleachers, Pulp Asylum, Punk Noir, The Yard, Horror, Sleaze, Trash and Rock and a Hard Place. She is the editor/art director of Yellow Mama. She’s published seven collections of short stories. Cindy is a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate.

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          Bernice Holtzman’s paintings and collages have appeared in shows at various venues in Manhattan, including the Back Fence in Greenwich Village, the Producer’s Club, the Black Door Gallery on W. 26th St., and one other place she can’t remember, but it was in a basement, and she was well received. She is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow Mama.