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There
was no mistaking where I was: Jerry
Springer's name was stamped on everything.
A young woman, her demanding, forthright
tone and urgent manner incongruous for a
person who appeared to weigh less than a
bag of sugar, concentrated on a voice in
her headphones. Then, like a pint-sized
Centurion thrusting Daniel into the lion's
den, she slapped my bottom and with a
"good luck, hon!" propelled me towards the
stage.
I must
have looked like a startled rabbit,
stumbling up the stairs onto the stage and
then suddenly frozen by the glare of a
hundred or more sets of eyes. Crazy eyes
of depravity hungry voyeurs all hooting
lewd remarks at the sight of me. My dress,
conservative and unrevealing, suddenly
felt gossamer thin and useless to deflect
the mental undressing of me I sensed was
occurring.
"Hello
Adrianna. Welcome."
"Hello
Jerry." My ears and neck burned with a hot
flush of embarrassment.
"So,
what's this about butt plugs?" The
question was asked with that typical
Springer nonchalance. He couldn't have
sounded more indifferent if he was asking
about light bulbs or tennis racquets.
I
blushed more deeply and waited for the
audience to stop chanting. "Butt plug!
Butt plug!"
"I don't
know, Jerry."
"You
don't know?" He raised an eyebrow and
smirked.
"No, you
must have me confused with somebody else."
The lie made me acutely aware of the
finger sized, plastic anal invader I was
sitting on.
"It says
here --" he referred to his palm
cards.
"I'm a
good girl!" I interrupted, smiling
innocently.
"Butt
plug! Butt plug!" The audience hooted
hysterically. Springer squinted behind his
glasses and grinned broadly, encouraging
the crowd into a concerted chant.
"Really?
Then you're on the wrong show!"
"Jer-ry!
Jer-ry! Jer-ry!" The audience again
bellowed between gales of laughter.
"What
are you doing here then?" Jerry instantly
lapsed into his familiar Father Confessor
mode.
The
question seemed reasonable, especially
considering the company I was with on
stage.
Beside
me, a woman the size of a wheat silo
groaned and grimaced before unleashing a
thunderous fart. Her spindley-limbed male
companion, oblivious to the uproar caused
by the explosion from her fundamental
orifice, dived between her mammoth thighs
and sniffed deeply like a connoisseur fine
aromas savoring the smell of coffee beans.
The audience responded with staccato
sounds of dry retching.
"I'm in
love with Steve!" I declared.
"Steve!
Steve! Steve!" The audience honked.
I looked
at the handsome security man standing off
to one side of the stage. I'm not sure
which of us was blushing more: him or
me.
At that
moment Miss Flatulence, like a half set
jello decanting itself from a bowl, rose
from her seat and waddled towards me. She
seemed unaware of the flailing arms of
Bean-Pole man, whose head was still wedged
solidly between her thighs. "He's mine!
Steve is mine!" She roared with such angry
conviction the sound reverberated visibly
through her body, stirring yet another
tempest of rumbling farts.
Steve
immediately rushed to the stage but was
too late to stop her puffy fingers
grabbing hold of my dress. With a force
proportional to her diesel locomotive
size, she ripped the garment clean from my
body as easily as a magician might pull a
table cloth from under a vase of paper
flowers. I leapt nakedly to my feet and
hid behind Steve. Miss Bombay Bottom
continued trying to thump me with her
clubbed fists until Steve gave her a
gentle push after which gravity sucked her
hulking, boulder-sized body to the floor.
Somewhere beneath the disheveled mound of
alabaster flesh colored Buddha was Mr Fart
Sniffer but nobody seemed concerned for
his whereabouts.
"I love
you Steve!" I cooed, wrapping my arms
around the muscled abdomen of my savior. I
was momentarily lost in a sea of
bliss.
"I'm
gay," he whispered, confidentially.
Did I
feel disappointed? Cheated? Yes, but
surely not as much as the viewers at home
who would have been treated to nothing
more than the pixilated image of my butt
plugged bottom rushing from the
stage.
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