The Clothesline
By Gene Aronowitz
“Bite hard and keep the pressure on,” my dentist said, jamming a piece of cotton in my mouth so the cement under my new crown could harden.
I looked outside where the flowers on the dogwood had just come out and estimated that they should turn bright red in the fall when I would be in the same seat.
Just beyond the yard, two arms shot out of the second floor of a three-story house, one clutching the sleeve of a huge white dress shirt, the other pinching a clothespin. She hung the shirt by its arms as if it was surrendering. It began to slide to the left when her arms jutted out to attach a pair of enormous boxer shorts, which swayed back and forth, paddled by the lively March wind. I closed my eyes and imagined the shirt and shorts on a giant, marching with arms aloft, a prisoner easily caught because he is so fat. Aside from his excessive weight, his gait is also obstructed by a pair of behemoth balls that dangle below the shorts on each side of what must be a gargantuan dick. Each step is punctuated by a pant, a puff, and then a wheeze. He puts one arm down to clutch his chest, and one of his captors threatens to shoot. “You’re your hands up,” he shouts, just like a B movie cowboy would say.
I opened my eyes. Clothes were coming out of that window like clowns catapulting from inside those minuscule cars. I saw a white sheet with a spot in the middle and tried to determine if there was a spot on the boxer shorts to match, but the back of the shorts was facing me. Although they were soiled, I couldn't tell if he pissed in his bed.
A pair of lacy pink panties then appeared, pint-size compared to the other titanic undergarment. I wondered how these panties fit in and, to tell you the truth, became a little aroused.
A tee-shirt joined the line, which must have been his, judging from its size. It had a “New York Yankees” logo on the front. I figured that this guy must have watched a lot of games on TV on a couch he couldn't get out of without help, drank beer, ate chips and pretzels by the ton, burped continuously, and farted every inning or two. He would have been better off if he got his fat ass off that couch, played some ball rather than watching it, and maybe lose some weight.
Another large tee-shirt came out, inscribed with “Blackout, August 14, 2003.” Big night, I suppose. I’ll bet he had a good time when the lights went out, just dorking that petite sweet thing with the pink panties. My eyes closed again. The image of this humongous pile of flesh doing it to her was disgusting, but it was probably consensual. I mean, she’s doing the guy’s laundry. I suppose this explained the spot on the sheet.
But hold on. A bra joined the line. That had to be a size 42 or larger with a huge cup. That bra couldn't go with the petite pink panties. Maybe the boxer shorts went with the bra. Holy shit! What do we have here, a fat carnival sideshow lady, one of those freaks with a beard, a closet panty fetishist?
That son of a bitch must be enormous. I mean, I’m fat but not like that. If I was, I’d never leave the house, but I’m glad that people like that do. They make me look a little anorexic.
