Johnny America


The Pink Missive


The panties were ly­ing on the tile out­side my door. I turned my head to the
right, to the left, looked up the stairs, down the stairs. There was no one
around, no one’s voice, just the harsh buzz of the build­ing at rest. It was
lone­ly as all hell that win­ter so I tucked my sal­sal­i­to turkey and provolone
hoagie from the bode­ga un­der my arm, palmed the panties, and hur­ried in­side for
a bet­ter look.

They were a fad­ed pink, cot­ton, worn thin in the crotch, a turquoise
but­ter­fly stamped on the front, right above where I imag­ined the owner’s bush
would end and her downy stom­ach hair be­gin. I paced with the panties held over
my mouth and nose like a SARS mask. They smelled of Moun­tain Breeze detergent.
Usu­al­ly I’m not one for syn­thet­ic breezes, but right away I could tell those
panties be­longed to my per­fec­tone­hun­dred­per­centa­maz­ing­soul­mate. They belonged
to a woman whose dress­er draw­ers were full of a rain­bow as­sort­ment of Victoria
Se­cret undies and were a left­over from her more in­no­cent days that she wore
when laun­dry day ap­proached. No doubt about it. They were a pink mis­sive from
the Pa­tron Saint of Lone­ly Fat Bachelors.

I let my room­mate Har­ry give them a sniff and he rolled his eyes back in his
head and said, “Oh, I do love the mead­ow in the spring, when the but­ter­cups are
in bloom.”

“What do you think I should do?” I asked. “I’m sure these panties be­long to
my soulmate.”

“No doubt about that.”

“So what do I do?”

“You go door to door. If the panties fit, she’s the one for you.” I must
have looked a lit­tle hes­i­tant, be­cause he added “If you don’t find her, I

I couldn’t have that. Har­ry and I had a long his­to­ry where every time I
liked a girl, he’d bum­ble his way in­to bed with her some­how and then the girl
and I would be­come life­long friends af­ter they broke up. I had to find that
girl be­fore he did. I put the hoagie in the fridge for af­ter a pas­sion­ate fuck
with the girl of my dreams. We’d split it.

I gave a shave-and-a-hair­cut on the door of the apart­ment di­rect­ly below
mine. The floor shook and foot­steps came thud­ding down what must have been a
long hall­way like ours. When the foot­steps stopped the light in the peephole
blinked out and I stood there for a good five min­utes lis­ten­ing to heavy
breath­ing be­hind the red met­al door. I had no idea who lived there. I’d only
met one of my neigh­bors, and that was when the guy liv­ing next to me locked
him­self out of his apart­ment and want­ed to ex­it my bed­room win­dow and cross the
fire es­cape to his room. I let him, but I kept an eye on my wal­let. Fi­nal­ly the
door opened up.

She was ge­o­graph­ic. Her body spanned con­ti­nents and eras, and I wasn’t sure
she’d fit through the door frame. Her wet and dirty gray hair clung to her
fore­head. She was eat­ing off-brand or­ange cheese puffs from a jum­bo-sized jar,
or­ange fluff tucked up in rolls of her fin­ger fat, and she was wear­ing a floral
print muumuu that made her look like a prairie at dusk. But still, I thought I
could sense she was beau­ti­ful once, maybe around the time Cleopa­tra was. I held
the panties up to her thighs, too dis­gust­ed to roll them up one of her cankles.
They wouldn’t fit.

“What the hell do you think you’re do­ing?” she asked. Her voice was ogreish
and tuba-toned.

“I’m look­ing for my soulmate.”

“If she fits in those, it ain’t me.”

“Do you have any daugh­ters?” I asked.

“Yes I do,” she said, stuff­ing cheese puffs in­to her cheeks and smacking

“May I talk to them? I’m look­ing for my soulmate.”

“You got a tele­phone, you can talk to any­body,” she said.

“Ha-ha. Yes, or a com­put­er. So no one else inside?”

“Well, Bebe.”

“Bebe?” Bebe! Flap­per sex on a gild­ed beach!

“My gold­en retriever.”

“Oh, I see.” I could nev­er get off to bes­tial­i­ty, but I thought I could try.
If that’s what the Pa­tron Saint of Lone­ly Fat Bach­e­lors want­ed, that’s what the
Pa­tron Saint of Lone­ly Fat Bach­e­lors would get. “Could I meet her? I like
gold­en retrievers.”

“I don’t see why not.” She shift­ed her weight from foot to foot un­til she
was fac­ing down the hall­way. A pool of sweat had gath­ered in the small of her
back, and her muumuu had rid­den up. Her back­side had the over­all ap­pear­ance of
a map show­ing a road lead­ing to a pond and sur­round­ed on all sides by the Great
Plains. A man could get lost among those dead flow­ers and bro­ken dreams. For
all I knew, some had.

“Come here, Bebe!” the woman yelled. “Here Bebe!” Jin­gles came down the
hall­way, a dain­ty bell around a dain­tier collar.

Bebe slipped be­tween the woman’s legs. She was as fat as her own­er, looked
like a body pil­low cov­ered in shag car­pet. I knelt down and told her how
beau­ti­ful a pup­py she was and pet­ted the length of her body, slipped the
panties over her gold­en-haired haunch­es. She looked like some­one had tried to
shrink-wrap her ass in cot­ton. It was a no-go. I pulled the panties off fast
and must have caught some of Bebe’s hair, be­cause she gave a yelp and dashed
back through the woman’s legs.

“Now what?”

The woman shift­ed her feet back and forth faster than be­fore but still
clocked in be­low average.

I thought maybe I could pave over the sit­u­a­tion with some man­ners. “Well,
thank you ma’am. Have a good day.”

“You’re a sick kid. I could al­ways tell. Noth­ing like Har­ry.” She reached
out to pat my el­bow in slow fat mo­tion, smeared corn prod­uct on my sleeve.
“God­speed in your search though.”

God­speed! The rate at which I was go­ing to fuck this woman when I found her!
On the wings of Her­mes with my pink mis­sive of lust and love and fervent
pas­sion I head­ed next door and gave two shave-and-a-hair­cuts for good measure.
You can’t ever be too smooth, Har­ry al­ways said. This time I could feel air flowing
out from around the door frame, a breeze rolling down a hill and all around me.
It had to be my woman.

She was plain­plain­plain­white­breadamer­i­cana. I couldn’t de­scribe her any
bet­ter than I could de­scribe an off-white wall in a sub­ur­ban dentist’s office.
Her face was as bland as a stock pho­to of sun­flow­ers and I pic­tured her sitting
in her apart­ment, her head fol­low­ing the sun­light all day. Still, I thought
that could be good. Maybe the sex would be amaz­ing and I could close my eyes
and think of oth­er, more de­scrib­able women.

“Ex­cuse me,” I said. “I live up­stairs and I’m look­ing for my dream girl.”

“That’s nice,” she said, and stepped aside to let me in.

Plainplainwhitebreadamericanathat’snice. The walls of her apart­ment were
white and bare ex­cept for thir­ty-one pairs of white granny panties tacked up in
six columns of five with an ex­tra to the right.

“Nice art piece,” I said.

“Oh, those are just my panties,” she said. “It’s eas­i­er to get to them that
way. One for each day of the month.”

“What do you do with the ex­tra ones in February?”

“I wash them anyway.”

The girl was sim­ple. Sim­ple and nice. She was like a com­put­er fresh out of
the box: the op­er­at­ing sys­tem and ba­sic soft­ware were there but oth­er­wise the
hard dri­ve was blank. It was all wrong. There was no way my per­fect girl would
have a wall full of granny panties, and be­sides, this girl was as thin as a
flag­pole. There was no point in even try­ing them on her.

As I turned to leave I spot­ted on the cof­fee ta­ble a blue vase clear­ly from
Tar­get and filled with ros­es clear­ly from the bode­ga. “Those are nice,” I said.
“You live with a boyfriend?”

“Those are from Har­ry up in apart­ment 33,” she said. “Nice boy.”

Har­ry! Nice boy! Har­ry car­ry­ing gro­ceries, Har­ry bring­ing flow­ers, Harry
al­ways one step ahead!

“You know Harry?”

“Sure, met him on the stairs. We have tea some­times. Would you like some

“Tea. I don’t drink tea, sor­ry, I’m hy­per enough with­out it. Maybe some
oth­er time? It was nice meet­ing you,” I said.

“It was nice meet­ing you, too” she said, her voice like a mil­lion corporate
tele­phone menus speak­ing in unison.

As I went from door to door, the sto­ry was the same. When­ev­er there was an
an­swer, the woman wasn’t right, and Har­ry had al­ready been there and left.
There was the cougar who an­swered the door in a red tow­el, a pink cur­sive A
em­broi­dered over her breast, just un­der where the tow­el was tucked in­to itself,
which was just too much for me. The apart­ments filled with His­pan­ic families
who had yet to be gen­tri­fied out of the neigh­bor­hood, whose daugh­ters had long
flown the coop. The girl with a smooth com­plex­ion like plas­tic and hair like
the orig­i­nal Barbie’s, some­one I could play house with but nev­er love. Not a
dream girl one.

The wind was leav­ing my sails. How did Har­ry know every­one in our building,
while I knew no one? I went to the next apart­ment, my building
superintendant’s, and gave three sharp raps. I didn’t have enough steam left to
be smooth. A girl who came up to my navel an­swered the door. She was eat­ing an
icy pop, blue. Might have been the superintendent’s daugh­ter, but I’d nev­er met
his family.

“What?” she asked. Blunt for a girl eat­ing a blue icy pop. Red maybe, but
not blue.

“I’m look­ing for my per­fect dream girl,” I said.

“And I’m look­ing for a way out of this 8,363,710 horse town,” she said. I
al­ways liked sassy women. I could tell she was go­ing to grow up in­to a vixen
and stay that way. The way she ate her icy-pop sug­gest­ed longevi­ty. Maybe this
was one of those child-bride things and I could pro­pose to her right then,
start send­ing her Barbie’s and Ken’s and then buy­ing her a car and mar­ry­ing her
on her eigh­teenth birth­day. I bent to slip the panties up over her pink jogging
pants and she grabbed on to them be­fore she knew what she was do­ing. She stared
down at the panties for a mo­ment like I’d hand­ed her a fli­er for the Pedophile
Elks Club, then turned and ran in­side with them, the door slam­ming shut in my
face, the drained icy pop wrap­per left be­hind at my feet.

That was it, I fig­ured. I could see my shad­ow un­der the flu­o­res­cent light:
an­oth­er six weeks of lone­ly New York win­ter. I’d nev­er find my dream girl
with­out those panties, so I might as well get used to be­ing alone, buy a
com­forter to shield from the cold and ear plugs to block out Harry’s effeminate
sex squeals. I head­ed back to my apart­ment. I was halfway up the first flight
of stairs when I heard the door open be­hind me.

There was a soft, calm light, a heav­en­ly meringue beat. Long, flowing,
saint­ly hair. A no­ble ma­roon bathrobe. It was Him, our broth­er of Grace, the Patron
Saint of Lone­ly Fat Bach­e­lors. He walked with di­vine pur­pose in my direction,
his eye­brows get­ting bushi­er and black­er as he came clos­er, but then it was
just my build­ing su­per­in­ten­dent, Vic­tor or Vec­tor or Vance. I couldn’t ever
re­mem­ber his name.

When he got to me he stuffed the panties in­to my mouth and told me to
lis­ten. I didn’t mind so much — have you ever tast­ed a spring breeze so soon
af­ter the win­ter, so fresh?  but then he
grabbed my col­lar and got in my face, brought me back from my fan­ta­sy of rolling
hills and gold­en locks.

“Lis­ten,” he said. “Three ten­ants have called me. You need to stop going
door to door with panties. If I get one more complaint.”

He let me go and I thought it was over, I could go hud­dle up with some
hen­tai porn, but as I start­ed to pull away he head-butted me in my nose.

“Why can’t you be more like Har­ry?” he asked. “Har­ry brings me home-made
sal­sa. Hom­bre makes a muy pi­cante dip.”

I stum­bled back up­stairs. The blood from my nose ran in­to my mouth and it
start­ed to taste like my dream girl was be­com­ing a dream woman. I was partway
to my room when I no­ticed Harry’s door was ajar and moan­ing and squeal­ing was
is­su­ing forth from the thresh­old. I peeked in­side. Har­ry was ly­ing on his back
and a woman was grind­ing up and down and around on top of him, thrash­ing her
hair around and rak­ing Harry’s hair­less and boy­ish chest with her long red
nails. She looked like Cleopa­tra + Cindy Craw­ford + Calami­ty Jane + The
Babysit­ter + Au­drey Hep­burn + Eve + Lind­sey Lo­han + Tyra Banks + Bebe Daniels +
Au­drey Tautou + Karen O + The Girl Next Door + Kobe Tai + Aphrodite + Toni
Mor­ri­son. Har­ry had a pair of red silk panties stuffed in his mouth and his
hands and feet were tied to the bed frame. He looked at me and winked.

I paced, I fumed. I stacked the old piz­za box­es up and placed the bloodied
panties on top with a vinyl copy of the Harold and Maude sound­track turned
back­wards, Cat Steven’s blissed-out face look­ing down at the panties like he
un­der­stood it all. I crossed my­self mouth­nip­plenip­ple­groin and said a little
prayer: Pa­tron Saint of Lone­ly Fat Bach­e­lors, our Broth­er of Grace, bring bad
for­tune on Har­ry and bring me a girl. I vowed to chal­lenge Har­ry to a
gentleman’s du­el the next time we were alone.

That was my dream girl and Har­ry was writhing un­der­neath her and there was
noth­ing I could think to do about it. I lay in my bed with the sheets bunched
in my hands, my brain boil­ing, the pil­low hard and un­sup­port­ive. To calm my
mind I pic­tured a new and dif­fer­ent and more per­fect soul­mate in a green German
beer maid out­fit with white stock­ings and red garters, pranc­ing through a
rolling mead­ow full of clovers and but­ter­cups, parsnips and for­get-me-nots, her
green skirt bounc­ing up to re­veal the pink panties, my­self in green lederhosen
mer­ri­ly bound­ing to­ward her, her hap­py ex­pres­sion and open arms, my happy
ex­pres­sion and open arms, and then I was on her, and lick­ing her, and she
tast­ed like a fresh moun­tain spring, like flow­er­ing snow­balls, and then I was
in her, bent over in the grass, the panties pushed aside, and I thrust in­to her
un­til I plant­ed seed aplen­ty. We curled up next to each oth­er in the grass,
picked but­ter­cups and sniffed them. She held two of the gold­en blooms over her
nip­ples and smiled at me. We left the rolling mead­ow and went back to our log
cab­in where we pro­duced many blond ba­bies. We kept a vase of sun­flow­ers, to
re­mind us to ap­pre­ci­ate the small things in life. Once a month we vis­it­ed the
shrine of our Pa­tron Saint to pay homage and say thanks for what he had given
us. And when the ba­bies were asleep at night, my soul­mate would read me a
bed­time sto­ry about the Amer­i­can prince who went door to door to find the woman
whom the panties fit, and then brought her in­to his cas­tle for long, lusty
nights, and I would bend her over my knee and lift her skirt to spank her over
the panties, and whis­per in­to her ear, “you are a very, very naughty girl, Frau

Filed under Fiction on September 30th, 2011

Care to Share?

Consider posting a note of comment on this item:


Previous Post


Next Post


Join our Irregular Mailing List

For very occasional ramblings, word about new print ephemera, and of course exciting investment opportunities.