Above the couch sits a three-foot tall blue puppet on a pile of books. Petra thinks the puppet has bad posture and then realizes it has no spine or personality. It is wearing child's clothing. His overall effect is underwhelming. Furry head and funny googly eyes. The limbs are blue and furry with stiff fingers.
Petra smokes a cigarette, laughs at the puppet for a full twenty minutes, and lays down for a nap.

When she awakens, the puppet is standing before her. She thinks Heart Attack. She immediately runs without screaming to the door but then the puppet speaks to her in her mind and she knows that she will not be murdered. The puppet says to Petra in her mind, My name is Rick. Chill Out. Baby. Maybe she is crazy but she will not be murdered. His name is inexplicably gross. He says, Take Off Your Clothes and Let me Look At a Real Body. Baby. Let's put on a record to set the mood.


She kneels beside the puppet in front of the record player. He tries to pull out a record and it slips out of his furry hands and he can't get the record. He tries again and it is awkward. He asks her in her mind You Mind Giving Me A Hand With This Baby.

She says out loud, What Are You Doing? He is dancing. Puppet body and arms bobs like he is treading water. He shakes his googly eyes. It is sexy for some reason.

His mouth is slightly open and that means he is smiling.

There are times when reality blisters. When you are small, the blister begins to forms when you are told your friends are imaginary. The ghosts wail and chafe. One can only hope that the eventual eruption oozes a fetus of possibility.

A light beams from his weird eyes and she surrenders to the beam and floats up into the air. Over the coffee table and onto the couch. She lies there in anticipation, unfolding her dress over her shoulders, over her breasts, over her hips, off of her body. Her lips are turning red, her cheeks are burning and she is wet. She rubs her thighs together. Glamour is urging her on. It is now time to kiss the puppet. She turns her head to see him standing by her face. He sighs and it smells like camel lights and then he cocks his head to the left and, with a ring like a C on a xylophone, winks.

The puppet treats her body kind and carries her abysmal disappointment and romantic failures through the fog. Rick speaks to her in her mind and asks her to wait. She does. She listens and it is quiet. He might be transforming. She is afraid that the puppet has left. He has not left. He is transforming. It is hard for him. She waits for a long time. And now she is begging the puppet but she doesn't know what to expect.
He talks to her in her mind like the president in the 1960's and then she opens her eyes to his furry open mouth above her, something wet sliding up and down the sides of her clit and then fur dragging heavy across her body, leaving a trail of vanilla bean ice cream. The Puppet has his mouth open a little. She can barely breathe and her body is shifting gears. Blue fur lapping at her clit. Her breath is transformed into gasps and then she grinds her wet cunt against the fur. She wants him to fill her up and wonders how this will happen. Puppets don't have genitals. She hopes his cock won't be furry. But she doesn't want it to be flesh and blood. That's weird. She decides not to think about this.
His face is three inches away from hers. She reaches up with both hands and grabs her puppet friends face, running her fingers through his fur. He leans in, bounces his face off of her left cheek then her right cheek and between kisses he tells her he wants to put approximately a quarter inch of his cock inside of her wet pussy and come inside of her. That's nice, she says out loud and then decides not to question him. He's cute as a button. She squeezes his foam face uncontrollably until her palms touch and he lets out a groan. He's so furry and warm. His happy Pac Man mouth. His eyes like a stupid chameleon. When she lets go the blue fur unfolds, and then unfolds more. His stretched out mouth and eyes sink into the blue fur. They are gone. She is unfolding the fur around her and erupts into guffaws until she is raised up into the fur. It's leaving a wet on her skin that is vanilla bean ice cream. She turns around in the fur and falls, stretching her arms out and into it. The fur surrounding her is like a sea of inexplicably parked black Cadillacs with tinted windows.

She doesn't know how to fuck a small puppet. She has the urge to put fur in her mouth and suck it and so she does and it is good. Sweet is too ordinary of a word, she repeats the word Dulce to herself. Fur Dulce. Pulling her body up the mountain of fur, taking mounds of it into her mouth (Dulce!) it cups her breasts and her ass and whispers nasty things into her ear like I Love How Your Clit Tastes with My Cream On It. She climbs up. She is on top and straddles the mass, tickling her thighs, and it is inside of her. She fucks it and leans over to spread her arms around and pull it up to her, kissing it with tongue (Dulce! Dulce!) even though it doesn't make sense. She lets go and arches her back, lets it in so deep she feels in her lungs. A breath of milk. She closes her eyes and sings it a song:

I'll never ever ever leave you
Loving you is ecstasy to me


She falls again through the fur, her mouth running down against whatever it is (dulce.) Something presses itself against her lips. It is vanilla bean ice cream, about six scoops. She lets out her tongue and licks it from the first scoop to the last and then puckers her lips around the first scoop, swirling the tip of her tongue and noticing the throbbing vanilla beans begging her for more. It pushes past her lips and into her mouth and slides down her throat and drips into her stomach. It is tight in her throat and cold on her tongue. It takes it out of her and she giggles. Ice cream all over her face. Immersed in matted fur. Steam is coming off of her body. Petra is happy. And then she feels her body making sounds in heavy milk like she is about to come and she melts away.