All Greased Up and Nowhere to Go

by Anna Chen
Thursday 5th February 2009

Private Eye just gave the most damning review for an anthology of chick lit called In Bed With, which is supposed to be all about sex. “No crass wordplay or creamy cliché goes away unbludgeoned. Bushes get trimmed, the word ‘come’ is mutilated beyond recognition, chests are always ample and curves glorious.” I thought, hmm, I can do that.


So they finally greased her up and threw her over the prison yard wall.

She’d heard of this fabled activity so often in her life. A strange unlikely event that only happens in bar-room banter and the less salubrious end of the comedic discipline. Yet here she was.


Shivering in her fresh bikini wax and three-hundred dollar haircut.



She’d paid her five thousand dollars to the organisation she’d found on the internet. Oh, yes, she’d eventually succumbed to the inevitable despite years of tutting at the plethora of sex that threatened to overwhelm her family, just like every other nice middle-class mother with kids about to graduate. But with a husband who’d long ago abandoned passion, she’d been vulnerable. Like an overwound elastic band, an over-inflated balloon, a plastic spoon bent to its extremity, something had to snap.

She’d sighed as she remembered the early days, when sex was urgent and went on all night and they’d slept into the afternoon. Then they’d married and, what with jobs and practical day-to-day matters, sex had settled to a pleasant twice a week. Then the twice a week had halved. A bad chest infection that lasted all winter had provided an excuse for a drop to monthly forays into the world of sensuality — they’d never gotten back into the swing of things after she’d nursed him back to health. And then it had stopped. Except for Christmas and birthday treats. And even then … ye gods! Three minutes? Yes. She took longer to boil an egg than he took to scramble hers.

Cookery was her favourite way to fill the void. You kill the dying hours preparing the meal and then you get to eat it. At least her mouth was having a good time. Food was her obsession and she had the love handles to prove it, even if there was no love to put them to good use. Internet searches for recipes occasionally led to those sites where some poor soul’s lost daughters and errant sons disported themselves shamelessly. Who’d have thought that sandwiches, cream pies and the humble roast could have laid the way to such loathsome degredation?

At first the paysites kept her out. Who in their right mind leaves a credit-card trail leading back to their respectable lives and their real identity? Ker-rist! She was chair of the PTA, after all. Then the free porn had gathered in wave after wave and washed up on her dry sandy beach. Fear of discovery and discoveries subsided under something stronger. Driven by curiosity, she told herself, her fingers had slipped inexorably, first to the laptop keyboard where swift eager keystrokes soon took her to her chosen destination, and then to her own lap and shuddering dissatisfaction.

They say your sexuality only gets stronger as you grow older. If you are a woman. What sort of cosmic joke was this? Peaking at fifty for womankind, men are left trailing from seventeen. Where the hell are you supposed to cross over? She did the maths and wept. Then she clicked on the link that had been calling to her these past months.

Ecce femina!

Behold, the woman.

Here she was, no longer a creature of urban myth, but flesh and blood, a pulsating, ululating, ovulating woman with needs. Such needs ….

She stood there quivering, arms outstretched and waited to be overwhelmed and overpowered by sheer unbridled male sexuality. Men denied the most basic satisfaction, tortured by forced abstinence for years with no prospect of relief, riven by deep subterranean urges stoking up like magma under Mount St Helens. She wanted to be there when it blew, to feel it blast right through her, to be taken to a realm she had dreamt of so often, where fears and guilt fell under primal grunting drives. To be greased and slippy not knowing who was doing what to her where or why and, oh, mama, am I a bad girl who deserves a whupping coz I bin dirty?

The men blinked.

Some went back to their conversations about the state of the food, if that’s what you call it, when their parole was due, and what a bitch she was, no sooner was he thrown into the jammer when she’d gone off with her cousin like he always knew she would. Living in Chicago, but, heh, he’d find ‘em when he got out. Which, due to the body count in the basement, wouldn’t be any time soon.

Others began to work out with Pythagorean mathematics the viability of breaking out and drew sketches in the dust. Hey, if someone could get in so easily, surely they could get out.

“Jeez, looks like a sow,” someone said.

“Heck, I’m married. Old lady’d kill me.”

“I might be tempted if you was a buck, but we got plenty of them in here. All you can eat, ‘specially on shower days.”

“Hey, last time a saw a woman naked I’d just strangled her.” Then louder for the guard, “‘Cept it wasn’t me. That’s what ma lawyer says.”

One huddle of bredren called upon the almighty to smite the Jezabel thrown into their midst as a supreme test which they were up to. Oh, yes, they were up to it all right and would not fail. The more they were up to it the bigger the test and the greater the glory of heaven, o Lord.

“Here, sister,” said the Christian, averting his eyes. “Have my jacket. Are you saved?”

Maybe she should have asked for the “trussed up like a chicken” extra. A bargain at five hundred dollars down from a grand if you ordered within the fourteen day sale period. But she reckoned she’d be needing her hands and so she declined.

She threw off the grey denim he was draping around her shoulders, hitching it up each time it slid off her oil-slick flesh .

“Hey. Hey! What is wrong with you? Hey, you with the jacket. Don’t look away. Look at ME! No, not into my beautiful baby blues. Look at me — here!”

Fifty pairs of eyes looked where she directed.

“Oh, I hate it when they look freshy plucked like that.”

She dropped her fists onto her hips. She was angry now.

“What they do? Put bromide in your coffee?”

“Jeez, sure yells like my old woman. You got a light, lady?”

“Where’d you expect me to keep matches? Oh, yeah, sure. I got a Zippo hidden. Why don’tcha come and look for it?”

An elderly guard rushed across from the tower, clutching his shotgun to his chest and tugging his cap down firmly to reinforce his authority. Stumbling to the scene of the excitment-free zone, he chattered into his radio: “Chuck, we got us another one.”

“You all come here like you’re Catherine The Nerve or Belle du Jour or some sort of Eurotrash prevert,” said the Governor. “Them French. Damn degenerates. Gimme Liberty fries any day. I’m a hard working Joe with a job to do. And you come in here disturbing my prisoners? Some of them are sensitive. Now, go home.”

She walked back through the prison, past the prisoners filing in after their excercise break, and out through the front gate.

I am SO getting a refund, she promised herself.

© Anna Chen Feb 2009
First published Feb 2009 at Madam Miaow Says

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