A slimy Introduction
"Oh pumpkin, where did you find that picture?" I asked, barely able to form the words, feeling as if medusa herself was staring me in the eyes. I was petrified, unable to turn my head away from the computer's monitor.
My son, quite innocently, and by my request, had just opened a picture on the computer entitled "SlimeExample_4.jpg".
"I, I can't remember-" he said timidly.
Every instinct told me that I should look away, but I couldn't peel my eyes from the most beautiful, most horrific photograph that I had ever seen. One that I had inadvertently asked my son to seek out...
We had spent the entire summer together, making every conceivable type of slime known to man. Corn-starch Slime, Fluffy Slime, Unicorn Slime, Glitter slime. We tried it all. But no matter what recipe we followed, no matter how much we experimented, my enthusiastic little-guy always looked disappointed.
"You're a teacher. Shouldn't you know how to make this stuff?" he asked.
"I'm a re-search-er," I corrected, "but beside the point, civilizations from the past worshiped Gods and Monsters not slime! So how would I know?"
He always had a complaint about the slime we made. "It's too thick, It's too thin," and my personal favorite "That's too white!" As if glue white, corn-starch white, and baking-soda white were any different.
Nothing I did could make my little man happy.
So one day in frustration I yelled. "That's it. No more slime! Until you can find me a picture of exactly what you want I. am. Done!"
The little kid ran off to his room crying, and I felt like crap.
Now, a week later I found myself in his bedroom, sitting motionless with my mouth agape, staring at a goddess, a monster, a splendid gorgon that had me enthralled.
She was an absolutely stunning girl, whose ethnicity would forever remain a mystery. She was a blend of every coffee-colored race on the planet, with features stolen from the best parts of her deeply mixed ancestry - as though the world's top geneticists had collaborated to recreate a modern version of Oshun, Aphrodite or Xochiquetzal.
The girl, who looked to be in her very early twenties, had straight blue-black hair which gently brushed the tops of her slender shoulders. She was pulling down one side of her shiny locks, with a little curl that had coiled around a few of her immaculately manicured fingers. They were painted and polished in neon pink and stood out in stark contrast next to her silky hair and smooth, tanned skin.
Her innocent, doe-eyes were rimmed with a subtle black mascara that had been expertly applied. They held aloft two sets of long dark lashes that were flipped upward.
She was looking straight at the camera.
She was looking straight at me.
She appeared slightly confused, and tugged on her lower lip with one of her teeth, making a cute little pout. Although she looked shy, she knew it, and was happy, proud, and beautiful.
My cheeks went bright red. I felt hot and dizzy. I was unable to blink, or do anything other than just stare.
A thick, white rope of semen that started at the top of her forehead tracked through her eyebrow brow as it flowed down her face. It crossed the bridge of her nose and formed a wobbly line across her cheek, ending in a pearlescent glob that hung precariously. Gravity pulled on the weight of the syrupy substance and it stretched downward in a teardrop, as if about to slip off onto her body.
Many other sticky, winding streaks zig-zagged across her face. It was difficult to tell where they began or ended. They formed a web-like pattern that clung to her like glue. A large wad of that cream-colored substance smeared the tip of her nose, and a dangling bridge connected it to her top lip.
My heart thumped as I inspected the photograph as intensely and as thoroughly as I examined ancient artifacts at the university where I was a research professor of mythological & religious studies.
I observed that creamy-white goop was everywhere. It was even in her hair. A blob of it partially covered a hot-pink jack-rabbit hair-clippy that had come unsprung and was now hanging uselessly.
Her right thick eyelash was smeared into her brow, coated in a globule of gunk that was keeping it plastered to her face. Three stringy, white prison bars connected her upper and lower lids, covering the outer edge of her slightly pink eye.
I was completely, and utterly speechless. Shock, curiosity, embarrassment, I'm not sure which prompted my son to snap me from my intense scrutinization.
"I. I. I like how sticky it looks." he stammered.
