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Feb
2

Venus de Gilligan

In a world that has satellites hovering over it, shooting information out of them about every inch of land, GPS and various other tracking stuff it was hard for Steve to believe that people could end up on deserted islands.

Then again it almost seemed a certainty given his middle name was Gilligan. Family name or not, what parent gives their son a middle name like that unless they want him shipwrecked at some point in his life?

It was his fault for renting that boat.

However likely or unlikely it was the simple fact remained that he had ended up on this little island almost a year ago and on this little island he had stayed. No amount of signal fires or SOS written in enormous letters in the sand had changed that.

There hadn’t been a Skipper or Professor and there certainly hadn’t been a Ginger or Mary Ann to keep him company. He would have been very happy with Mrs. Howell. In fact, many a moonlit night he had sat on the beach and had the most horribly erotic daydreams about her.

And the Leggs N Eggs.

It was a strip club right by the train station that he use to frequent. The train station that is, not the strip club.

As much as he had wanted to.

The name of the club hadn’t been the Leggs N Eggs but that was the promotion it ran in the newspapers. It had girls there stripping as early as 6 in the morning so the early commuters could come in and grab breakfast and see half-naked women before they left for work.

Every morning he wanted to pay the $5 cover and go in and every morning he chickened out. He sat staring at the club across the street, trying to imagine the girls gyrating and sprawling around, his stomach prepared to endure the low quality food that they dished out but his heart unwilling to face the thought of actually going in.

He wanted to dream about Mary Ann but somehow his mind always settled for Mrs. Howell. She would coo Darling in his ear and then lay wordlessly under him as he completed his business.

One day a large crate washed ashore.

He saw it from quite a distant and the entire time he was running towards it his head was already imagining all the wonderful things it could contain. Then another part of him was imaging his disappointment at other things the crate could contain. What if it contained pirate costumes?

Would that be wonderful or dreadful?

These thoughts made a long run longer.

It was a crate filled with a stone carving tools. Chisels and hammers, rasps and rifflers. Steve sat on the beach with the crate between his legs and let out a long and sorrowful cry. All the birds on the island took flight at hearing his grief and respectfully flew around for a long while before settling back in the trees as there was really nowhere else for them to fly.

Why couldn’t it have been filled with ham radios or flares? Or inflatable women or Hustler magazines?

There had always been one girl he watched go in the club most of all. She seemed to arrive at the same time as he did. She would get out of her little hatchback and make the short walk into the club and he would settle further down onto the bench and watch her like he imagined the creepy guys outside a club would do. For $5 he could have seen her breasts. $5! Almost every night he would walk in the sand and curse his cowardice and curse her hatchback and wonder what her name was.

Because his middle name was Gilligan he assumed that a few days later another crate would wash up containing an instruction manual on stone carving. He was actually surprised when a crate failed to materialize. He waited another few days, certain that it was just an error and any wave could be bringing him the directions on how to use these various tools. Plenty of waves. A shocking lack of manuals of any sort.

Finally, in an act of desperation, he named her. He knew she probably had a stage name like Candy or Bubbles but he chose a real name. Her real name. A name befitting her.

And he found a huge rock jutting out of the sand, just past the reach of the water. Pale and hard and more jagged than you’d imagine given it was on a wind-swept beach but maybe that just went to show how hard it was.

He dragged the crate to it and went to work. At first with the pitching tool, knocking off large chunks of unwanted rock. He found he enjoyed the labor. His muscles ached and he would have to stop for hours at a time but soon the rock lost the shape of a hunk of nothing and started to look like something not entirely unlike something.

Days passed and his concentration got more intense. He would occasionally glance longingly out to sea for his absent instruction manual but more often he would glance longingly at the rock under his hands.

He gave her the name Brianna.

She started to take shape. The problem was his hands felt clumsy as he started to wield the tracing tools and the rasps. Knowing he was a beginner he wisely anticipated mistakes and gave her three arms to start with but even then he underestimated the difficulty in shaping stone and accidently knocked off 2 of them. Hair that was to tumble past her waist suddenly stopped at her shoulders. The “Start With One More Than You Need” plan was also used for her breasts and, tragically, encountered almost the identical circumstances that transpired with her arms and left Brianna with only 1 boob.

But that boob was magnificent! For only $5 he would have known what her nipple actually looked like but as he finished it he really felt that they both would have been happy with his interpretation.

He had much more success with her legs. So much so that she ended up with all 3. If he was to ever write a beginners manual on stone carving he would certainly include a chapter on the dangers of trying to anticipate mistakes. On the positive side, the 3 legs gave her an ass that even M.C. Esher would admire! (If you find yourself wondering if he is a rap singer then I invite you to do us all a favor and go drown yourself. Heavy object, rope, your ankle, you get the idea.)

But he saved his best for her face. His hands danced nimbly and the tools felt like that had been in his hands for years. He was back on his bench. She was making her daily walk to the front door. He felt the pressure in his chest and for those few seconds all of his sexual inadequacies and longings fell away and then he grabbed that picture in his head and threw it down on this little chunk of rock God knows where in the Pacific.

When he was done he threw the tools back in the crate and started his life anew with Brianna. Her one tit and tri-cheeked ass and all. She managed to overlook his past and they lived happily ever after on that deserted island.

And neither Mrs. Howell or M.C. Esher was ever the wiser.

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