Mannequin

He stood in the window, displayed for all the depraved and open mouthed gawker's.

Their bodies, if you could call what the onlookers had bodies, were distorted, flabbergasted with rolls of fat, blemishes not only perverted their faces, but their backs as well thanks to the chemicals in their food; the hair stopped not at their heads, but crawled down their backs like tarantulas and pervaded their privates. Let us not forget the blame, these lazy spectators loused around with screens in front of them, hunched over while they grew more desperate and disgusting.

HE however, was stunning. With his youth, untainted, his body molded and handcrafted better than God could have, man had made him, chiseled him like Adonis to adorn the fabrics that deceived the populous. On him, because he was perfect, they thought they could be as well. I knew better. The social normalcy's didn't apply to either of us.

The inside of his mouth was white like the rest of his chalk stained skin as he said, “Come to me.”

I went inside the store, the fluorescence blinding my skin while I approached the broad stoop he stood upon. Watching me, he scaled my advances, and opened a palm to welcome me in an embrace. We surrounded each other's waists as we laid upon the platform for all to see. Becoming a living thing, we did as all living things did while the glances of the crowds gazed in on our passions.

Taking me in his lap, his nail-less fingers pulled up my skirt and revealed me with my MINOR imperfections compared to the masses. Kissing me tastefully on the lips, he bruised the skin of my neck as his fingers entered me. Penetrating me, the audience cheered, usually only seeing this on their TV's and Computers.

I did not cry inside that day, but merely pitied what the world had become that day.