Years ago, I would have said this had something to do with the mid-nineties/Batman Forever Nicole Kidman, or a white stocking foot fetish, or the simultaneous cravings of raspberry sorbet and sweat.

But now, things are different. Now, I sit in a dark closet with augmentation goggles and stick my sex in a robot box. (That’s not the confession.) And when I do, I am transported to exotic, tropical lands with rare paradise birds and sand that doesn’t stick to skin.

Then, at my discretion I select any female fantasy. Anybody. For example, my first grade math teacher. (That’s not the confession.)

No longer am I required to willfully wish raspberry sorbet into my mouth; the tang automatically washes over my taste buds. My brain tells my pores to pour salty secretions. The leather of my office chair is a second skin.

I’ve been in here so long, the country has fallen apart. Nazis knock at my house but I don’t open the door.

The confession: I will stay in this closet for the rest of my life.

And I’m not afraid anymore. I don’t wonder, Is this better than the real thing? Because that’s an answer I already know.

Dennis Scott Herbert

Dennis Scott Herbert

Dennis Scott Herbert is a winner of the Toy Wilson Blethen Fine Arts award and is very dangerous. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Paper Darts, Squalorly, the Minnesota Review, Smokelong Quarterly, and Hobart, among others.
Dennis Scott Herbert

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