My Stalagmite - Sasha Brown

That, says Carmen, looks like a butt plug.

We ducked past a mudslide into this cave in Amigara Fells off route 28, to wait for the rain to let up, and I tripped over it. I’m like jesus fuckin christ, Carmen, the world is not your butt plug.

Carmen lights a joint and eyes me over the cherry. It is if I can get it up my ass, they say.

It’s a little stalagmite shaped like a turnip, slick wet from the storm runoff. It honestly does look like a butt plug. Carmen’s already unbuckling their pants.

I’m like, this is unsanitary. I’m not fucking you after this. They’re like Jun, we weren’t fucking anyway, which is a cheap shot. I changed meds and my libido went to shit. I’m like don’t punish me for not being horny.

Carmen’s like, everything is not always about you. Eyeing me with that sneaky meanness they get when their brain chemistry’s on the downswing. They squat down and slowly, carefully settle themself down onto the cave plug.

Pegged by mother earth, goes Carmen. This is fuckin profound. You gotta try this. I’m like no fuckin way but Carmen interrupts me all holy fuck, there’s more of em.

I flash my phone light and sure enough, a skinny passage goes deeper into the earth; more stalagmites rise along it. They get bigger as they go. Carmen eases themself off the little turnip and squats over the next one, a bulbous protrusion like eight inches tall. Oh fuck, they go. This is some Bad Dragon shit.

I’m like seriously, come on. Let’s just run for the car and get wet and go get ramen. This is gross, Carm.

Carmen’s hair is hanging in their eyes so I can’t see them. It’s not gross, they go. You know what’s gross? They stand up off the stalagmite, wincing, and gesture at themself. They’re wearing a Tomb Mold t-shirt but they’ve left their pants behind. This is gross. Isn’t it gross? Moist and lumpy. What’s inside. You and me both. Did you know there’s like a mile of guts packed into us? Like a prank snake in a can. Gross, Jun.

They move on down the tunnel, hitting the joint. The next stalagmite is a couple feet tall, with a graceful undulation. This is a cleanse, Carmen goes, positioning themself tiptoed over it. Like getting fisted by god. I’m being serious. I want this. Not to fit: to be fitted. I don’t want to be the hand. I wanna be the glove.

I’m like how high are you right now.

The passage widens ahead into a cavern crowded with stalagmites. Ghost-white shapes like the dead trees in a beaver pond: a forest of writhing spikes.

I don’t like it. It’s too big, it’s too much. The stalagmites are too familiar: humanoid, like the barest rough suggestions of people. I aim my phone down so I don’t have to look and it lights on a bead of blood trickling down Carmen’s inner thigh, snaking through their leg hair. It’s too intimate, seeing them hurt. I’m like come on, Carm. This is enough.

Carmen laughs. The mean eyes are back. They lift one foot, sumo-like, and I’m afraid they might lift the other too and plummet down. I imagine the wet ripping sound, the point jutting scarlet from their mouth.

But they ease themself off instead. You’re such a wimp. Fine. Let’s get fuckin ramen.

I wake up at 3:30 that morning and they’re gone and the thing with someone like Carmen is that when they’re gone in the middle of the night, you’re gonna have to find out all by yourself whether it’s a hassle or a tragedy. It’s a weird moment. What you think about, when you open your eyes on their empty pillow, is which scenario would make you feel more relieved.

It’s hard to care for someone.

Either way I know where they are, though. They took the car so I have to call a Lyft; it’s a couple hours before I get back to Amigara Fells.

I hear nothing when I duck into the cave. No echoing breath, no shuffling feet. No squishing parts. I weave my way past the turnip, past the Bad Dragon, into that cavern of pale stalagmites. They reach graceful up like nymphs fossilized by gods.

Something glistens snaky, red and complicated. Stalagmite sweatered in scarlet yarn, coiled to the floor and away.

I follow the gut trail through the stone woods to Carmen.

They’re impaled on a stalagmite. It disappears impossibly huge into their rectum; their legs dangle like babylegs on either side. At the base of the pillar is a damp pile: their organs, lumped like laundry.

Their arms are out as though welcoming me. Rigid, absolutely still. Blood drips from their fingertips, runs down their naked arms into their pits. Sprays of it across the earth at my feet. When the rock came in, the blood must have squirted like a super soaker.

Their eyes are wide, staring upward.

They cough suddenly.

It’s just right, they croak. I fit like a glove. This is the one that’s just for me.

They roll their eyes toward mine. Everyone is here, they gag, and I see rock in their throat. Did you find yourself?

I touch their arm. It’s solid, unyielding. Strong. There are no questions under their skin.

I’m sorry, I tell them. I don’t want to stay here.

I turn to weave away through the frozen forest. Each stalagmite uniquely twisted and whorled. Some, I think, have other people on them, but it’s hard to tell for sure.

Up ahead the cave mouth glows with morning. I look back once more and there mine is, gleaming like it’s spotlit. A slim, feeble shape, arms up as if waiting for a mother to slide its shirt on.

I stop in the darkness, staring. I recognize it right away. I know it would fit just right.

***

Sasha Brown is a Boston writer, gardener and dad whose surreal stories have been called “Creative! But in a bad way.” He’s in lit mags like X-R-A-Y and Masters Review, and in genre pubs like Bourbon Penn and F&SF. He’s on twitter @dantonsix and online at sashabrownwriter.com.