Nub Love by Madison Capps

Marge lightly touches the top of her prosthetic leg. She pulls down the hem of her knee-length dress. Her gaze never leaves the cowboy’s face, her blue eyes remain static. His eyes make contact with hers. The man walks from the door of the NightOwl Bar and sits on the stool next to hers, moving an absent person’s beer over.

“Your eyes are real purdy,” he says.

Marge lets a long slow breath of wind escape from her asshole, loud enough for the cowboy to hear, not loud enough to disturb the bar.

“A kiss for you,” Marge says.

“My name is Stetson,” he says with a southern drawl.

“Nice to meet you Stetson,” Marge says.

Marge puts her plastic foot against his shin. She wears a white knee sock and a Velcro strap tennis shoe on this, her left foot crossed over her right. Adorning her right, fleshy foot is a black stiletto heel.

“I’ll have a Bud Light,” Stetson says to the bartender. “That’s a mighty nice tennis shoe, ma’am.”

“I got it at Wal-Mart,” she says. “It’s cheaper if you only buy one.”

Stetson peeks under the bar at her other foot.

“I like the sexy one better,” he says.

Marge reaches under the bar to unstrap her prosthetic shin and foot. She carefully unbuckles the device. Marge removes the sock and stocking-like nub covering to expose the skin at the end of her stump. Marge turns on her stool to put the end of her nub against Stetson’s denim-covered knee. She moves her nub up and down Stetson’s calf, going through her mental checklist. Stetson is taller than she, he has a nice head of hair, and his eyes are blue. Stetson has a perfect sized thigh to turn into a nub.

Stetson pushes Marge and her nubbed leg away politely. He throws five one dollar bills onto the bar and walks toward the door. Marge stares toward him through every move, waiting for him to turn back to her. As he reaches the door Stetson meets her eyes, tips his ten gallon hat, and exits.

“They never get the Bukowski reference, do they?” Ryan says. Ryan is Marge’s only friend and has been a bartender at the NightOwl Bar for five years.

“The right one will get it,” Marge says. “It’s part of the criteria.”

“That’s some serious shit, Marge,” he says. “It’s about time you got laid though.”

“Too bad I’m not a sexy bartender who takes home a different man every night.”

“Most of the men who come in here don’t have dicks big enough to satisfy my taste."

“One more Crown and Coke."

“Nope. Four is your limit. Your dad called yesterday and said you only get to spend twenty dollars a night.”

“Oh fuck the man,” Marge says. She eats two ice cubes from her glass and pushes herself off of her stool.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” she says. “When I get back there better be a fresh drink waiting for me.”

As Marge pushes the bathroom door open she throws two fingers into the air. Ryan smiles as he watches her move toward the door, knuckles facing him. The tops of her knuckles are tattooed reading M.F., her initials. Marge tells the men she farts for it stands as, “Peace, Mother Fucker.”

Marge labors herself back onto the barstool, stroking the etching of her name right in front of her twat, on the wall. The etching feels hard and enticing. She has been working on the carving since she started drinking at the NightOwl. Ryan slides a Crown and Coke down the length of the bar. After three years of this trick, Marge catches it in her hand without looking.

Marge fingers the letters of her name in the wall. She is turned on by the swooping motion that the top of the M makes as she glides her finger over it, like waves of the ocean. Her fingers run along the A, the R, and the G. The A makes circles and the G dips low, way down to the depths of the alphabet. She massages the swoop of the tail, rubbing it back and forth alternating between a light and firm touch. She scratches the end of her short leg, where her knee-cap should be. She rubs the end of her stump the same way she affectionately touches her name inscribed on the bar.

“The nerve endings on my stump are more sensitive than my clitoral nerves I think,” Marge says to Ryan.

“If you could fit your stump in my asshole, I would show you one hell of a good time,” Ryan says.

Marge farts.

“A kiss for you,” she says and gives him her widest smile.

The door opens letting a blinding amount of light into the bar. As the door closes Marge is hopeful of the new-comer. He looks around twenty-four with long straight bangs that swoop over his eyebrows. He dons a pair of wide frame glasses so big they momentarily distract Marge from the 1940’s Disney character tattoos that cover a majority of his left arm.

“Beautiful,” Marge growls under her breath.

This new patron is taller than she. Marge takes a big swig of her drink and begins her routine glare into his eyes, waiting. As he lets the door close behind him he looks up at her. His blue eyes are locked with hers as he walks to sit on the stool beside her.

“What can I get you?” Ryan says.

The boy’s eyes are light blue, his skin fair. The pores of his face are large and evident. He must be a smoker. His large-frame glasses are vintage. He must have some source of moderately reliable income in order to pay for all those tattoos and vintage glasses. The boy also wears Allen Edmond hard top wing-tips, the same that her father wears.

Marge farts.

“A kiss for you,” she says, never turning her gaze from his.

“Bukowski wrote a story about a woman who does that same thing, right?” the boy says and smiles. “Good one.”

Marge breaks the gaze and swivels her stool toward Ryan.

“He’ll have a Crown and Coke,” Marge says.

“Whatever you say, Sugartits,” Ryan says.

Marge lightly touches the boy’s shin with her nub, her prosthetic and Wal Mart tennis shoe already laying on the floor from her previous male encounter.

“I’m August,” the boy says.

Marge just stares. She has found the one.

Madison Capps is an aspiring young writer walking dogs to pay the bills. You’ll find her in downtown Austin at music shows most nights of the week. She’s easy to spot because she has a Shirley Temple 'fro.