The temptation to look up Tigger online after that call is strong, but I fight it. Nothing good will come from learning more about him or his better-than-in-porn dick.
Since he’s a prince, I’m hereby dubbing it His Royal Hardness.
Taking my phone from Manny’s neck, I reattach his head. To distract myself from thoughts of Tigger and his royal appendages, I put on the CGI movie version of The Lion King. All that stuff about Disney and giant cats has kindled the urge to watch it.
Midway, I pause and look up an important question: who would win in a fight, a lion or a tiger?
My research reveals that tigers are stronger and larger than lions. However, lions hunt in prides, while tigers are solitary creatures, so if they met in nature, the fight wouldn’t be fair. If that’s true, why is the lion considered the king? Shouldn’t it be the tiger? Actually, if strength is the deciding factor, it should be the elephant, or better yet, the killer whale.
Lions must know the right people, like the folks at Disney.
I continue with the movie but soon realize that watching it was a mistake. A song is now stuck in my head, only in my version it’s Tigger who sleeps in the mighty jungle tonight. Sleeps with me, preferably.
No. Must not think of him.
Must think of something else.
Anything else.
Oh, I know. Maybe it’s the Russian joke that primed me, but it seems like there are incest shenanigans in The Lion King. Take Simba and Nala. She might be his sister or his cousin. After all, the only males in the movie are Mufasa and Scar, and they’re brothers. Not to mention, the females in a lion pride are usually related. What is a Disney lion marriage like, anyway? In nature, the male lion sleeps with every female in the pride. Do they have an open marriage in The Lion King as well?
Thinking of feline royals lets a certain prince sneak back into my consciousness, along with His Royal Hardness.
Ugh. Seems that dwelling on lion sex has only made me hornier.
Time for a bigger movie distraction: The Illusionist, The Prestige, or Now You See Me.
I put on The Illusionist, but that’s yet another mistake. There’s a prince, and though he’s a villain, his presence reminds me of Tigger—not to mention that the evil prince’s name is Leopold. He’s probably Leo to his friends, and Leo is Latin for lion, so not all that far from tiger.
Giving up on movies, I practice some sleight of hand.
Nope. Makes me think of him. Or at least my hand on His Royal Hardness.
Desperate, I fire up my computer—the greatest time-suck device known to humankind—and open an app created for me by my sister Blue, the other trauma victim of The Zombie Tit Massacre. I use the app to modify some images of shirtless guys on popular internet platforms by replacing the man nipples with the nipples of female porn stars.
Why? Because it’s funny to me, plus I support the Free the Nipple movement, though not enough to put my nipples where my mouth is by going topless in a public place.
Maybe one day. Maybe if I get the chance to do a large stage performance, I can make my nipples “disappear.”
Crap. Now I’m wondering what Tigger’s nipples look like, and which female porn star’s nipples they resemble the most, if any.
My phone pings with an incoming text.
Serendipity.
I was just using Blue’s app, and here she is, asking to have lunch in the near future.
That’s great. Blue is one of my favorite sextuplets. Besides having lived through The Zombie Tit Massacre with me, she has a passion for spycraft, which is surprisingly similar to magic.
I tell her that I’m game to eat, and she tells me where—a restaurant that has no fowl on the menu—and when.
Speaking of food, I’m starving.
Entering the kitchen, I grab some oat milk from the fridge and a box of Frosted Flakes from the pantry. This is to be a breakfast-for-dinner day, a common occurrence for me and the rest of my starving artist roomies.
I plop down at the table and begin to shovel in the food, only to pause as I notice the front of my cereal box.
This is just grrrrrreat. Tony the Tiger reminds me of Tigger too.
Must divert thoughts now.
Why is a tiger a spokesman for carbs? Shouldn’t he work for a steakhouse chain instead? Also, wouldn’t grrr be an expression of tiger anger? Tony sounds happy, so shouldn’t he be purring?
Do tigers purr?
Nope. According to a quick Google search, when happy, tigers chuff, which sounds like a snort and is done by blowing through their nostrils.
“Hey.” A familiar voice drags me away from the allure of my phone’s screen.
“Hey yourself.” I grin at my roommate and friend, who’s known in the magic world as La Profesora. That’s because her father was a famous Spanish magician known as El Profesor, and also because when it comes to card magic, she could teach a graduate-level course.
The name on her birth certificate is Clarisa, but she prefers to go by the more American-sounding Clarice—maybe because she can hear slaughtered lambs screaming at night à la the eponymous heroine of Silence of the Lambs.
Why else would she name her cat Hannibal?
Despite her name, she doesn’t look like Jodie Foster, the original Clarice, or Julianne Moore, the recast one. The actress she reminds me of most is Penelope Cruz, specifically her character in Pirates of the Caribbean, right down to the pirate-style shirt, waistcoat, and feather-capped hat that makes everyone think she’s on her way to a steampunk convention.
Knowing my issues, Clarice blows me an air kiss, and I return it. She then joins me in the cereal-for-dinner meal, only in her case it’s Captain Crunch—no doubt because she has a similar fashion sense to the mascot.
“Want to see something I’ve been working on?” she asks.
She let me perform for her for an hour yesterday, so it’s only fair to let her practice on me. “Sure. Just as long as I don’t have to touch anything until I’m done eating.”
She takes out a deck of cards and gives them a real-looking shuffle. “Think of a card.”
Wow. Only the best of the best card magicians begin a trick by asking you to merely think of a card. Most others have you pick one.
“I have one in mind,” I say as I think of the Three of Spades.
“Now think of a number,” she says.
I feel chills running down my body. If this is going where I think it’s going, my mind will be blown.
“Got one,” I say with great hesitation as I settle on seventeen.
“I’m going to put the cards face down on the table,” she says. “When we get to your number, say stop.”
No fucking way.
She starts to put the cards down one at a time.
I count until we get to my number and say, “Stop.”
How could that be the card I merely thought of? No way. She’s about to make things more complicated or something.
But no.
She turns the card over, and it’s the fucking Three of Spades!
I feel an overwhelming sense of awe. It takes me back to my childhood, when I first got fooled by a magic trick and became hooked for life.
In the next moment, however, possible ways she might’ve done it pop into my head, ruining the moment. Maybe she primed me to think of that card and number? Or used some kind of subliminal messages to somehow Inception them into my brain?
But when? How?
I’m back to having no clue, and though she’d probably tell me how she did it if I asked, I don’t want to do so—in part because I’d have to reveal some big secret of mine in reciprocity, but also because it’s more fun not knowing.
Sometimes.
“That was amazing,” I say. “You really are La Profesora.”
She beams and lovingly gathers the cards before hiding them in her pocket.
The rumor among us, her roommates, is that she sleeps with a deck of cards in her hand and another under the pillow. If she had a vibrator in the shape of a deck of cards, I wouldn’t be surprised either. If there is such a thing as a card-sexual, she is it.
“So,” Clarice says, looking extremely uncomfortable. “This month is my turn to collect the rent money.”
And just like that, any warm afterglow after her miracle is gone.
It’s been a while since I’ve had anything resembling a paying gig.
“How bad is it this month?” I ask tentatively.
She sighs. “Without your share, we won’t make the payment on time, and the landlord will evict us for sure. We’ve already been late five times.”
Yep. As bad as I feared. My cereal suddenly tastes like the box it came in.
“I’ll call my TV contacts,” I say. “Maybe someone needs something?”
Even though the thing I want most is to perform myself, I’ve been earning some cash by consulting for successful magicians who are too busy to come up with new tricks for their repertoire.
“Thank you.” She stands up. “I really like living with all of you guys.”
I nod solemnly. My roommates are mostly magicians, but we also have a mentalist—which is pretty much the same thing—a juggler, a contortionist, and even a comedian. All are women I like a lot and don’t want to see become homeless, especially because of my money problems.
She leaves, and I empty my bowl. Then I drop it in the dishwasher and run back to my room to make calls and send emails.
Hours later, I have to admit to a sense of impending doom.
There doesn’t seem to be any work for a not-so-famous magician.
Maybe I should get a muggle job after all? Something like a stewardess, a bank teller, or a panda breeder? Are those hard to get?
One thing’s for sure: given how my exposure therapy has been going, the world’s oldest profession is out for me. Stripping wouldn’t work either. The metal poles those brave women climb seem like they’d have more germs than the handrails in the NYC subway, and those cooties are on the verge of becoming sentient.
I sigh, loudly.
If we get evicted, I’ll not only screw myself over but also the people closest to me outside of my family.
Speaking of family, maybe I could beg my sisters or parents for money?
No. No way. I’ve been cursed with too much pride. Besides, family money comes with too many strings attached. Octomom, for example, would demand I pay her back with a grandchild or two.
Yeah, no, thanks. I’ll find some gig, even if it means teaching teenage boys the basic principles of magic or selling trick decks of cards in a magic shop.
Wait a second. I never checked to make sure Clarice’s deck was regular. She always claims to use normal cards, but isn’t that what she’d say regardless?
In any case, with teaching in mind, I navigate to my YouTube channel and look at the comments under my most popular video, the one where I “held my breath” under water for twenty minutes.
As you’d expect on the internet, ninety-nine percent of the comments are extremely rude, with the most popular topic being how fuckable I look in the swimsuit I wore for the stunt.
Yeah, that’s what’s interesting. My boobs, not my ability to be without oxygen. Not that I was without oxygen for real, but still.
The good news is there’s still that one percent of teens who want to know how I did what I did. For their sake, I record a video where I offer my magic tutoring services and post it in the hopes that someone’s parents are rich.
Time to sleep. Except when I get in bed, I have trouble falling under—thoughts of eviction are interspersed with the memories of Tigger’s eyes… and other parts. Like His Royal Hardness.
Hmm. Should I play with myself to get that off my mind?
To get in the mood, I put on some sexy music—“The Final Countdown” by Europe. Though this song was used in Arrested Development to mock magicians, I love it anyway.
Next, I take out my trusty dildo from my nightstand and give it a narrow-eyed look. You’re too small. And too plain. I’m suddenly in the mood for something much bigger… and more regal.
Hey, I can picture the poor dildo replying. It’s not the size of the ocean that matters, but the vibrations of the waves.
Nope.
I grab my laptop and email my twin, asking for a link to the website where her new best friend sells her toys. I want to buy the biggest dildo she’s got.
After I click “send,” I realize my mistake. I need rent money, and frivolous shopping—along with a lack of magic gigs—is why I’m in trouble in that department.
Oh, well. My tiny dildo will have to do.
Call me tiny one more time, and I’ll short-circuit myself.
I turn on the vibration and think about Tigger’s chiseled features.
Boom. I come in record time.
See. Tiny but mighty.
Basking in the orgasmic afterglow, I fall asleep quickly, but my dreams are strange. One reminds me of Donnie Darko, except instead of a giant rabbit, there’s Batman’s Joker. After that, I dream of Jake Gyllenhaal delivering a baby fathered by Heath Ledger.