The vainest foundling in the orphanage was undoubtedly Nellie Bly.  She had bumpy skin like cream, and she drank cream constantly to remind herself of her own skin.  She called this “paying tribute.”She dryfucked cream as well, running into the barn to steal the buckets from right under the noses of the startled milkmaids, taking it hot and splashing up to her dormitory, and smearing clotted cream all over herself to remind herself of herself, again and again, heedless of the scandalized nuns.  It was a solipsistic love, but because of this, all hers, and it screamed of fat in such a way as to transform all this self-indulgence into endless, metaphorical mirrors facing mirrors, except literally as well.  She grew enormous on her self-satisfaction, and this was best of all.  Because the larger she was, the more “she” there was to love, the more flesh to adore and to smear in adoration.  She hoped desperately that no one would ever fall in love with her – it would be an interruption to her, making her self-love less of a discovery.  A crush shared is a crush ruined – it feels less personal.  She loved having a crush on herself – it was wicked, it was deserved, and it was self-contained.

Of course one day, as she was snatching a fullsome milk pail, a stable boy stepped into her path, and handily deflowered her in a pile of fodder.  She liked it, of course, but only if she was able to pretend that his lust for her was an extension of her own self-affair.  It made her hot, thinking of him getting to experience her in the way that she experienced herself.  The shock of herself, to him, was probably exciting for him.  She thought of him, and his long lean arms, not at all.

She was surprised when he assumed this should become a regular occurrence, and when her refusals made him a touch cranky, said “The most exhausting thing in the world is to be insincere.”

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