I’ll cut to the chase. Someone out there is pretending to be me and getting away with it.
Whoever they are, they’re destroying my personal relationships, and not just with my family and friends, people who I’ll probably be able to patch things up with once this nightmare is over, but with random people in town. I have employees at the grocery store and at the Walmart come up and tell me that I’m not allowed to shop there because of the ruckus I made last week. Ruckus? I don’t cause ruckus! Get outta town with that! People give me a wider berth than usual and cock strange looks at me all the while. I’m no looker by any means, but I ain’t repulsive like that. So why shoot daggers at me? You recognize me? You know me? Yeah, well I came to figure out that they knew “me” alright, but not the real me.
I didn’t know what was up with people for the longest time. My only move was to stare right back at these freaked out folk with a look in my eyes that meant to convey a real sense of, “Wh’ud I ever do you to you, huh?” My annoyance slowly turned to concern after a few months of this. It didn’t help that I had a lot of other things going on in my mind at the time. I needed to get out of my house. I needed to have some quality fresh air in my face and grass in my toes. I need my pale skin to absorb some unabated sun for once! But people were revolted by me at every turn.
It was hard not to internalize that negative energy. It was hard not to feel like doom preceded me like a looming shadow of a storm. Not to get dramatic or anything, but I felt that unreality of anxiety worming its way between my body and mind. I’d catch glimpses of my reflection in the store front windows and the bathroom mirrors and have to reckon with the sudden realization that I was, in fact, a real person. Was I really who everyone thought I was being?
I got my answer.
One day I decided to call off work and strut the river path that cuts through town, maybe talk to a few fishing folk about whatever the hell was in the news or the weather or something like that. I hopped the guard rail and what did I see? A “me” looking person down the ways throwing the lawn chairs of those fishing folk into the river and then sprinting away into the brush. That “me” didn’t move like me, didn’t have my wonky limp that really flares up during a sprint, but that “me” sure had my look down, wearing my same shorts and T-shirt that I always wore. That son of a bitch. That bastard. I knew it. I knew someone was out to get me.
Those folk fished the chairs out of the river, that’s what they were good at, after all. They were good and pissed about the whole ordeal, and when they clocked me just down the ways, and look, they couldn’t have seen where the imposter “me” could have gone off to, they came running after me. They caught up quick because of my wonky sprint. I’m not ashamed to admit I lost that fight with those usually kind, but angered fishing folk. I took a few clean ones to the chin and a couple to my shapeless gut. I tried to tell them it wasn’t me, but they clearly saw me as “me”. Satisfied with a little riverside justice, they tossed me back over the barrier and into bushes.
Grabbing at the aches, I tried to roll over, but couldn’t because a strong hand pressed firm into my chest. It was “me”. That son of a bitch! That son of a bitch! That skin. That smell. That feel. Whoever was in there got ahold of one of my skin suits and put it on. They didn’t even fit it all that well! I could see the loose parts, the little holes where the suit didn’t quite meet up right, their real flesh floating beneath the sort translucent areas where the skin suit thinned out. I was sitting there thinking, “This is who people are mistaking for me? People are pissed at me because this wannabe prancing around town wearing a skin like mine?” I took a swing at them, but they sprinted away with a mocking chortle.
That was the closest I got to the son of a bitch, but I feel like after that meeting, “me” has been stalking me all over town. Everywhere I go, there “I” am just ahead of me causing problems and ruining my routine life. I’m on edge, constantly fearing some unbeknownst retaliation. Those fishing folk weren’t the last to give me a what-for. Yeah, and I think they’re in my home, too. They’d have to be to get their thieving hands on one of my skin suits. They’re a rarity! I’m not sure how I even let one slip from my possession like that!
I should explain that bit. Now, you’re gonna get a glimpse into my private sex life, so buckle in or buckle out or whatever you gotta do, but believe me, it’s going to make sense.
Me and my now very ex-girlfriend used to do a lot of coating, and I’m not sure how we really got into it or why we kept doing it to the extent it reached. I haven’t seen much about it on the ol’ internet and we aren’t the most attractive people out there, what with our odd fat inserts and blotchy patches of dry and moist skin, so I never thought of recording what we do and putting it online for anyone else’s benefit. Who knows, maybe people wouldn’t be interested in two human potato sacks grunting and moaning while coating.
For those of you who don’t know, coating is when you take some Elmer’s glue (or similar) and spread a thin layer on your dick or vagina or butthole or nipples or lips or whole ass cheek or balls or eyes or any other erogenous zones (there’s thousands if you do it right) and wait for that thin layer to set and form a translucent second skin ripe for peeling. But whoa there, pardner, you ain’t gonna peel that just yet are ya? Let’s put on another layer. Get the blow dryer! Add another layer. Let ‘em set. Let’ em all set.
Forgive me if I get a little worked up at the thoughts. It was a big part of our life together.
Soon you’ll be moving in a second skin like a molting gecko. Every twist and bend and bump and grind loosens this glue skin more and more, but usually never enough to fully disconnect and be in a human-shaped glue bag. You’re constricted but free all at the same time.
After unloading, really firing off a hot one, in your glue skin once or maybe twice (or several times in the case of my now very ex-girlfriend) just from walking about the house or outside in the backyard, that’s when the need to peel sets in, and honestly, that’s where the real fun is at. Of course we’d bite and use our long fingernails specifically grown for coating, but the real joy was in using a small set of pocket knives I found in an old ammo box in my Grandpa’s work shed. Thanks for the sex play tools, Gramps!
We’d carve and plunge those dull knife blades. We’d scrape and lift that thick glue skin and when we had a good yanker, mommy please, yank that yanker and make a big flake. Nothing like it. Nothing like it in the world. If you do it right and your glue skin is thick enough, is dry enough, you can pull off whole arms and legs and dick and tits and stomachs and backs and, if you’re good, a whole new human off. A new human. A glue human suit. A Glueman suit. A little Glueman me hanging there from the shower rod, swinging in the gentle air current. Haha, are you smiling at me, Glueman Me? You devil, you!
I’d say about three months before breaking up for non-sexual reasons, we were getting full skins of glue on a regular basis, and these weren’t just elementary Elmer’s anymore either. By the end, we were using glue with some real heft to it. We’d peel ourselves pink shedding our robust glueman suits. I’d wear hers and she’d wear mine and yes, we did to each other and with each what you’re thinking we did to and with each other while clad our partner’s skin suit.
Don’t knock it til you try it! It’s wonderfully erotic, and everyday I wish I could go back to those days when coating was coating and life was good! Ya know, before being in one another’s glueman suits started to make use act out the faults we saw in each other. Bad roleplay. I become a recursive being in my skin suit. I’m me and me on top. I am the id and the ego in perfect communion! Or am I my ex-girlfriend’s? Our skins swapped so many times, we didn’t know what was what. I think we musta took a wrong turn down a bad road, but neither of us felt like we were driving the car or metaphorically whatever.
Like I said, the break up wasn’t sex related. By the end, the skins weren’t about the sex, I guess, and then abruptly, it was all over.
But never mind all that. I haven’t solo coated in a while, but I’m starting to get the urge again. Yeah, I’m talking about the good ol’ fashioned coating with easy peeling glue. You’d understand it if you’d have done it yourself, Honestly, now there’s only two joys in life: Feeling that second skin give way and release yummy little wafts of trapped body vapor and slipping on that second skin until the residual moistures makes it cling in all those crannies and nooks. There’s a way to really enjoy it with the right person.
Well, as soon as I got back from the river with bruises anew, and shuffled through the closet for that near perfect skin suit only to be met with the reality that that nervous ball of anxiety in my stomach already knew. It was missing.
That’s when I knew I wasn’t the only one in my home anymore, and I don’t mean just for the nabbing of my skin suit, but ever since.
I can’t even hobble up to refill my bowls from savory to sweet without catching a side glimpse of someone moving, of “mirror me” out of the mirror. They’re tormenting me for no good reason. No good reason at all, that’s for sure!
I’m a reasonable person, I am, but if I get my mitts on “me”, I’m ripping that skin suit off, even if that means destroying a priceless personal erotic artifact! I’ve been obsessively checking my closets and drawers for signs of other missing skins from years of coating, but it all seems like it’s still there. It all seems unmolested.
I’m molested though, body and mind both. I can’t catch “me” because of my recently acquired hobble. I’m too out of shape. I’m too slow. “I” keep things dark in my home—shades drawn, lights off. “I” keep yelling at mocking the way I talk, the things I do, the way I walk, the people I know, and the things I’ve done. And yeah, I’ve done things I’m not proud of, things that I wish I could just peel off and be done with, but those things don’t need to leave the house! They can’t!
One thing’s for sure though, the longer I’m chasing shadows in my own home, too afraid to leave the house lest that “me” change my locks or set some trap, the worse things get out there for me. Paradoxically, the longer I stay in my house as a recluse, the more “I” ruin my reputation by being a madman about town!
You see? So I can’t even step foot outside without reckoning with hatred I don’t deserve. They, that “me”, moves so freely though because they don’t care what they turn me into. They can always shed the skin. They can always feel that wonderful sensation of molting, that sweet, moist molting mixed with that savory saboteur’s satisfaction.
Well?
There’s one thing, and I’m telling you I’m desperate. I’m hoping you can understand why I’m so desperate and why I’m considering what I’m considering. My very ex-girlfriend’s skin suit hangs with a coy smile deep in the closet. I told her I lost it some years back during our break up (causing our sudden break up), but I didn’t. I kept it. I kept a piece of her with me all this time just tucked away in “her” own private little corner in the dark of my closet still molded to all the things that made her good and perfect. I had controlled myself all that time, only giving into visitations on a handful of occasions.
That’s the way out, don’t you think? You’d do the same! C’mon, now. You’d do the same! She thinks she can just come back into my life now? I thought I made sure that the only me and her would be me and “her”.
I’m gonna have to slip into her skin suit, be “her” when I’m out about town. Maybe I’ll ruin her reputation like she’s ruined mine. That’d only be fair, right? People are probably wondering how she’s been anyways. I’ll show them how she’s been! If she’s gonna be “me” in my own home, then I’ll be “her” and remind her why we broke up in the first place.
Not dead after all, huh?! If that’s the game you want to play, then that’s the game I’ll play too!
C’mon out from the shadows! Quit ducking my line of sight and confront me like a “man”! Let’s show each other who we really are!
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