I have thoughts. Thoughts of nature, depraved. Thoughts of wood, iron, and polycarbonates as childhood crayons. They conduct the hairs on my neck. They resurrect the arms and legs of baby dolls as aphrodisiacs. The penis was cursed with location. My favorite scrotum is of statue copper. These are my thoughts. Does this make sense?

“You must keep these thoughts to yourself, Elaine,” doctors pressed. “These are not normal thoughts. You must keep your toys away from openings. You cannot touch yourself like that. Do you understand?”

Father was always busy tinkering. Mom would watch me when she wasn’t praying. She hated me, and I hated her. I liked to lock myself in the bathroom and stuff myself with toilet paper. I would strip the white papering, as if unrolling a mummified corpse, until I could see the cardboard roll, then I’d tongue it thinking of a marionette’s mouth. Mother hated locks. Mother hated temptations. “You are not yourself,” my mother told me. She was right. I was not the girl in the mirror.

As God began to spoil, I began to bloom.

“Was there ever a time when you remember first acting on these… thoughts,” the doctor asked.

The truth was, I had acted on these thoughts long before I could remember. I knew what toys could fit into my anus and which were best for wet-play. But I do remember my first cum. My first wet-play.

Mother tried answering for me, but I interrupted.

“FunHouse,” I said, quietly.

The doctor looked at me and jotted something down.

“Tell me more about this… funhouse,” he said.

“He was there. I watched him sleep…” I said, as my legs trembled.

Mother could sense my arousal. She grabbed my arm and clenched. She knew.

This is where I document my confession. This is where I demonstrate how God rots.

His name was Rudy. He was just a puppet’s head. Like me, I was just a head, with no control over my body. I became all of me in the mirrors of his funhouse.

FunHouse is a pinball machine manufactured in the 1990s. It was very popular in its day. Sex scandals were also popular in the nineties. Pamela Anderson’s private tape leaking, Bill Clinton answering for his secret affair with Lewinsky. This was the decade where nobody could hide. There was no more privacy for one’s own private parts.

It was an early April afternoon, and the carnival was in town that day. I was forbidden to go. Mother had accidentally fallen asleep. Father was busy tinkering in his study. So, I went out to remedy my boredom.

I walked into town toward the amusement tent when I noticed a storm coming. Rain fell fast and I went inside a nearby bar to avoid catching a cold. I looked around the dark, dimly lit room and recognized nobody. The jukebox played Eddy Arnold’s “Make the World Go Away” as intoxicated eyes searched me up and down. Men offered me drinks. Men were always nice to me. I was twelve years old. I remember drinking. I remember burping and farting from my private escapes.

The bar owner soon came over to me. He knew my father. He showed me to a play room filled with entertainment machines.

“This is a pinball machine. This is FunHouse. Have you ever played pinball?” the bar owner asked.

I shook my head, moving my hair from my eyes over my ears.

Step right up!

“How do I play,” I asked.

“The machine will give you three chances to keep the ball alive. When the ball falls into the drain below those flippers, then you lose. You want to make the animatronic puppet Rudy go to sleep. Advance the clock in the funhouse so that Rudy gets tired. Then, you flip a ball into his gaping mouth and score millions of points,” the bar owner said.

The bar owner left the room and locked the door behind me. He gave me a key to open up FunHouse if something went wrong.

I turned and looked directly into Rudy’s tender, blue eyes. His cheeks were red like mine after mother’s spankings. For the first time, I felt in control of something. I was the hands of a clock.

I played with the buttons like I played with my button. Buttons have a chewy smell. A woman’s button is a private escape. I played with my privates as an escape.

The plunger was my first penis. FunHouse had two plungers. Rudy was the only lover who could have two beautiful metallic penises. I rubbed the plungers with my developing breasts and exhaled solder fumes. I reached my hand under my skirt. I felt the need to pee but decided to wait. I played with myself right there in front of Rudy.

I grabbed Rudy’s right penis and tugged. The ball flew into play and rolled behind his head. The alphanumeric display read: RUDY’S HIDEOUT. I plunged into Rudy’s Private Hideout.

The ball spat out from a hole, and I was too slow to react as it drained below the flippers. Rudy laughed at me. He laughed at his little girl. I pouted. I climbed onto a stool and rubbed my button on his left penis. My button was sticky. Rudy let me slide his penis inside of me. I bled onto Rudy’s throbbies and then he laughed.

FUNHOUSE? AH HA HA HA HA HA!!

“STOP LAUGHING AT ME, PLEASE STOP LAUGHING AT ME,” I shouted.

Mother slapped me and made me stop yelling. She held me tighter, where no air could escape my lips. I had peed in my chair, but nobody noticed. The doctors were alarmed but then jotted down notes when I became quiet.

“We’re not laughing at you, Elaine. Who was laughing? Was it someone you met in the funhouse?” the doctors questioned.

I grabbed Rudy’s blood-soaked limb and pulled it once more. The ball went around Rudy’s head and came to my left flipper. I reacted appropriately and flipped the ball into the Hidden Hallway. Once the ball disappeared, a grandfather clock chimed, and the display showed a message.

IT’S 11:30

Then another message appeared.

THE FUNHOUSE CLOSES IN 30 MINUTES

“So, the funhouse. How long were you in the funhouse?” the doctors asked me.

“The FunHouse closes at midnight,” I said quietly.

“Why does the funhouse close at midnight?” the doctors asked, intrigued.

“Why does the FunHouse close at midnight…” I repeated back.

Oh no… I’m sleepy…

Rudy yawned and began to snore. Rudy’s mouth was plastic, just like mine. I looked back at the door and then back at Rudy. I put the key into the machine. I slid the protective glass off and set it aside. I was mesmerized by the bare playfield. I touched the steps and the slings, the clicking and clacking sounds traveled into my stomach. I crawled on top of the machine and kissed Rudy’s sleeping face. His snoring made me laugh.

I tasted him while he slept. My tongue went into his darkened, red snuffbox. I made Rudy taste my fingers. I took off my shirt and sprawled out on the playfield. I rubbed my hidden holes until I felt the rush of warm waves overtaking me. I fingered my asshole using my own spit and leftover button juices to ease the pain of insertion. I turned my head and licked Mylar polyester film. I slobbered on the tight rubbers protecting the ramps. The blood in my chest turned into boiling lava against the metal wires.

I couldn’t believe Rudy was sleeping. I grabbed the metal ball in play and put it into his mouth. He awoke and regurgitated balls at me. I caught them and sucked on them. I was so good, and Rudy wanted more. I stood up, pulled off my undergarments, and peed on Rudy’s surprised and angry face. I didn’t see the bar owner behind me. I didn’t care if anybody saw, didn’t care if it didn’t make sense, because I was a puppet in the FunHouse.

“Does your father know about the funhouse? Does he know about Rudy?” the doctors asked.

“Father is always too busy tinkering,” I said.

“Does your father know about your…behaviors?” the doctors asked.

Finally, Mother had had enough. She cursed the doctors for wasting our time and pulled me out of the door. Finally, I was allowed to leave.

We drove back home in silence. The breeze of the wind fought against the front windshield. I always felt trapped in cars, like I was vacuum-sealed in latex.

When we got back home, I snuck into Father’s study while he was out buying smokes. I spotted one book on his desk: FunHouse Operations Manual. My heart sunk.

I stole the manual and took it up to my room. I bent a chair against my door. I opened the pages and studied them all, front and back.

I saw myself for the first time in that manual. I became my own maker. My breasts thumping like pop bumpers. My vagina lips opening to reveal a scoop. My limbs reoriented like the legs of a pinball machine. My skin metalized by chemical vapor deposition. My joints screwed together and curved smooth to be ramps. My wet-play producing oil-slick cum.

Maybe my mouth could be like Rudy’s marionette mouth. Maybe I could fall into a deep slumber and wake up fitted with wires and circuitry. I felt my eyelids become heavy. I closed them tight. There I was now, encased in glass, manufactured into the FunHouse.

Oh no… I’m sleepy…