The secret is out and they’re making the most of it. She’s at her thirty-sixth vendor show, weddings this time, giving the same answers all day long.
She first found out when she picked up a sock and the pearls came tumbling out.
Before they realized how quickly they formed, she choked during a blow job and her husband had to give her the Heimlich.
They use condoms now.
Her booth is busy non-stop. It’s plastered with photographs of happy couples exploding with sunbeams as if their bodies cannot contain their happiness, as if her products are amulets of joy. Someone is wearing at least one piece of pearl jewelry in every shot. The necklaces are the most popular, of course. In the booth, there are displays of necklaces, earrings, rings, bracelets, all gleaming white and looking as slick as before they hardened into beads. A husband-to-be jokes about not needing a black-light here. He buys his wife-to-be a strand of pearls.
There are plenty of men who don’t mind their bride walking down the aisle with another man’s pearl necklace on her chest.
She runs her booth ready to crack jokes. She’s heard them all. Her favorite is the idea of her husband having a rocket-appendage like an action figure from their childhood. Squeeze and he shoots! With the folks who don’t get it, she lets them move on in ignorance, although she doubts it’s a blissful ignorance to not know cum outside of the penis or vagina (because it’s always the hetero couples). There’s so much more to life out in the open, in the light.
Another question she gets all day: “Where is your husband?”
“Not everybody likes to see where the product comes from.”
She points to the photograph propped up beside her: A man in a plaid, button-down shirt with his thumbs in his belt loops, standing in a field like a steer. He’s not too shabby in the looks department. When he did join her in the booth, they realized that some men get too competitive—as if they could make pearls, too, if they really wanted to, and why should they pay for his cum when they’ve got plenty at home, that’s right, plenty—and they bring bad vibes which means less sales. So, it’s better for her husband to stay home.When the event is over, she tears down her booth and counts her profits in her hotel room with a glass of wine. She calls her husband but they don’t talk much business. She does need more inventory, so she tells him what she and her tongue are going to do to him when she gets home. Imagine my tongue is an oyster. He cums on the phone and she asks about the output—after a few minutes. She’s not all business and she’s gotta finish herself off, too.