We are the first class to have a kissing assembly. Our health teach Ms. Kinsley and Mr. Neighbors, the shop teacher, built a robot kissing machine from an old CPR dummy. They rigged a small motor so its mouth would open and close just a little. Wired the lips so each kisser would get a tiny electric jolt. Just like the real thing.
When I was little, I wanted to be a car. All the best love songs were about cars: “Little Deuce Coupe,” “Panama,” “I’m In Love With My Car.” I would sit cross-legged too close to the TV, watching and rewatching the “Greased Lightnin’” scene from Grease. I didn’t understand most of what he was singing about, but my crotch hummed when John Travolta came down from the ceiling straddling that motor. When it’s my turn with the machine, I think of Travolta running his hands over my hood. Grinding his hips against my fender. I imagine an engine lowering slow-motion from the ceiling and into my open body. I close my eyes. Wait for the spark. — Meghan Phillips is the fiction editor for Third Point Press and and associate editor for SmokeLong Quarterly. You can find her writing at meghan-phillips.com and her tweets @mcarphil. She lives in Lancaster, PA.
Artwork by: Mike Killen
