Kenscott Giga Ball

My life changed forever the day I saw Kenscott Giga Ball on The Ellen Show.

What a joy it would be, to crawl inside that inflatable plastic cocoon and experience the thrill of rolling about or just hiding for hours. I sped onto the Information Superhighway and moved some bitcoin around. “It’s finally happening,” I said to my computer screen.

I paid for top tier shipping, and the United Parcel Service was efficient, as always. Don’t believe those stories people tell you about packages tossed onto balconies or left out in the rain. Those brown-bedecked fellas are really top notch. You do get what you pay for. I could have clicked free shipping and waited two weeks, but this is important.

I called out sick from work the day it was scheduled to arrive. I didn’t want to miss this. There was a knock at the door and a mocha blur out the peephole as my trusty delivery guy made the grade. I was out onto the porch just in time to give him a wave and yell, “Hey, I thought this required a signature?”

He must have been in a big hurry because he didn’t hear me. Oh well, that holiday shipping traffic can be a bear.

I scooped up the box and tore at it while I launched back through the front door. Kenscott Giga Ball was mine at last. I yanked it from the packaging as quickly as I could manage without damaging the merchandise. My hands trembled as I fumbled for the air nozzle, grasping for purchase. Before I knew it, the sweet tangy plastic was on my tongue and I exhaled breath after breath into its cavity, expanding it, bringing it to life.

When it was as full as I dared to inflate it, I stood up and considered the entryway. It seemed a bit small for me, as I’ve put on a few pounds in the last year, but surely I could wriggle inside comfortably. I removed all my clothing just to be certain. My arms went in first and I pulled it over my head. It stopped right past my armpits.

“Don’t panic,” I said to myself. As the Doctor says, there’s always a chance. Maybe it’s one in a thousand, or one in a million, but it’s there, and you just have to find it. That’s Doctor Who, by the way. I’m a huge fan.

I went into the kitchen, scrambling for anything that could be used as lubricant. I settled on some old coconut oil that I’d stopped using (apparently it isn’t quite as healthy as some people had suggested) and slathered myself with it in great fistfuls. “Let’s do this,” I said to my empty home.

I attacked again with great gusto, penetrating it so sweetly until I reached my midsection. It was of no use. I extracted myself and went in legs first. That was even worse. It stuck at my ponderous gut, muffin topping me above its porthole.

A cry, like that of a wounded elk, escaped my lips, and I flailed about, finally falling over on my side. I lay there for a few minutes, sobbing, before I heard the Doctor’s voice. “There is a chance, Bobby” he said in that Scottish brogue. “There’s always a chance.” I arose.

After searching the Internet for a larger size, or even a comparable product, I came up with absolutely nothing. There were giant hamster balls, Wonder Wheels, but nothing approaching the sheer magnificence of Kenscott Giga Ball.

Then, it struck me. I had a plan.

It was my big secret for months. No one was in on this except me and Kenscott Giga Ball. After the first few weeks, I began to receive compliments from my coworkers. I enjoyed extra attention from the ladies, and even some of the guys. Let me tell you, I was tempted, but I did not falter. I kept my eyes on the prize.

A couple more months passed and the questions began. “Are you okay?” they said. I told them I was a bit under the weather, that’s all. The worry was plain on their faces. My boss told me that perhaps I should see a doctor, just to be sure. I know what he thought. It’s the Big C, or the HIV. My body, my business, pal. I wanted to say that, but I just told him I saw an episode of Ellen and it changed my life. That seemed to be good enough to get his conscience off the hook.

Last week, I hit the final phase. I called out sick again for this one. I won’t be going back. I have everything I need right here.

I’m ready now. I approach her (I decided it’s a she), oiled up again, but it’s only an added precaution. I don’t want to damage her. I know I’ll fit.

I go in head first, just as I was born, and pop over her threshold easily. I slither, her rubber squeaking ever so softly against my flesh, and I pull my legs inside. My breath is hot in her pocket and I wriggle about, tight, but with room to adjust. I swirl around like a Betta in a bowl and pop my face out her orifice one last time. Ah, yes. Here is the room where I spent so many hours staring into my laptop screen. Playing Skyrim. Making love to myself when no one else would. Goodbye, room. I have a new room now.

I feel lightheaded, so I curl up for a bit and put my arms around my knees. My heart had been pounding and I’d planned on doing more, but now something flutters in my chest. I wilt below, but that’s okay. Maybe later. I need rest now. Finally within her, I’m home. This is where I was meant to be, the place I’ve always been travelling to. This is my TARDIS. I think of the Doctor’s craggy old face, then I think of Kenscott Giga Ball.

I try to say it, Kenscott Giga Ball, but only a rasp escapes me. She knows I’m thinking of her. Hold me, love. It’s dark. I’m ready.

Plastic Valhalla
I am home.