Headless in Summer

I was walking through a refugee camp with tents. There was a rabble of campers and socialists playing guitar. In the middle, though I could not see her face, was a stunningly beautiful woman in purple lace underwear. I walked up to her boldy and lifted her to her feet. She didn't have a head. led her down to another area where a whole bunch of people were fucking on the grass. Her body was wet. I squeezed it and fetid breath came out of the stump in her neck. I wanted her, but I worried that because she didn’t have a head I would need to wear a condom. She said (from a pair of lips in her neck) that it was not worth looking. I asked her how many sexual partners she had had, and she began telling me a long smelly story of all the socialist campers she had been with – men “who never leave the sun” as she put it. Together we walked to a small town lined with ash trees. People honked at us. I was walking down the highway hand in hand with a beautiful headless woman in purple underwear. We got to a town called Stratford and found an exotic store that sold all sorts of safe-sex things, like powders and plastic tubes filled with spermacide, but there were no condoms. I found something hard that was a piece of plastic piping, and thought it would do. Outside, she said she wanted to go to the sea. By now I was frustrated and I told her a cab would be too expensive. Have it your way, she said, and I suddenly woke up.