by Nathaniel Kennon Perkins
Ms. Pac Man is no more than a blob, a bright yellow circle with a pink bow on the top of her head. She moves through a maze, alternately chasing or being chased by ghosts and eating things that she happens upon.
But everyone knows how to play Ms. Pac Man.
There is a Ms. Pac Man arcade machine in the pizza place I go to almost every day. The art on the outside of the machine sexualizes that spherical sweetheart in a way that the game’s primitive graphics cannot: supple lips and thin arms and long legs that must have something between them. No boobs though, no mammaries. Is she not a mammal? How does that bow stay on her head if she doesn’t have any hair?
The question is then, is Ms. Pac Man a reptile?
Or maybe: would you still fuck Ms. Pac Man if she were a reptile?
Consider other folks that you do fuck or often think about fucking. Would you have sex with your husband if he were a lizard? What about the short blond girl with all the tattoos who works at the pizza place and won’t ever give you her real phone number?
Surely there are people who won’t fuck non-reptiles. If you can think of it, somebody, somewhere, is into it. These folks meet each other through online message boards where they trade phantasies of komodo dragons and the “ultimate” crocodile. Then, one lady posts that video of a Japanese woman pushing a thousand baby eels out of her anus, and people freak out big time.
“wtf eels arent even reptiles.”
And, “Take a fucking biology class, you perverted bitch.”
Of course, it’s especially hard to be attracted to Ms. Pac Man when her exact physical dimensions are so unclear. Like, is she bigger or smaller than a breadbox? Maybe she’s only marble-sized, in which case she could enter your body through your butthole and navigate the complex maze that are you guts, alternately chasing and being chased by ghosts.