Island of the Blow-up Sex Dolls

Kamoa

Some days it seemed like the sun was never going to go down on the island. Kamoa had been awake for days, crawling only to follow the shade of the date tree as it moved across the sand. He had eaten nothing but dates and the occasional fish for months now. How many months? He had lost track of time. What fluids came from the dates was only barely enough to keep him hydrated. With nothing to effectively catch rainwater in, the dehydration had brought on constant, throbbing headaches.

Kamoa considered masturbating. But he had lost the will. For the first few months, he was able to sustain himself sexually from the memories of the nine women he had been with in the two years before his voyage. After Kamoa had divorced his wife, he promptly engaged in a period of promiscuity that 1970's Warren Beatty might have envied. He would date several women at once and then drop them off like movie rentals. They were disposable and recyclable. No matter that every single one of them had cried and yelled at him. After two years, he had amassed an impressive collection of nine different women, celebrating diversity, a rainbow array of body types and shapes and colors. A list so grand that semicolons need to get involved: there was Gummi, a leggy Scandinavian blonde with a great sense of humor, who was an actual swimsuit model; there was Lapisi, a petite islander with a beautiful broad face, she worked as a flight attendant; Sneach, a redhead with a Scottish accent and followed bands around as a groupie; Mpira, a literal African princess with some sort of royal blood, he hated to see her go, but he loved to watch her walk away; Caucciù, a raven-haired Italian singer who could fill out any sweater; Xiàngjiāo, a skinny and smiley professional translator with an unearthly talent for fellatio; Lastik, a mysterious white-haired woman who was several years older than him, with a thick Russian accent; Borrocha, a lifeguard from Rio de Janeiro, with curves for days; and finally, his ex-wife Connie, plain old Connie who had so wanted kids, they would get back together from time to time during his two-year sexual safari, and he'd always insist on wearing a condom. He was sloppy with text messages, would meet up with one after leaving the apartment of another. He would zone out if they started talking about their families, and he would always refuse to stay over. Kamoa broke all their hearts and then he went off on a singles' cruise in the South Pacific.

The irony that Kamoa was the single survivor from a shipwrecked singles' cruise was not lost on him.

As the sun finally reached the horizon and the sky changed from oranges to pinks, Kamoa closed his eyes and tried to muster a memory of Gummi, the blonde, pulling off her leggings as she reposed on his bed. He touched himself, but he just couldn't manage the motivation. He switched channels in his memory to the busty Barrocha, remembering when she took off her bikini top on that one day they had gone to the nude beach. Nothing stirred. Surely Xiàngjiāo, sweet and smart Xiàngjiāo, might do the trick: he could picture her taking in his erection between her narrow lips. His hand flopped to the side of his body. Malnourished and weak, he crawled to the other side of the date palm so that the sun would come up on the other side of it. Kamoa vowed to go fishing in the morning for some protein, and he slipped into an unrestful slumber.

Midway through the night, he thought he heard something wash up onto the nearby beach. He couldn't be bothered to open his eyes. He slumped over onto his other side and fell into a deeper sleep.