Mirror for Princes (a perfume ad) - Gulf Coast: A Journal of Literature and Fine Arts

I am attempting to binge-eat the last bag of Papà’s fancy prunes—the ones specially airconcierged from Damascus to imbue his stool with the suppleness of 10th century ecclesiastical samite, the forbidden ones he keeps combination-locked in a refrigerated vault, the ones which begot a total Adult Baby/Diaper Lover meltdown when they were discontinued last month, those prunes—on an autumnal summer night in the taiga surrounding an “infinity pool” (read: abattoir) on the grounds of some dead nobody pedophile’s mid-century fauxcoco fuck-dacha (in one-hundo-percent-literal Siberia!)—which Papà has rich-people-AirBnB’d to host our family’s fake vacation, a cover-up for my month-long convalescence from one of those chichi little gastric bypass/face augmentation/nose job bundles, my 18th birthday present from Papà—when my phone buzzes with a message from the copromanic prune-hoarder himself, the sender reading not “Papà” but “Roddin[sic]Enthusiast,” his name on the pretentious statuephilia fet

I am attempting to binge-eat the last bag of Papà’s fancy prunes—the ones specially airconcierged from Damascus to imbue his stool with the suppleness of 10th century ecclesiastical samite, the forbidden ones he keeps combination-locked in a refrigerated vault, the ones which begot a total Adult Baby/Diaper Lover meltdown when they were discontinued last month, those prunes—on an autumnal summer night in the taiga surrounding an “infinity pool” (read: abattoir) on the grounds of some dead nobody pedophile’s mid-century fauxcoco fuck-dacha (in one-hundo-percent-literal Siberia!)—which Papà has