I’m normal. I swear.

I work. I pay taxes. I’ve been in three serious relationships, one of which involved IKEA furniture and a shared dog. I make eye contact. I floss.

But I’m into clown girls.

It’s not a joke. It’s not a kink. It’s a burden.

Once, one of my exes had a bad cold, nose all swollen and red, voice full of congestion. I had to excuse myself from the room with what was, objectively, the hardest erection of my life. She thought I was being sweet, helping with tea and tissues. I was trying not to explode.

Another time, I tried roleplay. Wig, makeup, overalls, the whole clown kit. It ended in disaster.

We were drunk, giggling, and she got the idea to surprise me by climbing into a tiny vintage Volkswagen Beetle we saw on the street. I’m not even sure how she managed it, but we spent the night in the ER waiting room, her leg locked under the steering wheel, both of us smelling like greasepaint and shame.

After that, I stopped trying.

It’s a taste too specific to fulfill, too ridiculous to confess. I tried to suppress it, ignore it, punish it out of myself with silence and stoicism. But it lingers. It thrums.

Clowns don’t belong to logic. Sometimes I wonder if someone just decided to create them. That, one day, a bored Frenchman thought, what if a man in whiteface tripped over a broom and made people laugh? No. Maybe they’ve always been here. What if some of them are real?

Not humans in costume. 

Clowns.

Maybe once, we saw them for what they were. Maybe once, we welcomed wonder. But now? We call them performers. We assume there’s a person inside the makeup. We treat magic like it’s just good timing and trickery.

Maybe that’s the real tragedy.

Maybe, once in a while, we meet a real clown… and our brains just can’t compute it. So we dismiss it. We tell ourselves, it’s just someone in a costume.

I bought a ticket to the circus. I told myself it was for the lights, the nostalgia, the popcorn smell, but really, I went for the clown. I always do.

I sat through the jugglers, the acrobats, the contortionist. I half-watched the magician pull scarves from his sleeve and rabbits from nowhere. The crowd clapped. Laughed. I counted acts like minutes.

Then she came out.

Dotty Dimples.

She didn’t enter. She erupted.

A cascade of bubbles, pratfalls, bright lashes, squeaky shoes, and radiant idiocy. It wasn’t just a routine, it was alchemy.

She honked, squeaked, climbed into someone’s lap in the front row and pied herself in the face with a cream pie she conjured from behind her knee. She flirted with a broom. She sang like a helium cabaret act. I was laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes, and underneath the laughter, an ache. A raw, buzzing pull.

After the show, I lingered by the exit. My feet turned me backstage like they’d decided without me.

I needed to know who she was. The woman behind Dotty Dimples had to be some kind of genius.

Around the back of the tent where the performers came out, I stood off to the side, nervous.

And then she stepped out, still in costume.

“Dotty?” I said.

She turned and gave a huge, cartoonish gasp, clapping her hands and doing a dainty little skip toward me. She didn’t speak, just squeaked a tiny red horn in greeting.

God, she was good.

I told her how impressed I was. How I'd studied clown traditions. I mentioned Pierrot, and commedia dell’arte, and the sacred role of the fool across cultures. I thought maybe that would make her break character. I wanted her to see I wasn’t just some guy. I understood.

She honked twice and mimed swooning, fanning herself with an invisible fan.

“I’d love to talk more,” I said. “Off-stage, I mean. Get coffee sometime?”

She blinked, fluttered her lashes, then—poof—a bride’s veil appeared on her head out of nowhere. She looked at me, eyes wide and gleaming, and made a big show of wobbling on her knees like she might faint from excitement.

I smiled, trying to keep up the bit, but something in me was… unsettled.

“You’ve really committed to the character,” I said. “That’s amazing. I mean, really. But could I maybe just… have your phone number?”

She dug around in one of her oversized pockets and pulled out a clown cell phone—bright neon plastic, rainbow buttons, and when she handed it to me, it made a wet fart noise followed by a kazoo flourish.

I held it in my hand. It buzzed and made bubble sounds.

“I meant your real number,” I said.

She leaned close, tapped my nose, honk, then slipped the clown phone into the inside pocket of my suit jacket like it belonged there.

And with a silly little curtsy, she turned, did a cartwheel, and vanished behind a flap of canvas.

I stood there, heart pounding, with a plastic phone in my pocket, unsure if I’d been rejected.

I sat at home, nursing a dull ache that wasn’t quite heartbreak but wasn’t not.

The clown phone was still in my jacket, now hanging on the back of a chair. I hadn’t touched it. Every time I moved past it, it made a different noise, boing, meep, slide whistle, like it was reacting to me, teasing me. I wanted to believe it was just a novelty. A toy. A gag gift from a very committed performer.

But I kept replaying it in my mind: the veil, the magic, the cartoonish grace. The way her eyes sparkled. It wasn’t greasepaint.

It felt real.

I sighed and opened a beer.

Then, out of nowhere, the clown phone rang.

It didn’t ring like a normal phone. It played a tinny circus theme, da da dada da da da da daaaa, but slowed down.

I stared at it. It wiggled on the table. Then it jumped, landed in my lap with a squeak.

I answered. “...Hello?”

There was silence. Then:

“Didn’t you ask me out for coffee, Henry?”

It was her. That voice, smoky, sing-song, but touched with mischief. Like Marilyn Monroe trying to be Bugs Bunny.

“Yeah,” I said. “I… I wasn’t sure you were—”

“You didn’t think I was real,” she finished, gently. “Or maybe you hoped I wasn’t. You ever get coffee with a real clown before, Henry?”

“No,” I admitted, swallowing hard. “But I’d like to.”

“Mmm, see, that’s the thing, sugar. It’s too late for coffee.”

I paused. “Too late?”

“It’s after dark. And coffee keeps girls like me up all night. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

I blinked. “I— I don’t know.”

“Besides,” she continued, her voice lower now, dripping like warm frosting, “there are things I’d much rather put in my mouth at this hour than caffeine.”

Something thudded inside my chest.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Oh, Henry.”

Knock knock knock.

I froze.

Another knock. Only… softer? Slower? Like a knock made with a rubber chicken instead of a fist.

I turned. The front door jiggled. Then, poof, a pink cloud puffed out from beneath it, smelling like spun sugar and face paint.

The doorknob twisted. It made a squeaky honk.

I stood, my legs stiff. The clown phone buzzed again in my hand.

Her voice, breathy in my ear: “You gonna open the door, or should I crawl in through the keyhole?”

I opened it.

She was there. Dotty Dimples.

In full costume, big shoes, striped stockings, a corset that looked like it had been designed by a perverted cartoonist. Her skirt was barely there, more tutu than fabric, and her nose was glistening cherry red.

She held a single flower.

It squirted me.

Right in the chest.

She laughed when she saw the look on my face. Not a cruel laugh. A delightful, high-pitched giggle that came from deep in her belly and rang out like music. She spun in a circle, kicking one striped leg high, then began a slow, ridiculous striptease right there in my doorway.

There was a squeaky rhythm to her movements, as if invisible rubber soles choreographed each step. With every shrug of a shoulder or tug of a ruffle, a tiny sound effect played, boing, pop, wah-WAHHH. It should’ve been ridiculous. It was ridiculous. And yet…

She unzipped her corset, and when it popped open, it did so with a springy sound, like a jack-in-the-box being freed. Her breasts spilled out, round and heavy, with nipples the same shade as her nose: a ridiculous, perfect clown red.

I laughed and I moaned at the same time. It came out confused and genuine.

She winked and hiked up her tutu, revealing a lush bush of rainbow curls, actual rainbow.

“Oh my god,” I whispered.

“You like?” she asked, twirling a curl. “It’s all-natural. Grows in technicolor.”

I nodded dumbly. I was laughing and getting painfully hard at the same time. I had never felt more ridiculous, or more alive.

Then she turned her eyes to me.

“Now,” she said, wagging a finger, “what kind of good boy has a clown girl over and stays dressed?”

She clapped twice. I didn’t move, but my shirt flew open like it had been undone by invisible hands. Buttons flew everywhere, bouncing like popcorn. My pants unbuckled themselves, slithered down my legs in cartoon spirals.

I stood there, confused and mortified, because I was wearing novelty clown underwear.

Dotty gasped, deep and sensual. Then she did a little shimmy, biting her gloved knuckle. “Ohhh, Henry,” she breathed, eyes wide and hungry. “You’re one of us.”

I tried to cover myself. She giggled.

“You’re gonna make me squirt confetti,” she whispered.

And then, out of nowhere, she pulled out one of those balloon pumpers. The long, narrow plastic kind you use to make balloon animals. She lubed the nozzle with a comically long lick, then slid it between his thighs.

I blinked. “What’s that for—”

HONK.

I felt a surge of warmth, pressure, something not quite possible. My cock began to grow, not in the way it normally would, but with the slow, squeaky swelling of a balloon being inflated.

It didn’t hurt. It felt good.

My jaw dropped.

Her eyes widened. Her tongue poked out between her lips like a cartoon wolf’s.

She gave one last pump and stepped back, fanning herself. “Oh my goodness,” she said, dramatically. “You’re fun!”

“What even are you?”

She looked into my eyes, suddenly serious. Still smiling, but softer. “I’m joy, sweetheart. I’m the part of you that never stopped believing a flower might squirt or a shoe might honk.”

Then she sat on my lap with a weight and heat that broke reality and kissed me, slow and deep, her lips plush and warm, her tongue slick, swirling into my mouth with a sweetness that made my eyes roll back. I tasted laughter on her breath, something like cotton candy and spit, and I kissed her harder, greedy for it, for all of her.

When she pulled back, she rubbed her red nose against mine, soft and slow, back and forth. It felt real. Not rubber. Not prosthetic. Warm and pulsing with blood, part of her like any other limb, and it nuzzled me with a tenderness that undid something deep in my chest.

She slid off my lap with a sultry little pratfall, boneless and giggling, and landed on her knees between my thighs. Her rainbow curls bounced. Her red nose glistened. She looked up at me with those bright, ridiculous, devastating eyes.

“You okay, Henry?” she cooed. “You look like you just saw a magic trick and came in your pants.”

“I might have,” he breathed.

“Let’s check.”

She yanked down my clown boxers with a sudden SLIDE WHISTLE noise. Her sound effects didn’t come from speakers. They came from her. From wherever her logic came from. I half-expected doves or glitter to burst out of my crotch. Instead: a cock. Mine. Erect and balloon-pumped to glorious cartoonish proportions.

She clapped. "Ooooh! It's like a baguette with confidence."

Then she leaned in and gave the tip a kiss. Honk.

My cock actually honked!

She giggled. "Well, look at that! I found the off-menu button."

She gripped the base with one hand, then theatrically dabbed at the tip with a polka-dot napkin she’d pulled from her cleavage. She gave it a few exaggerated licks, eyes wide and cross-eyed for comic effect, but the moment her tongue truly pressed against me, I felt it. Warm, wet, electric.

Then she took me in.

Slowly. Silly at first, her eyes darted, a kazoo noise buzzed from somewhere. But then her mouth wrapped deeper, her lips sliding with an impossible softness, and I stopped laughing.

Her head bobbed, rhythmically, squeaking a different note with each descent.

It was the most absurdly arousing thing I'd ever felt: The pressure of her lips, the suction of her mouth, the occasional sound of bubbles and bells as if my pleasure was being monitored by a slapstick control panel.

She pulled back just enough to speak, her voice smoky around my ridiculous length. “You like my silly little mouth, Henry?”

I could only groan.

“Want me to blow your... balloon?” she purred, then swallowed me again with comic determination.

She made humming noises in tune with the circus melody, and somehow that vibration hit me just right.

I was laughing, moaning, squirming—completely helpless in the hands of this impossible creature.

I could feel it building, the pressure in my gut, the tingle in my spine.

“I’m gonna—”

She popped off him just in time to catch it with a slapstick “Ta-da!” motion, confetti burst from behind her head, timed perfectly with his climax.

She looked up at him, white stuff dripping from her chin, a daisy sprouting from her hair.

His cock was still hard. Cartoon-hard. Balloon-hard.

Slightly translucent with a glossy shine, gently squeaking as it bobbed in the air.

I stared down at it, half-dazed, fully erect, and wholly unable to make sense of what was happening.

Dotty just grinned, eyes wild with glee.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she giggled, straddling me with the lightness of whipped cream. “You’ve been inflated. Now it’s time to celebrate.”

She sank onto me with a squeaky, wet sound that was both ridiculous and devastatingly sexy. The pressure. The stretch. She gasped like a horn in heat, and I reached up, hands trembling, and gave both her breasts a squeeze.

Honk honk.

We both howled with laughter. Then she began to ride me—hard, fast, bouncing with comic rhythm, tits slapping, thighs clapping.

I gripped her hips, moving with her. Each thrust made her moan and trigger random sound effects—slide whistles, sprongggs, even the occasional duck quack. It was absurd. It was ecstatic.

I was coming undone.

And then—

With a POP, my balloon cock exploded.

The sensation ripped through me, pleasure sharp and shuddering, like laughter and orgasm colliding in my spine. I gasped, dazed, as a flower on Dotty’s chest squirted water directly in my face. Cold. Wet. Glorious.

Dotty fell forward, laughing so hard she collapsed on top of me.

“Am I—” I gasped. “Am I a eunuch now?”

She rolled to the side, reached between my legs, and with a cartoonish pop and flourish, produced a brand new penis—plush, glistening, throbbing with life.

“There you go, silly,” she said, kissing the tip. “Factory reset.”

We lay together, slick with sweat and glitter, breathing hard, skin sticky with passion.

“Let me wipe your forehead,” she whispered sweetly.

Then she reached between her folds… and began pulling out a tissue.

One. Two. Three.

The string kept going, absurd and endless, like some sacred erotic magic trick.

We laughed until we cried.

I turned to her, heart pounding in my chest. “I can’t go back,” I said. “I can’t return to my old life. That world… it doesn’t honk. I want to stay with you. Forever.”

Her face softened. For the first time, her clown face seemed serene.

“There’s a way,” she whispered. “But there’s no going back. You’ll be one of us. A real clown.”

“I want that,” he said. “I want to be like you.”

She sat up, straddled my hips again, and reached down. Not to touch me, but my soul. Or something like it. She giggled as her fingers traced my ribs, then tapped my nose.

It turned red. It honked.

“There he is,” she said. “My little Honeyhonk Henry.”

And with that, she gripped my balls, gave them a yank, and I came, harder than I ever had, a gushing, explosive climax that blasted from me in one endless, ridiculous jet of cum. With a great RAAAP-PFFFT-VROOOOM, we launched skyward like a rocket, still locked together, our limbs tangled, my ejaculation propelling us through the night like cartoon gods, laughing and moaning and soaring on a stream of pure pleasure.

She laughed like a goddess on helium.

And I looked at her.

Her clown face wasn’t a mask; it was her.

The white of her skin shimmered in the moonlight like fondant over flesh, soft and touchable. Her painted cheeks glowed with joy, not makeup.

Her eyes sparkled like joke store jewels, cheap and perfect.

Her rainbow hair fluttered around her face in zero gravity, candy-colored curls streaming behind her like comet tails.

And her laugh, it was wild and free, open-mouthed and shining with spit and starlight.

I couldn’t look away. I was in love, falling upward, her limbs tangled with mine, our hearts beating like slapstick drums.

I was still cumming, impossibly. It didn’t stop. Not like before. It poured out of me in a long, ecstatic release that felt less like ejaculation and more like laughter, like years of silence erupting into noise.

My cock pulsed with every honk of joy, every ripple of giggles that shook her belly against mine.

Being a real clown changed everything.

And that’s how I stopped being normal.

And started being happy.