This story was originally published on tumblr as a reblog of another user's ask. The original post is viewable here. In case it ever isn't, though, I've chosen to reproduce the post below, including the original brief remarks by tumblr users femmenietzsche and argumate.
Can i keep your disembodied head in a jar for whenever my partner asks me to "give head"?
Yes, in a few decades.
oh sure it’s a good throwaway joke but then you put the jar back on the shelf and it looks at you disapprovingly while you’re trying to get busy and you feel awkward but rotating it to face the other way would be even more awkward
and when you finally do decide to turn it around it turns out to be neutrally buoyant in the medium it’s suspended in, so the jar turns and turns and turns, scraping loudly against the shelf all the while, while the head just rotates a few degrees for every full rotation. at 45 degrees it rolls its eyes visibly. at 90 you hear your date cough.
“let me just,” you say. you attempt a witty chuckle but it comes out sounding pained. “it’s moving, it is moving, hold on.”
at 135 degrees you realize you can take the lid off the jar and turn the head around manually. “maybe put a blanket over it? - oh,” your date says, just as you pick the jar up off the shelf and start unlocking the lid. you don’t quite catch what they say, and chuckle vaguely rather than ask. as soon as the lid comes loose, the room fills with the smell of nutrient bath, like starch and yogurt and vitamin pills. you put the open jar back on the shelf, reach your hand in, and rotate tumblr user femmenietzsche’s head around with your fingertips so it faces the wall. you reseal the lid.
suddenly you’re embarrassed about having ignored whatever your date said to you. “what’d you say? i didn’t quite…” you trail off.
“i said, maybe put a blanket over it? but,” they gestures toward the jar.
“oh, yeah,” you say. you cast around the room for a blanket, but the only ones you see are on your bed, too big to maneuver easily. still, you’re halfway to the bed to drag one off before you realize that the head’s face is already facing the wall. “well, it’s already,” you say. you gesture to the jar.
“yeah,” your partner says.
you realize your fingers still have nutrient bath on them. it feels slimy, the uncomfortably rich odor heavy in the room.
“i should,” you raise your soiled hand, waggle your fingers, gesture toward the master bathroom. flecks of the stuff are thrown off your hand and spatter the carpet. your date smiles uncomfortably.
in the bathroom, after you wash your hands, you spend a few minutes staring tiredly at your reflection, not thinking, just breathing.
you return. “so, uh, shall we?” you gesture to the bed, attempting an ingratiating smirk. your geeky, socially awkward bravado, which managed to come off as charming earlier in the night, suddenly feels hollow and uncomfortable.
“uh, it’s getting late,” your date says. “i was thinking about heading out.”
“oh,” you say. “no. yeah. no. that’s fine.”
“i’ll, uh, see you around?”
“yeah, no, yeah.”
your date regards you for a moment, then musters a grin and a wave, and turns to leave. as you hear the front door closed, you realize you should’ve accompanied them out, said goodbye at their car. why did you buy that thing? how much did it cost you? you lie down in bed, still fully clothed, staring at the ceiling, thinking vaguely about drop-kicking it off your balcony. you realize it would probably hit someone’s car on the way down, and feel guilty about imagining it. eventually you drift off to sleep.