Requiem for an Ass
My girlfriend gets fed up with all the people who are always staring at her ass, so one day she locks herself in the bathroom with a giant kitchen knife and chops off both of her buttocks, just like that. They would’ve sew them back on at the hospital, but she lies and says she lost them.
Actually we keep them in a cardboard box on the top of the wardrobe, and I’m the only one who get to look at them. But one night someone breaks into our house, and I find a stranger sitting on our floor with the box in his lap.
He is staring at its contents.
“Get the fuck out!” I shout at him. “Stop staring my girlfriend’s ass!”
I kick him out of the door and I return the cardboard box to its place on top of the wardrobe. But around midnight, we awake to find that someone has break into our apartment again – there are now two middle-aged men standing in the living room, the open box at their feet, and they are gazing down at the cut-off buttcheeks inside.
“Filthy pigs!” my girlfriend screams.
I chase them out from the house with a broom stick.
Afterwards, we agree that I’ll take her ass up into the attic, which sadly means I’ll have to climb the ladder every time I want to pinch her butt.
So next day, I find four strangers up there, just sitting in a circle around the box. It looks like they are in some kind of deep meditation state, transfixed by twin mounds of ass-meat within.
Before they’ve even noticed me, I grab the box and hurry back down the ladder.
At the moment, we’re keeping the box in a locked drawer. I carry the key on a string around my neck. Every now and then, a stranger sneaks into our home and peeps through the drawer’s keyhole.
My girlfriend’s wounds are healing, but she still looks kind of like an apple someone took a couple bites from. Every time we make love, we take her buttocks out from the drawer.
I put on some latino music, and I tell her: “Shake your ass, baby!” So she begins to shake the cardboard box in her hands – her buttocks bouncing around inside.
With the use of some adhesive tape, we temporarily reattach her butt back onto her, and she gives me a really nice lap dance. The adhesive tape isn’t almighty, however, and she leaves one of her asscheeks in my lap.
It’s a bit awkward, but she smiles just the same, snatching up her asscheek and rubbing me with it like it was a sponge or something. The strangely preserved meat leaves a odd slime all over my skin.
I gaze at the small black dot on the asscheek in her hand – the lovely birthmark that brings back so many fond memories. It is then that a small, wriggling worm squirms out from under it. My girlfriend screams and throws her asscheek to the floor.
We always knew there was something special about that ass, but even an ass that great can’t resist decomposition forever.
After a few days, my girlfriend’s butt ends up in the trash. Now strangers are gathering around the garbage can out front, unable to take their eyes off it for a second. It seems my girlfriend doesn’t care anymore that they are staring at her butt. Instead, she seems to miss it for the first time.
“But there are many things more important than a butt, right?” she asks through welling tears.
“Of course,” I tell her, as they all come to mind.
The morning stretching, for example. Or walking in a forest. The marrow-melting sadness of the snapping of deer antlers. The calmness of long forgotten costumes, the silent swinging of the coat hangers in a dusty old wardrobe. The gold resin drops hanging from wounded trees – my mother used to say they were the honeyed teardrops of angels.
These are all more important than an ass, to be frank.
The wet milk skin of puberty, when adulthood gathers in the corners of your eyes, like morning rose spores. The drying gypsum sculptures of the secret thoughts in your skull. The vanishing pulsation of the stolen body heat after holding hands. All of these are more important than having an ass.
There are many more important things, I tell myself, joining the long line that has formed down the block for a peek at my girlfriend’s butt.