Giovanni Mangiante

Can’t You Tell I’m a Romantic?

She picked up the hamster and pointed in between its legs
“He’s got such big, big balls, but he’s hiding them now,” she said.
I felt disgusted. I had caught her twisting my dog’s tits earlier.
Now this.

“He just eats, and then sits on his big hamster balls.”
“And then what?” I asked.
“And then he falls asleep.”

I had read about situations like this in poems and stories,
but I didn’t think people like that were real.

“I can’t do this,” I thought. “Am I a work of fiction?”

I was reading Notre-Dame at the time, and neither Esmeralda nor Gringoire
ever mused over nor played with Djali’s tits.

“It’s curfew. I can’t tell her to go,” I thought. “The cops could get her.”
“Why’d she bring that fucking thing here anyway?”

I saw her reach for the creature’s genitals again.

“Stop it,” I said. “Leave him be. He’ll maybe drop ’em later.”
“Yeah,” she said. “You’ll see. He’s got these biiiiiiiiig balls.”
“Alright,” I said. “Let’s get something to eat.”

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