The Devil and the Dude

The overpowering stench hit Daniel squarely in the face. Public restrooms were never a pretty sight and this one was no different. In fact, upon first glance, the design looked like it dated back to the Roosevelt Administration. As in Theodore Roosevelt.

Realizing that he absolutely could not hold it any longer, he rushed over to the first open stall and closed the door behind him. He dropped his pants, sat down, and then immediately stood up again. Why the hell is everything wet? His mind asked. What’s wrong with people? He used what little toilet paper there was to wipe the seat down. His stomach rumbled loudly. He had a vicious turtle head poking out and he needed to give birth, pronto.

He eased back down onto the seat and settled in. He flexed his muscles and nothing happened. His stomach rumbled again. “Come on,” he whimpered. He placed his hands on the walls for leverage and closed his eyes. He strained with all of his might but still the stubborn turd held fast. He was preparing to push gain when his hand slipped and he readjusted and then opened his eyes. To his horror, a large brown smear on the wall had coated his hand. To keep from puking, he repeated the phrase it’s just melted chocolate over and over in his head until the nausea passed. Things were definitely not looking up. “Holy hell,” he muttered to himself.

“Problems, dude?” asked a voice from the next stall.

The deepness and proximity of the voice caught Daniel off guard. “Oh, hey, I thought I was alone. Just doing my business over here.” He grimaced as soon as he shut his mouth. A master conversationalist, he was not.

“Yeah, well you know what they say; it’s a small world,” came the reply. “Sounds to me like that turd’s gonna take its sweet time. No need to force it.”

Daniel rolled his eyes. Not exactly sage-like advice. “And I suppose you’re waiting for the tide to come in over there or something.”

The voice in the next stall chuckled. “’Tide to come in.’ Good one. Between you and me, partner, I’ve been back up for over a week now. I was kind of hoping today was my lucky day, you know? No such luck so far, though.”

Daniel blinked incredulously. “You’ve been constipated for a week? Shouldn’t you see a doctor about that?”

The voice chuckled again. “Kid, I’ve outlived so many doctors. In fact, the last one had the gall to—wait a second; I think I got something here.”

A horrendous fart erupted from the next stall and shook the walls. It sounded like a foghorn coming through a stack of amplifiers. Daniel felt a strong breeze against his ankles and then the smell hit him. In his mind, he was waist-deep in a swamp carrying a dirty diaper while balancing a carton of rotten eggs on his head. Nausea was consuming him and he was on the verge of blacking out.

The deep voice brought him back from the edge. “Hey, dude. You all right over there?”

Daniel massaged his face. It felt warm and sweaty. “Uh, yeah. I’m here.” He thought his voice sounded distant and weak. “I guess you were backed up after all.”

“Just a false alarm,” the voice sighed. “It was a doozy, though, wasn’t it?”

Daniel laughed. “I’ll say.”

“Hey, since it looks like we’re gonna be in here for a bit, let’s shoot the breeze, huh? My name’s Lou.”

“Oh, um, well, I’m Daniel.” Several seconds dragged by and he started to wonder if Lou had fallen asleep.

“Daniel? You’re kidding me. Sorry, dude, but that’s a total pansy name. Let me guess, your parents were huge Elton John fans.” Lou laughed long and hard at this. 

“Okay, my bad. I couldn’t resist. I’m just gonna call you Dude from here on out. Let’s pretend we’ve shaken hands and all that awkward crap already, okay?”

“Oh, right. Sure,” Daniel replied. “Nice to meet you, Lou.”

“Likewise, Dude. So what do you think of the carnival so far?”

Daniel took a few seconds to consider. “It’s all right, I guess. I’ve seen better. Back when I was a kid I was more into them, maybe. How about you?”

“Where do I start?” Lou sounded like he was winding up to tell a real whopper. “Well, the food’s overcooked, the ringmaster’s taking pills for his ulcer, his daughter is knocked up and she’s not sure who the father is, and the mime monkeys got loose and are freaking people out,” he chuckled at this last part. “But hey, I’ve only been here for an hour. Who knows what’s gonna happen next, you know? Stay tuned.”

“Wow,” was all Daniel could bring himself to say.

Lou sounded like he was chewing on something; licorice, maybe. “Human drama is always more interesting than TV, I always say.” He sighed heavily and then was silent for a while. He sighed loudly again.

“Everything all right, Lou?” Daniel prodded.

Lou stumbled over his words. “Well, it’s just—aw, forget it, Dude.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing. A big, fat nothing, okay?” Lou sighed again.

“Aw, come on,” Daniel pleaded. “Sometimes telling a stranger is easier than telling your best friend. I’m not going anywhere.” He tapped his foot on the floor as if to prove a point.

“Maybe you’re right.” He sighed again. “It’s just…it’s just Julia, Dude.”

“Who’s Julia?”

Lou cleared his throat. His tone of voice changed. It was almost as if he had been rehearsing the story in his head before he even uttered a word. “She’s my ex-girlfriend. She supposedly moonlights at this high class jazz club downtown now.” He drifted off momentarily before sighing and continuing the story. “Anyway, she’s here at the carnival today with her new fella—I call him the A #1 Douche Bag—and when I saw her, she just looks amazing. Dude, I gotta tell ya I was drooling, man.”

He was silent for a few moments. When he spoke again, the confidence seemed to have drained out of him. “It was a mutual breakup, okay? I mean, I’ve grown a lot. A hell of a lot, you know? Dude, are you there?”

Daniel snapped back into the moment. “Yeah, I’m here. That sounds pretty rough, man.”

Lou plowed through. “Rough indeed, man. I’m trying my heart out to improve myself. I’m at the bookstore every other week checking out all the self-help books I can find. I’m making myself over. I’m a changed guy, you know? I quote that shit to anyone who even doubts my sincerity, bro. If she could only see the strides I’ve made. If she could see me doing good deeds out in the wild, I know she’d come back to me.” Anger crept into Lou’s voice and his confidence returned with it. “Oh, and A #1 Douche Bag—his real name is Kevin—really gets under my skin. Just the way her friends talk about him like he’s the sweetest guy who ever lived. Lame! I mean, I’ve never seen him in person. Not yet, anyway. I guess he’s some kind of video game tester or something. Who knew that girls thought that was a turn on.”

Daniel decided it was time to interject. “Professional gamer? I didn’t think that was a viable career. What a tool.” He laughed nervously.

Lou laughed long and hard and seemed to perk up a bit. “’What a tool.’ That’s hilarious! You know, Dude, you’re all right, man. I mean, you are one cool customer.”

Daniel smiled in spite of himself. “You’re not so bad yourself, Lou. In fact, you’re surprisingly easy to talk—“

The door to the restroom was suddenly flung open. Harsh daylight barged in. A drunken voice bellowed: “I said I’ll be right back, man. Huh? ‘Cuz I gotta use the can, that’s why. Don’t you dare drink my beer, amigo. I said hold it for me. Just hold it! Does that compute, nimrod?” The door slammed shut and stumbling footsteps stopped in front of the two occupied stalls.

As soon as knuckles touched his door, Daniel chirped out a week: “Occupied.”

The persistent drunkard knocked on Lou’s stall door but Lou didn’t make a sound.

Daniel thought of saying something to come to Lou’s defense, but resisted the urge. His stomach felt like it was doing back flips. He wasn’t going anywhere.

The drunkard made some annoyed, guttural noises and pounded on Lou’s stall door again. There was no response.

“Hey! I know you’re in there, fella,” the drunkard slurred. “Come on, man. What are you doing in there; giving birth to the Anti-Christ?” Apparently, he thought this was hilarious and laughed uproariously at his own trite joke.

Seemingly from below the floor at first, and then moving into (or coming from) Lou’s stall, came a deep, animal-like growling. A bright yellow light shined from underneath the stall walls. The humidity in the room suddenly went tropical.

Daniel was about to ask him if he was okay, when Lou’s door flew off the hinges and hit the far wall with enough force to dislodge several bricks. He saw the boots of the drunkard shaking. Water begins dripping on the floor. Or was it urine? Was the guy pissing himself?

“Oh my God,” the drunkard whined repeatedly. He was frozen to the spot.

“Hardly,” came Lou’s reply. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to interrupt? My new friend and I were trying to have a serious conversation, clown shoes.”

The drunkard’s speech fumbled into desperate mumbling.

Daniel blinked and was astonished to see that the man’s boots had been replaced with actual clown shoes. Or had he always been wearing them? The lighting was almost non-existent. 

“Please don’t kill me,” the drunkard managed, barely above a whisper.

Daniel strained to see, but his stomach clenched again and he sat back up straight on the toilet. What was this guy seeing?

“Kill you?” Lou stated, almost playfully. “Nah, I’m not gonna kill ya. Where’s the fun in that? I’m gonna do you a favor, clown shoes. You see, you’re just one of the mindless herd. A bottom feeder, if you will. You might as well join my flock. It’s fairly safe to say you’ve peaked already, my friend. We both know it’s only gonna go downhill from here, bro. Now, hold still, this is going to hurt. A lot.”

A blinding red light emitted from Lou’s stall and the drunkard screamed and clutched at himself in anguish.

From his vantage point, Daniel saw the drunkard disappear. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief. When he focused again, he saw a goat, wearing a bell around its neck, chewing on the drunkard’s khakis. It bahed, but seemed otherwise indifferent.

Daniel bit down on his hand to stifle a moan and something unclenched in his stomach. He was vaguely aware of a distant plopping into the toilet. When he got his breathing under control, he came to the conclusion that he had literally been scared into moving is bowels. The familiar voice from the other stall refocused his attention.

“Hey, Dude,” Lou offered in a jovial tone. “Sounds to me like you sank the old battleship. Everything okay?”

It will be as soon as I’m out of here, his mind screamed. “Um, yeah. Just finishing up here, Lou.” He reached for the toilet paper and was mortified to see only three lousy sheets were left. I can’t even die clean, he thought and rolled his eyes. He could just wipe his hand off in some tall grass outside. But the smell… The smell would linger for hours. “Damn,” he muttered.

“Remember, Dude,” Lou piped up. “If it breaches the surface, you have to name it. He tittered like a naughty teenager raising his hand with a question about uncontrollable boners during Sex Ed.

Daniel sighed. If he made a run for it, he thought Lou probably wouldn’t let him leave. Not in one piece, at least. His last moral shred pushed him to be honest if only for life-prolonging small talk. “Looks like they forgot to stock the T.P. today. Just my luck, huh?”

“Is that a fact?” asked Lou. “Well, I just happen to have an extra roll right here. Hang on a second.” Sounds of shifting were quickly followed with: “Okay, incoming.”

Daniel felt something hit his ankle and looked down. A red tail ending in an arrow-shaped tip was wrapped around a perfectly normal roll of toilet paper. He was petrified.

Lou sighed dramatically for effect. “Yeah, it’s a tail, okay. Deal with it. Just take the roll, already, Dude. This is an awkward angle for me here.”

With that, Daniel took the roll and began wiping while looking up at the ceiling. He was barely aware of the tail uncoiling and sliding back under the wall.

“Whoa!” Lou cried. “Something shifted!” He made several pained grunting noises. The walls of the stall began to rattle. Lou screamed between deep breaths. Then what sounded like a cinder block being tossed into a swimming pool splashed into the bowl and Lou panted like he had just climbed a mountain. “Whew. I think we have a multi-flusher here, Dude.”

By this time, Daniel was already washing his hands. He felt the goat brush past him a few times before it went back to nibbling on the drunkard’s tank top.

He knew that with the door against the far wall that Lou was watching his every move, but he focused on washing his hands and then drying them. “Thanks for the T.P., Lou.”

“Don’t mention it, Dude,” Lou said while zipping up his pants and buckling his belt. “Sorry if things got a little weird in here for you.”

Daniel bit his lip. “That guy was a tool. You just did what you had to do.”

Lou smacked the stall wall in agreement. “That’s what I like about you, Dude. Nothing fazes you. You’re one cool customer.” He took a few steps toward the sink.

Daniel walked briskly towards the door. He had his hand on the handle when Lou called after him.

“Hey, I can trust you not to tell anyone how badly constipated I get, right?” He actually sounded somewhat worried.

Daniel’s eyes locked in on the door handle. “Of course, Lou. One good turn deserves another.” He opened the door and light came pouring into the room. He had one foot out the door when Lou yelled out from behind him again.

“Hey, check out the girl at the funnel cake booth. I heard she already gave her number to two guys today. And one of them didn’t even ask her for it!” Lou’s laughter filled up the entire room. “Later, Dude!”

Daniel closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall around the corner. When his heart rate was under control, he flung the door back open and peered inside. The bathroom was empty. The destroyed stall door was back on its hinges as if nothing had happened. He sighed and scoffed at his own overactive imagination. He closed the door and turned back towards the inviting sounds of the carnival. He turned the corner and tripped over a goat wearing a bell around its neck. The goat seemed to know him and rubbed its head playfully against his legs. He opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out. He leapt to his feet and ran headlong for the parking lot. He lunged into his car, peeled out, and never once looked back.

Since then, he has never been to another carnival or circus. He removed all the mirrors from his apartment. In fact, he removed the bathroom door entirely. And for the finishing touch, he legally erased his middle name. This depressed his fiancé, Julia. She liked his middle name so much she always called him Kevin instead of Daniel. She said it sounded youthful, masculine, and confident, unlike her self-help-book-obsessed ex-boyfriend, Lou. 

To this day, Daniel routinely wets the bed for fear of going into the bathroom at night in the dark, alone.

Dangerous Flavor

You took a six-month rental on a trailer at the Ardent Gardens mobile home court off a listing you found in a local penny saver paper. Turned out to be okay. A furnished ten-wide belonging to a long-haul trucker away working the west coast through the winter.

You’d parked in front of the trailer and unloaded the stuff from your pickup. The engine’s hot metal hadn’t stopped ticking before Mrs. Cavallo from next door came knocking on the side of the trailer.

She brought you half a pineapple pound cake as a kind of housewarming.

She said she noticed your pickup right away because the place had been empty for a couple of months. She apologized, saying she’d made the cake for a potluck at the Community Center and asked if you wouldn’t mind finishing it for her. She leaned in, giving you the chance to look down her blouse as she whispered that she shouldn’t be eating all that cake herself.

But, she said, you looked like the kind of guy who could work up an appetite.

You knew a come-on when you heard it.

She must have been a beauty back in the day, however far back that might be. You weren’t much for judging a woman’s age. She’d filled out a bit since then. Her bosom was held in check by the wire and lace of a harness-like brassiere. Her hair was full and raven black, although she probably colored it. It framed her face making her look wild and untamed, like she was standing in a windy place, only there wasn’t any wind. Her complexion was a smoky olive tone, and her eyes were a dark brown under penciled eyebrows. She wore her makeup a little too heavy for your taste, like she didn’t trust she still had her looks. Which would definitely give you a boner if you wanted to dwell on it.

You made yourself ready for a bit of hot conversation, to be neighborly. But careful not to give her too much reason to expect an invitation to come inside, looking for something for the cake.

She didn’t bother. Instead, she promised to bring you something fresh when she had a chance, and left you standing there with the plate.

The cake was delicious and you ate it all.

A day or so later, she brought some popovers.

See, I remembered, she said. She started to hand you the plate, then hesitated and asked if you had a wife back where you came from. Seemed obvious where she was leading. You told her no, no wife. A girlfriend here, she asked. No.

Well, then, she said, handing you the plate, when you do, she’ll thank me. She gave you a fingertip wave and went back to her place. You began to wonder if your radar was rusty.

Each time after that, when she brought you a treat and you’d say thank you, she’d wave it away as nothing. Your girlfriend, she’d say, she’ll thank me.

Beyond giving you a chance to look down her blouse that one time, and commenting on your appetite, she didn’t bother with any questions. Nothing about where you came from, what you did, how long you planned to be around. She’d tell you what she made, ask if you could finish it, and leave it with you.

There had to be a reason. Every few days she’d bring over a pastry or cake or pie she’d made. No chit-chat, no dawdling, nothing to make you believe you were anything more to her than a handy place to deposit her treats.

But there was something going on.

She never closed her curtains. You could see into her trailer. Sometimes, in the morning, you’d see her in bra and panties. Sometimes a see-through nightie. Sometimes nothing at all.

In the evenings, you’d see her hanging up laundry, or working in her little patch of a garden. She’d be dressed in a halter top or tube top that emphasized her bosom, and cut-off jeans so brief you could see the thong splitting her ass cheeks.

She never glanced your way, never checked to see if you were watching. She went about her business without any nonsense. Without much clothing. Except when she came over.

You asked around. You learned she’d been in the double-wide for years. Nobody remembered there ever being a Mister Cavallo, and no one ever heard her talk about him. Someone remembered that someone elsehad mentioned a couple of different guys living there sometime back. One was a retired acrobat or something. But that’s all anyone recalled.

Listening to her talk, the little she did talk, was sexy, like someone who lived down the road from Dracula back in the old country. Not that she could be a vampire. You’d see her outside in the sunlight before you went on second shift at the RV plant. She cooked with garlic. Lots of garlic.

You mentioned the garlic, how good that smelled.

Makes you bitter, she said with a squint of distaste. Stick to pastries. She leaned in again like the first time and said, those make a man sweet. Your girlfriend will thank me.

She kept it up. Cinnamon buns from the ladies’ breakfast. Apple turnovers from the men’s bridge night. Raspberry Torts. Blackberry Tarts. Peach cobbler. Spiced layer cakes. Blueberry muffins. Banana bread puddings. Cinnamon rich and sugar sweet. Cherry pies. Plum puddings. Rhubarb pies.

You couldn’t help paying attention to the smells that came from Mrs. Cavallo’s place. The smells of cooking sugar set your mouth watering. You’d find reasons to stay home evenings or get up early, waiting for her knock against the side of the trailer.

This last time, when she comes knocking, she doesn’t bring a covered dish. Instead, she invites you over for something right out of the oven. Something she’s trying for another dinner at the Community Center. She wants to have you taste it and tell her if it’s any good. You say, sure, bring it over.

She insists it has to be eaten there. It’ll cool off too much to bring it over.

Of course it would.

You tell her, yes, you’d be glad to. Here’s where you give the neighbors something to gossip about, being in her house.

She’s not coy about it. She’s already on her way back to her trailer. You follow.

Could be she’s not really looking for anything from you. You watch her shoulders, ass, and legs as she walks, considering if you could manage to show a little hot, wet gratitude if you had to.

Thinking about it makes you hard by the time you reach the door to her place.

You’re glad she doesn’t bother glancing back at you. Your boner looks like you brought over a zucchini for the veg in tonight’s dinner.

The inside of her trailer is spacious but filled with all kinds of dark, heavy furniture that looked like it came from a Transylvanian castle. She bustles around the kitchen, fitting oven mitts on her hands to pull the dessert from the oven. She chatters about how she wanted to try this out on someone before doing it for real at the Community Center.

You say okay and perch on the stool at the little breakfast bar. She cuts and scoops out a slice onto a small plate for you.

She leans across the breakfast bar, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers, watching for your reaction.

You fork a piece off and taste it. This is something really special. Better than anything you’ve had so far. You nod. She’s right. This is terrific straight from the oven.

She’s glad, she says. This one’s always the hardest to get right, but when it comes out just so, it’s worth it.

This is definitely worth it, you say, and take another bite while she watches you.

All the fruit, the natural sugar, changes how a man tastes, she says, stretching out that last word. Makes them—she pauses, searching for the right word—delicious. Women, at least where I come from, don’t like how men taste. They all need a little something. She points at the pastry on the baking sheet. All these, the fruit pies, puddings, pastries, sweeten them up. Which, she laughs, makes baking very dangerous. For men.

You think you know what she means, but you’re not sure. So you point at your plate with your fork and tell her this doesn’t seem all that dangerous.

A man who doesn’t take care of himself, she says, tastes very bitter. She makes a face and shivers. Like cheap dish soap. You probably wouldn’t know. Fruit? Sugar? Cinnamon? Fixes you right up. Sometimes, she says, sometimes a man tastes so good, a woman can’t stop. Can’t help herself. She doesn’t stop until she’s eaten everything.  That’s what makes baking so dangerous where I come from.

It’s the tongue thing she does that lets you know this dessert comes in two parts. You put down your fork.

Mrs. Cavallo comes around the bar and kneels in front of you, unzipping your fly, working your pants down to your ankles and pushing your knees apart.

A woman has to be very careful how she bakes, she says. Not too sweet.

She rolls the head of your crank between her teeth.

Some women, the wives, she says, licking her lips, don’t mind if we eat the sex off men. Most are assholes. Mrs. Cavallo shrugs. Maybe it’s an accident they make their men taste so sweet for us. Maybe not.

Mrs. Cavallo, you ask as she wedges her soft shoulders and large arms in between your thighs, your cock stiffened, awake to her nips and strokes. Mrs. Cavallo? What brought you to this country?

Nothing left to eat, she says. You watch her nostrils flare as she inhales, and your pecker disappears down her throat, swallowing you to the root.

ILL ADVISED

I’d been tripping balls for about three hours, from some shit I found in the battery compartment of an old ghetto blaster, I haven’t a clue what it was but I imagine it had expired around ten years ago when the unit stopped working. I don’t know why I keep shit like that around; it wastes space and pisses me off when it falls on my head from my goddamn closet shelf.

Fuck me! Another phone call; for some reason everybody was calling me up that day, nobody ever calls me, I’m a fucking recluse and narrowed down my contacts to a very few carefully chosen people. I reacted by throwing the fucking phone through the goddamn window; not such a good decision in retrospect, but at least the fucking ringing stopped, allowing me to re-engage in ripping the place apart, I was originally looking for something in particular, but I totally forgot what it was around the same time as the phone attack, and the summit of the ancient mystery drugs effects. At that point I was just going through shit to see what I could find.

I hadn’t slept for days and was making bad decisions. I came across an old crossbow with a couple of bolts; I started shooting pigeons from my balcony. I didn’t acknowledge the stupidity of this exercise until I ran out of bolts, and realized it was fucking broad daylight and I could hardly hold the weapon straight, as far as the pigeons were concerned, I doubt I hit a single one, the real concern was where the bolts ended up, however, their destination eluded me as my vision was compromised, but the lack of screams or sirens allowed me to continue my rampage through my apartment without any anxiety or fear of arrest. 

I ripped the fucking place apart; cracked open every box, container, cupboard, and closet, looking for absolutely nothing and finding everything. I came across an old dusty cardboard box that reeked of some wretched type of mold; in the box was my life, or at least the evidence that I once had one. I should have set fire to the fucker then and there; but my curiosity had already engaged, it was a collection of pictures and letters from old girlfriends that only served to remind me of my age and how long it had been since I’d been laid. 

As I perused the crumpled mass of paper and photos; I became lost in nostalgia, some of it was thirty fucking years old, and somehow I got fish hooked into an onslaught of lament and regret, most of these people had become lost to me, time has a tremendous ability for slow disintegration, why aren’t I still with these people? What was it that fucking failed? Most of them were married with kids by now, but I never took that fork in the road, I always went the other way, I was always looking for the proverbial rabbit hole.

I followed the way of the weird; careful not to cross the fringes of contemporary society, I didn’t want the white picket fence and all the consumerism that went along with it, as the old macabre saying goes; “Kids; if you can’t eat them, they’re not good for nothing”. Along with all the other copious reasons; I was, and still am, bat shit crazy, and a bit of an asshole. This never allowed a smooth ride through my relationships; mental illness is like being bound to a busted rollercoaster, going up and down like a hooker’s skirt, and having the shit shaken out of you. I was never suited for a “normal” life; consistency and commitment were just abstract words to me, taking up space in some old discarded dictionary.

Where does history go when it dies? It certainly leaves a sufficient trail of scars in its wake when it passes. History has mass; it takes up most of the space around us, and inside us as well. It spits in our faces and embraces us in apathy. At that moment all I could hear was silence; and the constant dripping in the bathroom sink, which never seemed to stop as long as I had that apartment. The only real truthful consistency I really have is history and that goddamn leaking faucet; the rest is all ill-advised.

Vice Grip

The beginning of the end begins with a tit-flick and a cantaloupe, and Mike’s wife, Kalli, flipping on the light, dropping the groceries on the floor, and saying, “Oh. My. God.” Saying, “You son of a bitch.”

Behind him, on the big screen TV, this Asian chick’s taking it in the out way. Her palms pressing her tits together, her hair cinched in roped pigtails. Mouth O’d the way Kalli’s is now. Mike stands and says, “Babe, this is not what it looks.” Noticing the shadow of his prick on the wall, he holds a hand out mime-style and says, “At least I’m not cheating,” and she says, “Yeah, at least there’s that.”

He sets the cantaloupe down, embarrassed by the size of the hole in the rind. His fingers spread, he looks around for something to clean himself up with. “Thought you were going out with Caroline,” he says. 

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” she says.

On the screen, the girl’s reclined back in the guy’s lap, her legs spread in a full split. Mike stares a second, then blinks away. The shadow of his dick arches over, bowing as if ashamed. He dusts a few pulpy clumps from the tip and moves toward Kalli. She steps back, a hand at her throat. Eyes on the screen. He stops, leans down to pick up the groceries, and she says, “Don’t touch that.”

He sets the bag upright, wiggles his fingers, and says, “Don’t worry, this hand’s clean.”

From behind, the cantaloupe rolls off the table and across the floor—prick-hole over bottom, prick-hole over bottom.

She shakes her head and says, “Goddamn freak.” She stomps out, slamming the door behind her, and he yells, “The Greeks were freaks, babe. And they’re legends.”

On the screen, the image skips, then freezes in a twitch.

He’s in bed, drunk and waiting for her to come home. 

He’d paced the floor for hours, swigging Juarez tequila and having the argument out in his mind. He visualized her sitting across from him, fingers laced, nodding her head. Listening to his side of the story and keeping an open mind.

He would speak soft and slow, ticking his points off on his fingers: First and foremost, masturbation is healthy. It relaxes the muscles and aids in sleeping. Reduces stress and releases sexual tension. It allows one to get in touch with one’s sexual responses to better communicate one’s wants and needs to one’s partner. It also discharges neurotransmitters into the brain, which give the feeling of physical and mental well-being. Second, it’s natural. Instinct. All the way back when we were organisms bubbling in Earth’s primordial soup. When we slithered out of the oceans on our bellies, flicking our tongues for food. When we sprouted opposable thumbs and stood upright, we have had the urge to mate. It’s in our cells. Our DNA. Like eating, it’s a need. There’s a feeling and we react to it. You’re hungry, you eat. You have to shit or piss, you shit or piss. Now I know what you’re thinking: that we have minds and intellect and that’s what separates us from the animals. But I say what separates us from the animals is the ability to fantasize. Think about it, fantasy is the combination of intellect, creativity, and instinct, all of which have allowed for many avenues toward a better quality of life. Example: with this combination, we have better, healthier foods. We have indoor plumbing. We have the ability to construct elaborate fantasies. Babe, we can’t lay stencils over the wild inside us. We have to use it. Blend it. Focus it. It’s not shameful. It’s not perverted, not deviance. It’s as natural as a snake’s slither. It’s human.

You’re right, he saw her saying.  I see your point, he saw.

It’s late when her headlights fill the window.

After he’d finished off the tequila, he’d masturbated twice, and went to bed. Now, a pearl of cold semen sticks his boxers to his thigh. He hopes she didn’t tell Caroline. She tells Caroline, then Caroline tells Bobby and Bobby tells Art and… He shakes the thought away and listens. She bangs around in the kitchen and his body seems to constrict an inch and hold. She slams things in the living room. Kicks and stomps through the bathroom, then comes to bed and yanks the covers up.

“Is it me?” she says.

And Mike is immediately up on and elbow, saying, “No,” saying, “It’s nothing to do with you. You’re perfect.”

“Then why then?”

“Cause it’s healthy,” he says, but his argument’s jumbled in his brain. “It’s instinct, you know. Natural like a snake…”

“I’m sure what you’re…doing…is healthy. I’m sure it’s instinct even. It’s instinct I want to fuck my boss too, but I don’t. Because when someone else’s feelings are involved, there’s also morals to factor in. There’s right,” she says, “and there’s wrong.”

“I was just getting in touch with my—you wanna fuck your boss?”

“And you promised to love me ‘til death do us part, not the fruit aisle at Wal-Mart.” She sighs. Clears her throat. “What all have you done? I mean, besides the melon?”

“Cantaloupe,” he says.

“Mike?” she says, and he feels the heat from her face. “What all?”

“I…(right hand, left hand, rubber bands to restrict forearm circulation, blow-up dolls, Pucker Suckers, prosthetic vaginas—big one’s, hairy ones, shaved ones, tiny ones: ‘Tiny ‘Giny’s with the New and Improved Itty Bitty Clitty’s,’ a technique he invented called four-play, where you thumb-rub the penis-tip while massaging your balls with your other four fingers, prostrate stimulation with an electric toothbrush, though he didn’t go A-T-M and brush his teeth afterward)…just the melon,” he says.

Silence.

More silence.

Then, she rolls over, facing away from him and says, “Well, it stops now or I’m gone.”

And she goes to sleep.

He wakes up the next morning to a wet dream. He’s still thrusting his hips and twitching when he opens his eyes. She’s standing over him, arms crossed, dressed for work. Watching. 

His chest going in, out. In, out. Feet taut as rebar. 

“You’re off to a really bad stop,” she says, shakes her head, and walks out.

At noon, Mike leaves the office and eats in his car. He’s tried calling Kalli several times but it goes straight to voicemail. Usually at lunch, he’d sit in the car leafing through one of his books. He’d gone down to the Porn Warehouse and bought Love You Some You: Hands On Techniques To Masturbatory Enlightenment and Whack On, Whack Off: How To Switch Hands For A Little Strange. 

But now. 

He tosses the books in the backseat. He’s terrified. She wants him to quit and he’ll try for her, but it won’t be easy. He was feeling it two or three times this morning. Out of habit, he went to the bathroom to fire off a round around ten and had to stop himself. 

He’ll miss it. That freedom to reach down and take hold. Grab a few minutes of pleasure. To recharge his batteries. Capitalize on a beautiful face or rack or ass he’d seen earlier in the day and placed in the top drawer of his mental “pull-box.” It’s magic, really, the control to speed up if you want to go faster. Slow down if you want it slower. Get tighter, be looser. And the confidence you get after it’s over, and your hand doesn’t roll off, brow m’d, and say, “Is that goddamn it?”

He’s diamond hard just thinking about it. He unzips and slides his hand in.

Quitting’ll be harder than he thought. 

When you love food, it’s hard to diet.

On the way home, Mike can’t shake the feeling Kalli told Caroline. He calls Bobby.

“Caroline tell you me and Kalli got into it?” he says.

“She might have said something,” Bobby says. “Why?”

Shit, he thinks. “No reason.”

“We’re grabbing a few beers tonight. Wanna come?”

“Better pass,” Mike says. “Got damage control to do.”

“Suit yourself,” Bobby says. “Handle your business.”

Mike hangs up. Wonders which business Bobby was telling him to handle.

When Mike gets home and walks in the house, he knows he’s screwed. He hears the hum of the computer as he steps in and can see without seeing what Kalli’s looking at. He’d seen this scene play out in his head several times. There was no way around it. He’d hoped if he forgot about it, it would go away.

It didn’t. And here it is.

Since he’d started masturbating, he’d used the Internet for a good deal of his porn. It started with nude celebrities—Pamela Anderson, Angelina Jolie. Then old Marilyn Chambers movies and Deep Throat. Now, it’s Brianna Banks and more amateurish stuff. 

And though he knew how to get off on the sites, then get off the sites, he could not figure out how to get the sites of the computer.

She’s crying.

“Those are old,” he says.

She looks at him, her face cinched in the center. Mascara stains under her eyes.

“Christ, Michael,” she says. “Spitnsplit.com? Warmnwoolymilfs.org?”

“Those aren’t your better sites,” he says, and wishes he hadn’t.

She looks back at the screen, shakes her head. “This isn’t right. This is so not right,” she says. 

He walks toward her and she puts a hand up, closes her eyes, and turns her head.

“All guys have some,” he says, and she runs down the hall and slams the door.

Her stares at the site. “Tic Tacs To Whales: Big Chicks Blow Little Dicks.”

And his middle begins to tingle and tighten against his pants. 

But he doesn’t feel ashamed.

Once you get caught with you dick in produce, there’s no more shame to feel.

That night, he gets drunk and passes out. He sleeps on the sofa. No wet dreams.

***

The next afternoon he comes home from work. The sun broken-yolking into the horizon. He hadn’t touched himself all day. He loves his wife. He’s gonna give this stopping a go.

He’d bought flowers and a Hallmark. 

He pulls in.

The house is dark except for a flame orange glow in the living room window. He goes inside.

“Babe?” he says.

On the floor, rose petals are strewn from the door through the kitchen. He follows them into the living room.

“Kalli?” he says, peeking around the corner.

And there she is, tiger-striped in peach scented candle-flicker. Leaned back on the sofa, legs spread. High-heels in the air, she’s dressed in a red and black mesh camigarter, so tiny there’s more cotton on a Q-Tip. She’s moved the thronged crotch to the side, and with her middle finger, she’s rubbing herself in baby circles. 

“Hey,” he says, smiling. “What’s this?”

She raises a hand and slips a pin from her hair. Shakes her head, letting the dark curls slide down her shoulders. She leans forward, pours two glasses of wine, and takes a sip, never breaking eye contact. She runs her tongue over her glistening lips, the edges of her teeth, then leans back. Slips the thin lace straps from her shoulders and lets them slide over her breasts. She runs a hand over one of them and twists the nipple. She moans, clenches a fist, and hooks her trigger finger twice, gesturing for him to come.

He does.

She smells of honey massage oil. His favorite. He drops to his knees, breathing heavy, and kisses her. He’s stripping. Ripping his buttoned shirt. Peeling his pants off like skin. “I’m sorry, babe,” he says, between breaths. “About it all.”

She smiles and shakes her head No.

“I love you,” he says, and God knows he does. He always had. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever placed irises on. She’d always been the one and he’d hurt her. With his “instinct” he bruised the heart of the only person that matters to him. He’s through with it, he thinks. He’s quitting. For this sexy, smart, funny woman he’d fallen in love with years ago, he’s going to be the man she wants. Deserves. Out of this revelation, he caresses and kisses every cell of salty, sweat-glazed flesh on her body. And for over an hour, he works and works, trying to physically convey everything bubbling in his heart.

But for the life of him…

…his dick…

…will not…

…get fucking…

…hard.