Elegia

(Imagine, if you will, a dark desolate alternate reality)

A man enters a coffee shop restaurant with a briefcase in hand, wearing a black hat and a grey overcoat. He approaches the cashier:

“The weather certainly is nice, isn’t it?” says the woman.

“I haven’t seen the sun in 8 years” replies the man.

He gives her a small ticket and picks up his coffee which resembles a dark, murky substance. He sits down in the corner with a nervous posture, darting his tired cold eyes around the room to see if anyone has followed him. A woman, a different woman, suddenly sits next to him, seemingly appearing from nowhere. She has long blonde hair, and appears to be about 300 years old, although she doesn’t look a day over 25.

“What are you doing here on such a beautiful day?” she asks.

“I’m just visiting”

He looks outside to see a large storm brewing.

“I want to fuck you” said the woman.

The man looked at her with an expressionless stare an they share a minute of silence.

“What do you do for work mister?” She finally said.

“I am an accountant”

“My father was an accountant”

“Was he?” said the man “how interesting”

“Do you like sports” said the woman.

“I like killing people” said the man.

He looked at her with a grin from ear to ear.

“Would you like to see what’s in my briefcase?”

He began fidgeting with his arms, as if he was on some unknown drug.

“It has some of my most treasured belongings inside, and I would love to show you”

He opened the briefcase slowly, as to build up the anticipation, and he pulled out a small, shiny cube.

“This is a phase box. They are priceless from where I come from”.

“Where do you come from?” she said.

“I come from where the mountains are tall and the trees are grey”.

“Is that near the factory?”

“No”

The cashier appeared from the counter, bearing a large revolver. She then killed the woman.

The man took out a handkerchief, and wiped up the blood.

He finished his coffee and closed his briefcase.

Hide and Seek

Nobody ever wanted to play hide and go seek with me, especially girls. That was until I met Jasmine one night in a bar called the Rooster’s Crow after the baseball game. It had been a doozy of a game, the St. Louis Cardinals against the Milwaukee Brewers. The Brewers scored at the top of the ninth sending it into extra innings, twelve to be exact, until Buster Rosario smacked a walk off homer for a Cardinals win. The crowd had gone so crazy, everyone was hugging on each other and cheering and giving high five’s; it was Saturday, and one of those nights you just don’t want to end. After Buster’s homer, me and Johnny—my best friend for as long as I can remember—overheard a group of drunk college girls talking about going to the Crow, so we decided that we would follow.

The Rooster’s Crow was as crowded as expected on a Saturday night after a Cards win. People were jammed from wall to wall having such a good time drinking and talking and dancing that it was making my head swim. You see, I don’t get out much, not really. And when I do, it can sometimes get overwhelming. Johnny isn’t much help either, he stays quiet most of the time.

Not long after we arrived, I saw the girls cozy up to some frat guys, so I wanted to leave, deciding it was a bad idea to come. But I remembered momma telling me long ago that I needed to get out more and socialize. So I did. For my momma. And man am I glad I did because it was how I met Jasmine!

Well, maybe I should say she met me. While making my way to the bar for another Shirley Temple, I somehow ended up on the dance floor. Imagine my horror as I dodged sweaty bodies reeking of alcohol and sweat! I pushed them off me as I made my way to the perimeter of the dance floor. And that’s when Jasmine came out of nowhere. I think she tripped on someone’s shoe, but she quite literally fell into my arms. Her eyes were golden brown, her hair soft and shimmering. She was the color of caramel and her complexion was buttery smooth. Her skin was so perfect that I thought of it more as a rare animal pelt that deserved to be hanging on a wall above my fireplace.

I couldn’t breathe or think or talk. I sat holding the angel of my life in the middle of a crowded bar. Mamma told me once that love can knock you off your feet, but I didn’t believe her until that moment.

“Thank you,” she said to me. Her breath smelled like limes and tequila. Her smile was so white, so beautiful.

My heart felt like it was going to hammer right out of my chest and do a jig on the dance floor. I was absolutely paralyzed by Jasmine.

“Don’t worry about it,” I managed.

She smelled like sweet sweat with an undertone of marijuana. I don’t believe girls should smoke, mamma told me only hussies smoked, but for Jasmine I could look past all that.

It felt like it was only her and I inside the packed bar. The music, so loud before, went quiet. People, noises, laughter—all gone. All I could hear was her breath as it blew against my cheek and her heart beating through my arms.

And then—and THEN—she untangled herself from my arms and kissed me on the cheek. “You are my knight in shining armor tonight, sir.”

Just like that, I knew I was in love. Not the sort of love that I gave to momma, no one would replace momma, but the type of love that I saw in the movies or heard about in those teenage pop songs. I wanted to tell her a thousand and one things, but nothing came to my mouth. It was like I was frozen in a block of ice.

“You’re silly,” Jasmine said and then winked at me with the longest, most luscious eye lashes you have ever seen. And before I could react, she patted me on the shoulder and disappeared into crowd.

Precious seconds tick by as I tried to get my body to move, to work again, so that I could find my Jasmine. I didn’t know her name at the time, so I threw myself into the crowd, pushing people to the floor and yelling rather foolishly, “Come back! Please come back to me!”

Johnny came rushing out of nowhere and I told him to look too. We searched every inch of the Rooster’s Crow: the kitchen, behind the bar, the staff break room, the men’s room, even the women’s room. Yet, she remained allusive. Johnny and me even stayed until last call to find her but still she wasn’t there. I was so frustrated I even yelled at Johnny, called him stupid and dumb (I later apologized).

But—BUT—as we got outside I got an idea. She was playing hide and seek!

“Jonny,” I said. “She’s only toying with me. She’s still here!”

I took off down the side walk and turned down an ally way that ran parallel to the Crow. And lo and behold there she was, standing under the orange glow of a street lamp with a lit joint between her plump lips.

I skidded to a halt, the bottom of my shoes scrapping against the uneven asphalt. I was so excited that I tripped and went sprawling into a puddle.

I looked up, slightly befuddled, and saw the angel of my life not even looking at me! Instead, a boy had come out of the Crow’s back door and was kissing Jasmine. He groped her buttocks, caressed the back of her neck.

He was kissing my angel. My girl. Those were my lips, not his. I was so angry I couldn’t see straight. Much like a child—even though I still get embarrassed to this day thinking about it—I kicked and slapped and pulled my hair in white hot rage.

I’d rather not say what I did next, momma said it’s not good for a man to always be hanging out his dirty laundry. Suffice to say, I got rid of the boy and Jasmine gave me her address! Well, I found it in her purse but still! I was elated… cloud nine!

The ensuing month was full of passion sweeter than any piece of honeydew or watermelon or sweet summer cantaloupe. The passion between us was hotter than the dog days of summer and our relationship was budding into something especially beautiful.

We went to dinner with her friends at the local cafe, we went to a Cardinals game against the Boston Red Socks (Cards lost four to zip), the zoo with her sister, and vacation at the Lake of the Ozarks with her family.

I was always on the watch for boys that would try to come near her. There were many, and my work was tiring, but none of them were able to get close to my angel. At one point, they even tried coming to her house! But I recruited Jonny and together we staked out her house from the other side of the street while in my car.  We sat there for weeks, all hours of the day, shooing away perverts trying to snatch my angel away from me.

Every night my sweet would leave her bedroom lamp on to let me know that she appreciated my watch and that she was thinking of me. Seeing her shadow through the curtain while she changed for bed was enough to keep me going and know that my work was important.

But a man has certain needs. A scratch impossible to ignore. My needs had gotten in the way of past relationships, so I desperately tried to ignore them the best I could. Soon though, after a particularly troubling week of watching the house, I couldn’t stand it! I had to do something, had to feel her lips on me once again, run a hand over her perfect skin or smell her beautiful hair.

It was Jonny’s idea actually (I give credit when it’s due—momma said its rude if you don’t) that I write her a letter like an old-time romantic film I always see her watching through her living room window. He even got the notion to ask her to a game of hide and seek like pa always wanted to play.

So I did! In my neatest handwriting, I wrote:

Dear Jasmine,

I long for your touch, your kiss, your smell as I know you long for mine. So, let’s play hide and seek! Tomorrow evening, I will hide somewhere in the house and it is your job to come and find me! If you are able to find me I will pay you in kisses and a dinner date on me. Perhaps, Cafe Coffee you took your mom to? Or even that BBQ place you like on 5thave? Either way, choice is yours! 

—Your Love

P.S I’m a VERY practiced hider!

I thought the letter was good, but Johnny said it could use some work to which I got furious and told him off. Sometimes, Jonny can be so blunt about things!

Any who, I sealed the letter with tape and placed it in her mail box. We waited that night, watching for her to receive the letter to know that the game was indeed on. She came home for her job at the attorney’s office around six, ate dinner (leftover pizza from when her best friend was over), and watched a couple episodes of The Expanse. Afterwards, she folded laundry, fed Maggie—her Bulldog, and went to sleep without a shower.

My sweetling never checked the mail, but that was ok. I knew she wanted to play hide and seek with me like she had the night of our first date at the Crow.

Johnny and I watched until 1 A.M. before I decided to go back home to momma and get some much-needed shut eye. Jasmine left her house around ten for work, so if I wanted to get a really good spot I needed to get there right after she left.

I was almost too giddy to fall asleep that night! I felt like a boy on Christmas Eve night waiting for Santa to slide down the chimney and deliver all the wonderful presents. Eventually Mr. Sandman did come, and I dreamt of all my past relationships, happy that they just didn’t quite work out.

I dressed in all black: boots, hoody, jeans. I even wore gloves as not to leave any smudges that could alert her to my location. Johnny said I looked great and mama didn’t say anything about it. She only sat in her rocker in front of the television like she does re-watching old black and white shows on the TV Land channel that I put on for her.

“Going out mamma. Be back tomorrow. Jonny will be here if you need anything.” I kissed her cold cheek and brushed her stringy hair. Sometimes, momma could be such a drag.

I made it to Jasmine’s house just as she was backing her silver Toyota out of the driveway. I blew her a kiss and told her that I hope she has a good day when she drove past.

The inside of her house smelled like her flowery perfume and I almost melted right there in the kitchen. It was like she held a love spell over me. Never before had I loved any of my ex’s like I loved my Jasmine. I was so excited that I could hardly keep my hands from shaking as I tip-toed into her bedroom and looked through her dresser drawers. I laid on her bed and put each of her pillows to my face and took in a deep breath of her scent.

I laid there for exactly one hour, fantasizing about the night we were about to have. I almost wanted to make my spot easy so that she could find me quickly and we could get right down to it.

But no, hide and seek was my favorite game and since Jasmine was the only girl that ever wanted to play, I sucked it up and stuffed some of her undergarments into my pocket to keep my mind busy while I waited.

I methodically walked through her small house looking for the really good places. I went to her bathroom and stripped naked to sit in her shower and smell all of her womanly soaps. By the time I was done, the time was 4 P.M. or close enough to it that I really needed to get my spot.

I wasn’t very satisfied with any hiding spots on the upstairs, so I decided on the downstairs instead. I knew she didn’t go down there much and figured there were probably some undiscovered nook or cranny (there usually are) that I could wedge myself into.

An open stair case led to the unfinished basement that smelled like rotten mold and earth worms. I could understand why a young woman would be scared of a basement like this—but I liked it, loved it in fact. It reminded me of my own room at momma’s house. Boxes were stacked all the way to the small window to the right. Some art work was piled next to the water heater and electrical fuse box. Behind the stairs was a closet choked full of winter coats and clothes that no longer fit my Jasmine. Perfect.

I turned out the single overhead light bulb by the long cord and slithered my way into the closet behind the moth-eaten coats, scarves, and sweaters.

The mold was worst in the closet and the faint scent of my angel coming from the coats was driving me nuts so I played with her undergarments inside my pocket and waited for her to come home.

I must have fallen asleep because it was dark outside the basement window when I finally heard the slamming of the garage door and the wooden click of high heels over the kitchen tile.

Finally! Jasmine, the girl of my forever, was home at last. I heard her walk down the hallway to our bedroom. The springs in the bed creaked and groaned as she struggled off her shoes and then no doubt her knee length paisley skirt and gray sweater. Jasmine was only a few feet above my head, undressing and slipping onto (hopefully) smaller clothes. My breath became ragged, my head swam.

She would probably go barefooted, the sneaky devil, to mask her movements while looking for me.

No matter. I was very good at hide and seek.

I bravely composed myself and didn’t wait long before I heard the water heater ruble to life and the quiet splashing of water as she drew a bath—the same bath I had just been in hours before. I wondered if she could smell me like I smelled her. I blushed at the notion.

Giddy with anticipation, twice I left my spot in the closet and ventured partly up the stairs. But then I remembered the night we met, the way she played hide and seek with me, and knew it was fate that we must play this game.

The water heater grinded to a stop and I heard her—actually hear her voice—call, “Maggie! Come to momma.” A moment later the English Bulldog’s nails clicked over the hard wood surface and I traced the fat dog’s path, feeling slightly lightheaded from hearing her voice at last.

Minutes ticked by where I heard nothing except the whisper of her feet dancing lightly in her bedroom as she—what? Dressed for me? I didn’t know and was getting frustrated she had yet to begin our date.

But then I heard footsteps coming down the stairs! My heart skipped, I readied myself to gaze upon those memorizing eyes—but it was only Johnny.

“Take it easy,” he whispered to me. “She’s only preparing for you. I checked in on her. Putting on some lingerie. Real sexy. Red and black. You’ll like it.”

I chocked on my spit. “Are you serious?”

“Serious as a snake bite. Now get back in the closet. I’ll be in the car.”

Johnny clambered back up the steps rather too loudly. He could be so irritating! But, needless to say, I followed his advice and crept back through the winter coats but at least I wasn’t alone, a spider crept out from the sleeve of a Calvin Cline jacket. I named him Timmy and toyed with him in my palm until I grew bored and crushed him into a red paste. Curiously, I took one of his tiny legs and placed it in my mouth. Salty. By belly rumbled and I licked the rest of Timmy from my sweaty palm.

Where was she? I was growing bored rather quickly. At least when my papa played with me I could hear him shouting and cursing at momma and could judge where he was at in the double wide trailer. But Jasmine was either not playing or was really, really good.

My thoughts kept drifting back to the Rooster’s Crow and how that I could not find her afterwards, she’d been playing then as she was now. Oh, she was good. Making me get in my own head like that.

Steps, followed by tinier, more frequent steps. She was coming out of her bedroom! I grinned and then snickered, slurping the rest of Timmy out of my palm.

“Hello? Ok, be there in a sec.” I heard her say from somewhere in the kitchen. Had she found me? My heart was ready to explode out of my chest. I couldn’t be sure if she were talking to me or not and I imagined her creeping down the steps, a big smile on her beautiful face. What would I say? Perhaps something along the lines of “hey baby” or maybe “hi my love.” But I thought a simple hello would do just fine.

I peeked out of the coats and that’s when I heard the doorbell ring. I heard her squeal in excitement, and then the slow creaking of the front door opening.

“Hi,” a voice carried downstairs… a male voice. “You look absolutely lovely tonight.”

“Thank you,” the love of my life responded, almost breathlessly. Who was this? And where was Jonny to let this happen? My anger spiked dangerously as a new and wild thought hit me straight from left field. Was she cheating on me?

No, that couldn’t be it. Not her, not my Jasmine… my angel. But as the hours ticked by the harder it was to convince myself otherwise. They ate dinner (Chinese delivery) and watched a movie after that (Ironman 3). I heard Jasmine giggle as he made her laugh in such a flawless manor. Even though it hurt to admit, this boy was smooth. So much so that he had completely distracted my Jasmine from hide and go seek. It was supposed to be our night…my night and here he was, probably named Chad, stealing away my girl.

I thought I could wait until he left, but when I heard her ask if he had a condom I blew my lid and crept around the coats, careful not to make a noise. I waited at the bottom of the stairs in the pitch-black basement as their footsteps carried off to the bedroom, almost immediately followed by the screech of mattress springs.

“Got to go for it, pal,” Johnny said from behind the water heater.

I nodded and said, “I know buddy. I know. Every time now, huh?”

Jonny chuckles echoed around the basement, “Seems that way, don’t it?”

I nodded and took each of the wooden steps oh so carefully, pausing half way up as Jasmine screamed out in orgasm. I blew steam from my nose and climbed the rest of the way, not bothering to hide my movements. They wouldn’t hear a freight train bust through the kitchen let alone a few steps as I searched for a knife, eventually selecting a dirty steak knife from the sink.

I suddenly felt more exhaustion than anger, another girl… another cheater. Why did they always do this to me? I shouldn’t have been surprised, Mamma said girls were hussies and couldn’t be trusted.

Many girlfriends ago I would almost look forward to the breakup, but not tonight. I really liked Jasmine and thought she was the one. With a heavy sigh and slumped shoulders, I kicked away the dog and walked down the hall.

I paused, listening to her moans and Chad’s heavy panting through the cracked bedroom door. I knocked, mamma said it was polite to always knock, but either they didn’t hear me or just didn’t care. Rude.

I gripped the knife in one gloved hand and opened the door with the other.

“Ready or not,” I yelled, enjoying the sudden look of terror on their flushed, sweaty faces, “here I come!”

Jerk Off Instructions

On Sunday night, to get out of my apartment, I walk over to Dante’s for a quick drink. It’s just down the street really, not bad. Plus I like being out at night sometimes. It’s kind of quiet. Less cars I guess. And you can look up and see stars and stuff.

Tony’s there. Tony’s always there. We work at the same place, the Bob Evans sausage plant. He’s in maintenance, I actually wrap the sausage. It pays ok, except I have to get up at 4:30 every morning. But I got benefits too.

I sit down next to Tony and order a beer. On the tv there’s pictures of people getting pulled off their roofs by helicopters after that hurricane down south. Tony buys me a shot to go with my beer.

—So how are you and Marsha going?

—Alright I guess.

—Getting any?

I shake my head and down the shot. —No.

—Look, if she won’t let you fuck her, at least make her suck you off.

I sip my beer. —She doesn’t like to do that, Tony.

—Why not? Is she a lesbo?

—No, I don’t think so.

—Christian?

—Yeah…

—Like, go to church every Sunday Christian?

—I don’t know. She’s got a necklace with a cross.

—Then why are you still seeing her?

—Well, I like her.

—Like? There’s lots of women out there you can like.

—Yeah…

On the tv there’s something about Iraq. A bombing. None of our guys, just Iraqis.

—Look, at least jerk off.

—I do.

—No, I mean with her there.

He orders two more shots. The bartender Tammy does have a nice ass when she bends over. Tony downs his shot.

—Next time she won’t do anything, just ask her. But don’t whine, women hate whiners. Just ask her like, if she would mind.

I down the shot and take a sip of beer. —You just say, Do you mind if I jerk off?

—Exactly. She’ll be confused, but she’ll say she doesn’t. They always say they don’t. It’s because it has nothing to do with violating any of their body parts. And if for any reason she says she’s not sure, tell her you’re going to do it anyway when you get home.

—That is true.

—Then whip it out and look at her and tell her how beautiful she is. Chicks dig that. And make sure she can see your cock.

—Why?

—You have to get her used to the idea of your cock being there. Then you can ask her to help out a little.

—Help out?

—You know, jerk you off a little, massage your balls. Women don’t mind using their hands, and in fact they like touching, because they’re curious.

—Curious about cocks?

—Exactly. All their lives they’ve been told that cocks are bad and they should avoid them, but yet cocks are attached to men, who women find attractive. And since cocks are important to men, we think with them after all, women are always curious to see them, even if, like in your case, they don’t want to put them in their mouths or pussies.

I clear my throat. —So I jerk off.

—You’re jerking off and telling her how hot she is while she’s massaging your balls and now she’s getting more curious, like thinking maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to put it in her mouth for a while.

—And then she’ll go down on me.

He finishes his beer and motions Tammy over for another. —Maybe not right then. You may have to come. And make sure she sees it. She’ll want to of course. All women are fascinated by sperm shooting out of cocks. It’s like a primal thing, a mysterious magical liquid that comes from nowhere. Excuse the pun.

—Well, sounds good. I mean, I think she’s had sex before…

—But it wasn’t good. If it was good, she’d be a cockgobbler by now.

Tammy shoots him a look. I finish my beer and check the time.

—You put it so well.

—The point is, you have to go slow with the conservative ones. Is she worth it?

—What do you mean?

—I mean, there are other women who suck on the first date.

—Really?

—Dude, come on.

—Ok… No, I mean, I like her.

—Ok, but don’t let her jerk you around. Jerk you off, but not around. You want another beer?

I look at my watch again. —No. I gotta get home I guess.

—You gotta get out of the sausage line. Those early mornings are gonna kill you.

—I know.

—So when you gonna see her again?

—Oh, later this week. We’re supposed to have dinner.

—Alright. You got my advice.

—Yeah, thanks. Well, maybe see you later.

I walk outside and look up at the stars. They’re still there. Well, so am I. I walk home.

I Fuck

I don’t look like much; five-one, ninety pounds. Near-sighted brown eyes. Mousey brown hair that’s always greasy, no matter what I do. A-cup. Doesn’t matter. Guys want me.  Pheromones? Whatever it is, I ping their radar. Hard.

When I lived in Chicago, I smoked.  I was nineteen, looked about fourteen because I’m so small, and people didn’t take me seriously.  I thought if I started smoking I’d be in the club. It worked, and I found out some guys lose it when they see a girl who looks fourteen smoking a cigarette. They try to tell you smoking’s not sexy? Bullshit.  It’s totally sexy if you do it right. One guy told me how I came across – he said I looked like if I had a dick in my hand, I’d know what to do with it. I told him to fuck off.

I smoked for five years, until I moved to California a couple years ago.  Oakland. Not as many people smoke here, so it’s not worth it. I don’t need it anymore anyway; I look like I know what I’m doing and guys can see it a mile away.  Fucking radar.

When a guy looks at me, he gets two messages the split second our eyes meet: one – I can see straight through you; two – go fuck yourself.  It’s about establishing control. If they don’t get it immediately, they get it when they walk onto the point of my psychic knife. Sharp point, wicked edge.

If I like a guy’s looks, I let him inside the psychic knife perimeter.  I can pretty much tell when it’s going to happen, don’t ask me how. Fucking radar?

I wear tops that gap when I lean over.  You can do that if you’re an A-cup, and I work it.  He peeks, and I catch him. Predictable. I fool with things while we’re talking – a salt shaker, my keys – so he can see how I use my hands.  I put things in my mouth, like pencils, pens, maybe a knitting needle. (I knit. I like needles and string.) I want him to look at my mouth and I don’t smoke anymore, so I use whatever’s handy.  This goes on until his head is spinning.

Sometimes we’re fucking in the car fifteen minutes later.  I’m tiny, so the car’s easy. (His car – not mine.) Married guys especially want it fast because they feel guilty, and hey, if they can get me off that fast, it’s all good. (I won’t fuck married guys who don’t feel guilty – they’re assholes.)

I make them look me in the eye when they come.  Eye contact. Some guys like it, some guys can’t do it, and some find it humiliating, especially if it’s a married guy – guilty, guilty, guilty!  Look at you, making it with a pip-squeak little girl you just met fifteen minutes ago! Come on, Mr. Man – you look at me. Now. That makes him come really hard, and makes me feel really evil, which makes me come really hard, so everybody’s happy.

I steal things from them, small things like sunglasses if it’s nighttime, or a CD from their car.  Something small that they might have left someplace so they can’t be sure; as long as they know they lost something.  I don’t know why I steal, I just like to steal. Nobody’s ever caught me at it except my fiance.

I met him in a coffee shop, and when I made him look me in the eye it was like we looked right into each other’s hearts.  I stole something every time we fucked – his sunglasses, his change, his comb. When I stole his iPod he looked at me like, “Really?  Come on.” Okay, that was going too far, so I left it someplace for him to find. But I couldn’t let that stand, so I took $134 from his wallet a couple nights later (I left him fifty). He didn’t say anything, and I didn’t give it back.  Then he stole my silver cigarette case (my aunt gave it to me and I used it as a wallet). That was upping the stakes – fine with me. I stole the gold pen he got from his grandpa for graduation. That’s when he asked me to marry him. We were fucking and he asked me right when I was saying “yes-yes-yes” anyway.  Very funny. Nothing’s gone missing since then. Trust, right?

He’s out of town this weekend for a seminar.  When I kissed him goodbye he said, “So who are you gonna fuck tonight?” I said, “I don’t know.  Who are you gonna fuck tonight? Bet you have to pay for it.” Then he said, “I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”  Uh-huh. Like I won’t take a dare. Game on, motherfucker. The wedding’s in June.

Here’s what’s going through your mind right now: Slutty little shit. (Will she suck it?) Trashy little whore. (Does she do anal?) Sick, fucked-up, control-freak, daddy-issues psycho-bitch. (She fucks.) (When’s the next plane to Oakland?)

I can see straight through you.

Go fuck yourself.

See you around.

In the Flush of Life

Wilma’s apartment was full of rock n’ roll junk. She’d balled some low-wattage stars, as a young groupie. Now her walls covered with obsolete concert posters and photos of dead musicians. The shelves were crowded with Elvis figurines and other pop collectibles.

Lucky Pete had been the drummer at a Sam the Sham revival show. That’s how he met Wilma.

She still bore traces of flower-childhood, and some evenings Pete had nothing else to do except go visit her.

On the asshole-colored wall-to-wall carpet, at the foot of a scavenged couch, sat a plastic water-pipe and a huge black rubber dildo. Wilma smoked a lot of weed. Pete imagined her taking hits off her giant sex toy instead of the bong when she was stoned.

Marijuana fought an aerial duel with cat piss in her living room. It’s been scientifically proven that feline fumes cause craziness in mature women. Wilma wasn’t taking any chances, she was going to fry whatever was left of her brains between cat-piss and the pipe.

Pete preferred beer.

He nursed a brown glass baby-bottle, she made sexy sucking sounds with her water-pipe. Pete pointed to the dildo, which might’ve been art. “Where’d you find that?”

“A friend gave it to me.”

“You ever use it?”

“Sure.”

“How was it?”

“Great.” She took a hit, held the smoke. A black cat knocked a Kung Fu Elvis statuette off the bookshelf with no books. Thanks to the thick carpet, it didn’t break. The cat jumped down and went to the plastic basin next to the fridge. Wilma blew a Nagasaki cloud. “Taught me something about myself I didn’t know.”

“Like what?”

“Wanna watch?”

Pete shrugged. “I can’t stand up.”

Wilma hiked her suede miniskirt and went to work. A low-tide tang spread. A colorless fluid leaked.

“You just peed yourself a little,” Pete said.

She looked hurt. “You think I’d do that in front of you like an animal?” She started in again with grim determination. She yelped and unplugged. A thicker liquid splashed onto the carpet.

“Wow,” Pete said, but thought: ‘She can’t even tell the difference anymore.’  The bottle in his hand was empty. “Listen, do you think you could get me another beer?”

She made it to the fridge, but stumbled on the catbox and scattered its contents. Slug-trails gleamed on her thighs in the refrigerator light. Foam sprayed when she popped the cap. Frigid drops hit Pete’s lap when she passed him the bottle.

“Thanks,” he said.

Wilma sat back down and got busy again. She was warmed up.

Pete hoisted himself forward on the armchair.

A geyser blasted him back against the backrest.

He dried his face on his sleeve, polished off the beer. Wilma heaved, spent. The dildo fell to the floor with a muffled thump.

“Whudja think?” she said.

A white cat came and sniffed the rubber thing that smelled like the lady of the house, then went to piss on porcelain Elvis. He lifted his leg like a dog.

Pete had to take a leak too, but knew he’d never make it to the bathroom. He was holding an empty bottle. He unzipped and filled it, even overflowed a bit. “Whups, sorry.”

Wilma pulled a face. “I think you’d better leave now.”

Hyperrealism

“Sorry, can I help you?” asked the oil painting.

“No, I’m all good,” I replied sheepishly.

“Then why are you staring at me?” demanded the painting.

“Well,” I answered, wringing my hands, “You are on display.”

The oil painting looked around at the world outside his canvas, his big wig wiggling on his scalp. He tried to crane his neck to peer outside the confines of his two dimensional reality, but gave up when it clearly wasn’t going to work. I’m unsure of how much of the gallery he was able to take in from the effort, although he certainly couldn’t have seen the plaque labeling himself as a portrait of the Revolutionary War general Charles Lee.

I don’t know if he managed to spot the yuppies dressed for the occasion as if their presence tonight was a validation of the modern aristocratic lifestyle they desperately wanted to be living and I don’t know if he spotted the throngs of misbehaved children whom should never have been allowed here in the first place or all the other works of art adorning the walls, but evidently he saw enough to make him change his tone.

“I am?” he inquired at last.

“Yes, I’m honestly surprised you didn’t know. I paid twelve dollars to see you,” I answered, waving my ticket to the event. The painting snorted.

“Twelve dollars! What a waste, for that much one could purchase himself a small apple orchard and you spend such a handsome sum just to come and gawk and at me in my canvas?”

“Right,” I said. “Well it was nice to meet you, but if you don’t mind I think I’m going to go look at some other paintings now.”

“Good luck,” called the portrait of Charles Lee after me. “None of them are as personable nor as pleasant as I!”

I shuffled away, still dazed by my interaction with the painting. The gallery tonight was celebrating the work of John Saltsman, a late 18th century American painter whose work is considered a major precursor to and influence on the hyperrealism art movement that would develop nearly two centuries later. John Saltsman’s art was known for its extreme lifelike qualities, but I had not expected the paintings to be lifelike to the point the of possessing cognitive development.

Feeling like maybe not knowing this made me not as good of an art history student as I had fancied myself to be, I examined the next painting on the wall. It depicted an unsaddled, paper white stallion drinking from a stream.

The painted horse was lapping up the water vigorously, the clear liquid dripping down its muzzle and rough tongue. A drop of water splashed out of the canvas and onto my forehead. I wiped it off, realizing that the stream was much murkier and more unpleasant than it appeared in the painting. The stallion sneezed as some of the water went up its nose and it instantly sported a massive equine erection. Remembering that the horse was able to splash water on me, I hurried away from the painting before the possibility of anything any more unseamly could happened.

I carefully peered at the plaque for the next painting before I approached it closely. For all I knew, I could have depicted cattle in a state of perpetual mid-slaughter or something nasty like that. I was wearing my favorite plain black t-shirt for the occasion, and I really didn’t need it splattered with bovine blood. However, I was pleasantly surprised to see that the next painting was of something rather tame that would be unlikely to get any fluids on me whatsoever.

“Hello, and welcome to my gallery,” greeted the self-portrait of John Saltsman, smiling broadly.

John Saltsman portrayed himself as a pale, hooked nosed man wearing a wide brimmed hat. He had been painted as being in the act of painting itself, and was currently working on an idyllic countryside. Each brushstroke he made added both to the real painting and to the painting within the painting. The painting within the painting was mostly calm, its only movement being a flock of geese gently cruising through the almost finishes skies, although the actual painting was a rush of activity as the self-portrait of John Saltsman worked.

“Is this really your gallery?” I asked the painting of John Saltsman.

“Of course it is! Why wouldn’t it be? I painted everything in here.”

“But you didn’t,” I reasoned. “The real John Saltsman did. You’re just another thing he painted, albeit himself.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed the self-portrait of John Saltsman. “I painted me, and here I am! I am John Saltsman, in the oil if not in the flesh. Just as this is John Saltsman as well,” he added, digging around the edges of his canvas at objects I could not see.

The self-portrait of John Saltsman returned, holding another painting of a painting up to me.

“Hello!” said the self-portrait painted by the self-portrait of John Saltsman.

“See! We’re both John Saltsman,” said the self-portrait of John Saltsman, putting the canvas away again. “Just like if I painted you, young lady, then there would be two of you.”

“Please don’t,” I begged, but the self-portrait was already pulling a new blank canvas onto his easel.

“My my, you do wear an awful lot of black,” he mused, as he dipped a painting of a paint brush into a painting of a palette. “And why are your spectacles so large and square? That seems highly unnecessary, since the lenses only need to cover your pupils in order to function.”

“Ok, I think I’ve seen enough paintings for now,” I said.

“But I’m almost finished!” declared the self-portrait of John Saltsman.

“Wow, you work quickly,” I mumbled to myself.

“And, there! Finished!”

The self-portrait lifted up the canvas to show me a painting of a painting of myself.

“Hi there,” said the painting of a painting of me to me, waving.

 

Grimbolatron

Bella came into my office. I was working on a poem.

The poem was about butts.

I wanted to write a whole book about butts. Called it FRANKENBOOTY.

“What the fuck is that?” Bella asked.

“It’s FRANKENBOOTY. It’s going to be the next great American novel. Or poem. Or whatever.”

“No I mean that pile of trash in the corner.”

I looked over. An impressive pile of old photos, DVD cases, shitty books and other junk.

“Are you building a nest?” she asked.

“No way. Just a pile. You know how I like piles.”

“You sure do.”

“I was thinking about putting a blanket over it.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“You don’t want me to clean it?”

“I mean, I do. I do want you to clean it. But that’s a really intense pile. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

She was wearing fuzzy red sweat pants she got from my stepmom. They were baggy and cozy looking.

I grabbed her pants and pulled her close. I smelled her crotch.

She laughed and told me to stop.

“I can’t help it. I have a libido. It fills me with passion.”

“Oh baby,” she said.

And she started trying to get it on by kissing my neck and grabbing my dick.

“Stop,” I said. “I can’t do that right now. I gotta write.”

“Fine.”

She looked at my computer screen. Microsoft Word had been minimized. YouTube was up. There was a video of a lady with a big booty twerking.

“This is you writing?”

“Sometimes when I write I watch YouTube. It gives me inspiration. You know that.”

“Right.”

She walked off to the living room.

And I continued writing. But I didn’t write about butts anymore. I started working on a list that I was planning on sending to Cracked.

The list was called: TOP FIVE SEXIEST TRANSFORMERS (AND YES GOBOTS COUNT, DON’T BE A SNOB)

I could only think of a few Transformers. There was Arcee. The pink lady from the movie. She was hot. Great legs.

Then there was that chick from the GoBots but she kinda seemed like a tranny. I thought trannies were sexy. But did I really want to open up about that in an article about female transformers?

I was online researching female Transformers when Bella came in again.

She looked at the screen and saw a picture of a Transformer.

“You have to be kidding me,” she said.

I shut my laptop.

“It’s not what you think,” I said.

“This is fucked,” she said.

She stormed off.

I chased after her.

She liked that.

Soon we were playing tag.

I caught her at one point and then I pulled her pants down and smelled her butt.

Then I dragged her off to the bedroom.

We started having sex.

“Have you noticed our sex has gotten a lot more cuddly?” I asked.

She nodded.

Then she kissed me.

Then I kissed her back.

Just Me and My Micropenis

“You know, before I get started with girls, I ask them, ‘you like it with skin on or skin off?’”

Roy started cracking up at his own joke; dude could barely breathe. Meanwhile, I just sat there in utter incomprehension.

He noticed the blank look on my face and asked, “What, you don’t get it?”

“No, I get it,” I said with no confidence in my voice whatsoever.

“You don’t get it! It’s because I’m an anteater, haha!”

“Ohhhhh,” I said, doing my best to fake ‘getting it.’

“I’m not circumcised.”

“Oh!” I said, finally actually getting it.

My eyes fell swiftly to the floor. I couldn’t even tell if I was circumcised or uncircumcised… I was born with a micropenis.

Doctors usually give parents the option of keeping a perpetually virginal boy or constructing a fake vagina.

Men usually don’t care about the size of vaginas. They’re just happy to be invited in. You can’t even get your foot in the door with a micropenis.

My parents were fundamentalists and of course it was God’s will for me to have nothing but a slightly oversized clit hanging (Ha! If only it were big enough to hang!) above my normal-sized nutsack.

I was made from mud. It was meant to be. Goddamn you, God.

Whenever I get embarrassed, like I was discussing Roy’s sexual exploits, my penis shrinks even further up into my body. Sometimes I worry it’ll never come back out again. This was one of those times. I had a slight panic attack in my mind but no one could ever tell. My palms were sweating.

“You alright, Mike?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”

Fine? I couldn’t even masturbate.

“You’re not fine, bro. What’s wrong?”

For some stupid reason, I felt like telling the truth.

“I’ve never had sex. I’ve never even masturbated.”

“What?? You gay, dude?”

“No, I just physically can’t. Never mind. It’s not a big deal…”

It truly was no big deal. Language has a way of hanging us.

“What, Mike, you got a little Vienna Sausage or something? So long as it can crack the curtains, it can jump through the window if you know what I mean!”

He slapped me on the back, seeking my approval of his joke. A Vienna Sausage would be great, but I could hardly claim a Little Smokey.

I’d neglected to mention we were at McDonald’s. After we’d finished our large Cokes, we both had to piss, so we went to the bathroom together.

I’ll bet you can guess where this is going.

I can’t piss directly next to anyone when there are no dividers between the urinals. I’m always worried they’re sizing me up in comparison to theirs. It really, really bothers me.

But there we were. Some fat ass was in the only stall. If I didn’t piss, it’d raise suspicion, and so I took the only free urinal next to Roy. Figuring I could fake it if nothing else, I unzipped and pinched my ‘Johnson’ (what’s diminutive for Johnson?) out of my drawers.

But before I could squeeze anything out, I heard the loud, heavy stream pounding down on Roy’s urinal cake. Now I knew I definitely wouldn’t piss.

“Ain’t you gonna piss, man?” Roy asked, turning to look right at me.

“Not when you’re staring at me,” I said.

“What, you got a shy bladder?”

I ignored the question.

“Holy shit, man! You call THAT a penis?”

At Roy’s urging, my already tiny penis tried to escape back into my body once again, making my present pissing situation all the more impossible. I quickly zipped up with no fear of getting caught and stormed out of the bathroom.

Ditching Roy at McDonald’s (because fuck him), I drove to a nearby park, sitting on a bench by myself. There were some high school kids making out as they strolled past, backpacks slung across their fronts to hide their boners. A trick I knew of but never had to use myself.

It was then that Roy texted me, suggesting that I tie a string around my dick and weigh it down with something.

“It’s sure to stretch,” he wrote, trying (and failing) to be helpful. “I read it on the internet!”

He obviously had no idea how hard it was to tie a knot around a micropenis. Almost impossible. I’ve tried. I’d even thought about cutting off the blood supply with a string like some people do with warts and skin tags, just letting my pathetic little excuse for a dick shrivel up and die.

I had no hope. It was useless.

When I got home, my mom was cooking breakfast for dinner. I loved having breakfast for dinner.

“We’re making bacon!” she said, smiling as I entered the door.

“Fuck you!” I yelled at her and stomped off to my room.

“This is my house! Don’t you dare speak to me like that!”

“You ruined my life!”

“I gave you life!”

“Thanks a lot!”

I slammed the door behind me and lay down on my bed, staring at the ceiling until I fell asleep.

I dreamed I was walking down a long hall with brown carpeting, white walls, and kitsch paintings of flowers placed at regular intervals. The hall only got longer as I kept walking. My tiny little penis began to elongate like one of Stretch Armstrong’s limbs, stretching out like a wad of taffy behind me. I could feel bugs crawling all over it, lint and dust clinging to it as it began to drag along the floor. I kept thinking rats were going to attack it next. It was terrifying.

I woke up grabbing for the cursed appendage (if you could call it that) between my legs. Sure enough, it was still there.

Meanwhile, the smell of delicious bacon had begun to waft through the air in my room. I got up, went downstairs, and made my way to the kitchen.

“Sorry, mom,” I said, grabbing for some bacon. She never made sausage. Or hot dogs. All things considered, she was a considerate woman.

“It’s okay.”

“Why couldn’t you guys just agree to give me a pussy? I would have never known the damn difference.”

“You’re just as God made you.”

“Yeah, miserable…”

The Delivery

Malcolm Sedgwick was a thirty-eight-year-old, beastly, obese married man of four young children with a mortgage and a strong commitment to his spiritual faith. He was a very well-respected and leading figure in the local church community; any spare time, Malcolm would use to organize fundraising events and social gatherings to help spread the good word.

Malcolm worked as a courier for a small but busy inner city delivery service, ‘Speed Guaranteed.’ He rode a Honda CB125 and his hulking mass dwarfed the small machine and the other couriers would laugh as he left the depot with the bike coughing and sputtering beneath his weight. Malcolm had been employed at the company for five years; most of his fellow employees were younger and he felt them coarse and unread and he mostly kept just himself to himself. He was loyal and punctual.

As usual Malcolm was the first to arrive at the depot at 08:15. He parked the Honda and strode slowly into the office to be given his first delivery of the day.

Manager Bob Stone had the day’s deliveries sorted for each courier. He smiled and greeted Malcolm, who stood before him with tiny beads of sweat gathering upon his forehead.

“I’ll give you an hour to deliver this and get back here,” said Bob. Malcolm took the small package and nodded his head and made his way back outside.

As he placed the package into the top-box he noted the name and address, a local adult sex shop. He stared hard at the package like it was a bomb about to explode. He couldn’t help but ponder what might be in the package and he began to feel uncomfortable and unclean as he tried to shut those thoughts from out of his mind.

Malcolm made good time. He pulled over and killed the engine. For a few moments he sat feeling anxious and confused, his mind still racing with images of what the package possibly held, torn between light and darkness.

He climbed off the bike, took the package out of the top box and walked across the road to some public toilets. He locked himself in one of the cubicles and with shaking damp hands he opened up the package.

His fingers were trembling as he looked down at the photographs and he felt disgusted and aroused simultaneously. He began loudly cursing the photographs; “YOU FILTHY WHORES! GOD DAMN YOU! YOU HORNY SINFUL BITCHES! OH FUCK! OH FUCK!”

He unbuckled and whipped out his throbbing member; feelings and sensations that had laid dormant for years were unleashed and were now screaming through his body and mind and he was powerless against it.

“OH, OH YOU DIRTY LOUSY BITCHES, OH SHIT! OH YOU,YOU ARE FUCKING BEAUTIFUL! OH! OH! YOU DEMON WHORES!

With an overwhelming urge he began masturbating and very quickly climaxed over the photographs. He sat panting and puffing and then in a sudden rage of self loathing and guilt, he ripped up the sticky photographs and threw them onto the floor and began screaming loudly and pleading for forgiveness.

“OH DEAR GOD WHAT HAVE I DONE! OH LORD FORGIVE ME PLEASE! PLEASE! WHAT HAVE I DONE! FORGIVE ME!“

“Hey, keep the noise down in there!” said the attendant, knocking hard on the cubicle door.

“Okay, okay…” said Malcolm, still catching his breath. He gathered up the torn pieces of paper and thrust them back into their packaging. Panic and guilt and shame swirled within. He had no package to deliver. Of course he couldn’t tell the truth. He would lose his job. He’d lose everything; job, wife and children and house, everything.

He would not be able to live with such shame and embarrassment.

If a courier somehow loses a package he is fired, there is no argument. However, the one exception was if the courier was robbed.

Malcolm made his way out of the public toilets and began walking with no thought of a destination. His hearted pounded like heavy shell fire and perspiration rolled from his forehead as his mind raced in every direction. He felt helpless. He needed to think of something.

Wandering the narrow back-streets, he rounded a corner and literally crashed into a gang of youths.

“WHAT THE FUCK YOU DOING FATSO!” one of the young men screamed in panicked face.

Malcolm had begun to apologise when he felt a fist smash into the side of his face, and his legs were kicked from under him. He had let go of the package and one of the youths snatched it up and opened it and dumped its contents onto the pavement.

“Look at this shit!”

Malcolm curled into a ball to protect himself from the volley of kicks that came without mercy.

Several hours later, he awoke in the hospital having sustained numerous injuries. He saw his wife and children standing beside the bed and beyond them in the corridor waited two police officers.

He lied to his wife and children and he lied to the police officers. He related how he had been forced by a gang of young men into some alleyway, somewhere he didn’t know, and how they had attacked him, robbing him and destroying his delivery before beating him unconscious.

The story was featured in their local newspaper. He received dozens of well-wishing cards; particularly from the church community, from family and friends and from his employers and from total strangers. Each card that arrived was a reminding stab of guilt and shame.

Every day he lives this lie and everyday he lives with guilt and cannot find it within himself to forgive himself. He thinks of this often, of what he did, and he feels ashamed and empty of goodness and no longer feels worthy into looking into the eyes of those who love and trust him most.

And every time he thinks of those photographs, the primal urges surge, and he mutters a prayer to heaven.

Household Things

I pulled the entertainment stand away from the dumpster less than 10 minutes after the guy who was moving out had left it there, dragging it clear across the parking lot to my own apartment.

I went upstairs, found the screwdriver, came back down and unscrewed the shit that held the top and bottom parts together. After that, I was able to haul them both upstairs, reattach them, and set up the flatscreen before my wife got home from work.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby,” I said as she walked through the door.

Breezing past with hardly a word, she tossed her box of wine in the freezer, kicked off her shoes, and headed straight for the bedroom.

I just shrugged and turned on the TV, finally at eye-level on the new stand. Until today it had sat upon the floor. But we had a low couch, so it didn’t really matter.

I watched an episode of Breaking Bad, I watched an episode of Rescue Me. I leaned back and scratched my balls a bit, vegging out to the max.

Every ten minutes or so, my wife went into the kitchen, twisted a full glass of wine, and went back into the bedroom. Every ten minutes or so, plus or minus a minute or two between her own trips to the kitchen, I’d grab another beer from out the fridge.

You can ask me how many beers–I won’t be able to say for sure–but at one point I could’ve sworn the entertainment stand moved, its silver plastic legs seeming to shudder a bit. I’d barely had a chance to rub my bleary eyes before I noticed that they had taken on more of a shiny, blackish sheen, looking something like a beetle’s carapace

When its legs began to lengthen, staggering beneath the weight of the TV as it rose up higher still, it was all I could do to sit there slack-jawed with a beer in my hand.

It was sweet Angelina Jolie who appeared first, luscious lips projecting from the flatscreen on its spindly, insectoid legs. She smiled mischievously before coming in for a kiss, but then abruptly backed away.

The wife was pulling another glass of wine from the freezer.

Next it was barefooted Kaylee, promising to fix the engine with pubic hair and “something” in Cantonese; then Willow so close she was breathing witch dust in my face.

The entertainment stand crept closer and closer to the couch each time, but whenever my wife returned for another glass of wine, it returned to its place against the wall. Every time she left, a new face appeared onscreen.

Now it’s Kirsten Dunst, prepubescent, trying to straddle me on the couch, saying no no no I’m actually older than you are. Then it’s baby Drew Barrymore, from E.T., saying no no no we’re the same age now.

Meanwhile, I had begun to panic, calling “Baby, come here!” towards the kitchen.

She came out to find the TV exactly where it belonged, looking at me like I was retarded.

“What?” she asked, annoyed. “Get your own damn beer…”

It is now 4am. I’m allowed to enter the kitchen, but if I try to escape down the hall, the TV is there on its stand, blocking my way.

“Baby, please help!” I cry out to my wife.

“Sleep on the damn couch, you fucking drunk!”

Meanwhile, the stand’s legs have begun to morph into long, waspy stingers as Scarlett Johansson closes in on me.