1:17
I fucked everything up
didn’t I?
I look up.
Its back is to me, hovering over the body of a woman sprawled out on
the floor. Her face turned away from me.
I’m so sorry. It
bends down, picks up the woman’s lifeless hand. What
have I done?
Its words are vexed with death,
trembling with murder. It looks over its shoulder at me, dew pooling
in its eyes.
It
It
is as ignorant as the internet porn it uses as a gauge to measure
whether its relationship with Emma is a success or failure. When
you fuck like porn stars it must be love is
one of its favorite lines. Obsessed with control and domination, it
undermines their intimacy with stratagems designed to force her to
submit to its kinky cravings.
And the things it
wants to do to her! No matter how I try to shift the conversation
away from the backdoor rhetoric, it remains conversationally fixed
upon one thing and one thing only: Emma’s ass.
A couple of days
ago when we were assigned to sort books together, the only subject it
wanted to talk about was sodomy.
Can
we talk about something else? Please, I
shook my head. Honestly, I think you need to talk with a shrink.
It
laughed away my objections: but its cheeks flushed and its blood
sallied with anger. I’d
stop talking about it if she just gave it up.
That’s
what you always say. Maybe you’re just a terrible lover.
I’d hoped some blunt honesty would seal its mouth shut.
Dude,
believe me, it
tugged at its crotch, I
have more than enough weaponry to satisfy a woman.
Weaponry!
Repulsed,
I took a deep breath. Burning with rage my hands knotted into fists:
I’m
taking a break. The
temptation to punch the preposterous smirk off its face was so
intense I had to walk away.
I can only
imagine how Emma’s mother must fret about her daughter being
intimate with such a cowardly thug. As foreboding as a frozen January
night, she must feel that Emma has abandoned the light. Plagued with
fears about its potential for physical violence combined with the
degrading spew that spills out of its mouth, it is something no
mother should have to worry about.
It amazes me that
it even managed to find a girlfriend. Like a ponderous mace of
brass, its perilous sway inspires nothing but skin-crawling
trepidation. Surely Emma, born to a well-to-do family, must recognize
it for the parasite that it is. It makes no sense to me. Even if she
craves a bad-boy with a criminal record, surely she could do better
than it. Either that or her self-esteem is so tenuous that she
believes a leach for a lover is all she deserves.
Even
on a physical level, the weak chin, the cold, black eyes and receding
hairline don’t inspire confidence. A pathetic nobody who lugs
around a suitcase full of I
want to be somebody
dreams; it is an ingrate, blind to all the providence that life
inspires.
It has no clue
how thankful it should be for the love of a woman like Emma. But for
some perverse reason it actually believes that Emma, in terms of
market value, ranks beneath it… Could it be any more ridiculous?
Not only is Emma an honour roll student, she’s the offspring of a
media-savvy union: her mother, Sylvie, is an iconic Montreal visual
artist and her father is a renowned poet and book publisher. Just the
sort of catch most would-be writers would be thrilled to be with. Not
only that, she’s pretty cute to boot. Her eyes shimmer, forest
green. And her radiant smile is warm and genuine.
But everything
about its life is void of course. Even its diet is suspect: fruit
loops for breakfast and whoppers for lunch. At work it is always
slurping a coke or scoffing a doughnut. It told me it never eats
vegetables, French fries excluded and the only fruit it ever puts in
its mouth is watermelon… but only rarely.
There was an
afternoon a couple of weeks ago when I was enjoying a solitary lunch
in the park that runs adjacent to the Necropolis. Molly had made
lasagna the night before. I was sitting in the sun… at a picnic
table… there was still snow on the ground but the air was warmed by
a breeze from the south. I was enjoying Molly’s leftovers when it
came bounding towards me. In its hand it carried an obligatory bag
of Burger King, self-destruction. I was partially obscured by a tree
and hoped it hadn’t spotted me. I remained perfectly still: a
monument of invisibility. And it was just about to scurry past me
when out of the corner of its eye…
Hey.
It
scurried up to me slurping on its 32 ounce root beer. Sitting down
beside me, it didn’t bother to ask whether I wanted its company.
It removed the wrap from its feed and began chomping. Mouth full, it
started describing the movie, it had downloaded the night before,
featuring its favorite porn star Taylor Rain.
She did three
guys. All of them fucked her in the ass. Then they all came in her…
I
interrupted it. Dude,
I’m eating. Please.
It wiped whopper
sauce from its mouth with the back of his hand and smirked.
I
shook my head. My appetite lost, I put the lid back on the Tupperware
of lasagna. The epitome of ignorance, it wolfed down its slop:
grease dripping off its chin. I
don’t know what Emma’s problem is.
She
got all porn-star with that Mexican. Why won’t she let me fuck her
that way?
For
a moment my blood shivered, congealed and nearly forgot to flow as
yet another wave of
menacing desires to physically assault it began to surface. If only
it was capable of wrapping its whoppery brain around all the reasons
Emma would object to it fucking her prison style.
Maybe the
Mexican was gentle.
Its
face tensed alert. I smiled to myself with the knowledge that I hit a
nerve. A tiny snarl curled at the lip as it waved off my comment. He
probably got her drunk.
It slurped its root beer… burped. Get
a little liquor in her and the filthy ho makes an appearance.
I
could give it a litany of reasons why Emma might be repulsed by its
sexual expectations. She doesn’t trust it. It’s about as
sensitive as a bull dog chomping on a wasp. It smells like processed
burger. It doesn’t perform oral sex because, and I quote, eating
pussy makes a man soft.
Can you
believe it? She won’t even shave for me.
It’s so
insecure, always zeroing in on Emma’s erotic foibles... making it
sound like it’s some kind of savvy Don Juan, capable of arousing
tremolos across her pleasure zones. It never speaks of her in an
affectionate tone – its hate, so constant, is never beguiled even
for a moment.
Do you want a
Barbie Doll or do you want a woman?
Does Molly
shave?
That’s none
of your concern.
It
nodded his head and pointed a finger at me. She
does.
It pondered for a moment, studied me. She
does it to please you.
I
shook my head. If
she does shave and I’m not saying it’s true. She would only do it
because I’m always trying to please her.
Poor Emma: clouds
and double darkness veil her skies. Although she's the one who
suffers from a lack of physical gratification, it has the audacity to
complain that its orgasm is being neglected. Such is the state of its
megalomania; no wonder it’s chronically disappointed. When its
expectations aren’t consolidated, it refuses to accept any of the
responsibility. Instead of shouldering some blame, it accuses her of
being sexually dysfunctional.
It
wouldn’t be so shitty, the
same tired complaint repeated, if
she’d only swallow every once in a while.
I
shook my head. You
don’t go down on her.
That’s
different.
How?
It
smiled.
Women go down, men hold their ground. Unable
to censor itself, the hideous pest continued: But
I
bet she swallowed the Mexican’s load.
My
laboring eyes rolled. Why
not just leave her? I
was so fed up, I exaggerated, I’m
sure you could do better.
Damn
right. My
sarcasm had gone right over its head. Sometimes
I think her clit is defective. It
stuffed French fries into its hole.
I
looked at my watch, stood up. I
have to run an errand. Before
walking away, I made a dabbing motion with my hand against my chin.
You
got some cum there.
It immediately
rubbed its jaw. I laughed. Its face was red with rage.
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