Romantic & Sexual Defeats

[This one I wrote in 2002 and retooled* a couple years back.  Its strong sexual content may not be appropriate for Americans under the age of 17.]

Romantic & Sexual Defeats**

    I struck up a conversation with a girl at a party when I realized she was the source of the overwhelming vulva smell.

    "Is it you who smells like pussy?" I asked her, although I knew the answer.

    "It is," she said.

    "Do you always smell like pussy," I asked, "or is it just tonight?"

    "It's just the weekends," she said.  "One Friday night I went out and smelled like pussy, and I decided I liked it and would stick to it."

    "I think that was a good choice," I said.

    "Thank you," she said.  "Do you smell like anything?"

    "I'm not sure that I do," I said.

    "That's OK," she said.

    "Well thank you," I said.  "May I buy you a drink?"

    And three years later we were married.  At the wedding, her pussy rose to the occasion.  The ceremony was outdoors, but still we all could smell her.  I was proud and very happy.

    "I love you," I told her in front of the man who was not a rabbi.

    "And yet still you do not have an odor," she said to me.

    "I have the sperm taste," I said.

    "The sperm taste is not an odor," she said to me, "and the sperm odor," having anticipated my response, "is not an odor either."

    "Man and wife," said the man who was not a rabbi.

    I was walking down the street followed by a phalanx of all the girls I'd fucked or fondled when something caught my eye in a shopwindow; I stopped and was trampled.  No idea, I'd had no idea how much momentum they'd built up.  If it were a metaphor, what would it mean?  But it was not a metaphor.  I looked up from the pavement through stars and saw the girls disappear around a corner, as a unit, all skirts and legs and asses, a dirty Terry Gilliam cartoon.  Who knew they were so heavy and at the same time so light?

    But so I pulled myself painfully to my feet and brushed myself off and turned again to look into the shopwindow.  Inside were books, all books about me and how I should be.  I went in and a man took my bag and put it in a cubby except the cubby was just a chute into an incinerator, and my bag was incinerated.

    "Thanks a lot," I said sarcastically.

    "Huff my sac," the bagboy said, a little too angrily, I thought.

    Inside, the first thing I saw was a magazine rack, and the magazines were all about me.  One particularly shameless rag had a picture of one of my ex-girlfriends with my come coming out of her right nostril.  The really funny bit was, how did they get that picture?  Where could the camera have been?  Inside my torso?  Then I wondered, what if I was somehow responsible for having taken the picture?  What if I had unwittingly taken this embarrassing and intimate moment and put it in the glossy pages of a widely distributed periodical?  I leafed through and found that the magazine was printed in Norway.  Norway!

    Then I remembered a time when I was in Petersburg selling suicide weapons at a dictators' convention, and who should approach me in the lobby amidst the sad throng of tiny little uniformed men but Name Omitted, the cutest of all the cute girls from my college years.  I never thought to see her again, as we'd never had quite enough to carry us through the break she'd instigated, but here she was, smiling at me and spinning a pair of handcuffs on her finger.

    "I wouldn't want to sell you a suicide weapon," I said to her.  She took it to be a flirtatious gesture, and she was right.  So we went up to her hotel room and screwed ourselves silly, all the while with the littler dictators watching us from corners and falling like clumsy insects from the ceiling onto the bed.  We'd brush them aside with a laugh; we were in love! love!

    Then we lay in bed, nestling, and she told me she was to be married the next day and she wanted me to be the photographer.  I sat and brooded.  Who was this Name Omitted?  The memory already was fading even as she cut off the circulation in my right arm and caused my fingertips to swell alarmingly.  She brushed a dictator out of her pubic hair.

    "I won't let you marry him," I said.

    "Her," she said.

    "I won't let you marry either of them," I said.

    "Whom might I marry?" she asked.

    "Me," I said.

    She laughed a lovely laugh that I detested.  She thought I was being delightful.

    I was not being delightful.  I found nothing delightful at that moment, right then.  I kicked one of the creeping dictators rather viciously off the bed, and this made Name Omitted laugh some more and grab, this time, my penis with her hand.  Mutinously, it responded.

    "I detest you," I told her.

    She gave my penis a little tug and knew I was lying.

    I know nothing.

* Huh-huh...he said tool.

** Best thing I've ever written??