I love to burst into house parties full of unsuspecting strangers and exclaim, “Who’s down for an interracial gangbang? I know I am!” The pin drop pause that such an opener always gets approaches deafening, and in the silent secret fortress of my brain, I alone am laughing.
Before his return to Europe, Jason visited a final time and left with us some things he didn’t want to take onto the plane. These things included an ornamental knife and a large economy-sized tube of Astroglide.
“The people’s lubricant,” Dylan said.
“I enjoy this bulk version of keeping your woman moist,” I remarked. “It’s like, ‘Check it out babe, I don’t even have to get you excited. Just slap this onto ya, and we’re off to the races. With this big tube, it’ll be hours of undisrupted pleasure with zero of the usually necessary work and effort!’”
We had afterward some fun innocently placing the big boldly labelled bright purple item in random prominent positions around the house, and were privately amused every time we noticed that someone had without comment changed its location or outright hidden the tube.
When Audrey came over, I tossed the Astroglide at her and said, “Hey, Audrey, you forgot your lube.” The expression on my face was breezy, and my tone of voice was light. Emotions beginning with blitheness and warmth, passing through to bewilderment and perplexity, culminating in repulsion and alarm, flashed all across Audrey’s vivid face.
“That’s not mine!” said Audrey. “I’m not poor.” There was a surfeit of bolds and italics attached to her every uttered word. Audrey thrust the tube back at me, appalled. She said, “I’m not poor” again. I had to bite my lip pretty hard to keep from laughing, and to preserve my neutrality and coolness.
“Look, Audrey,” I said, “No judgment.”
Audrey glared.
I must mention that I do the biting lip to prevent destructive laughter thing a lot, it’s a wonder how I still have lips. Also I have no idea what did ever end up happening to that big tube of lube.
The cool thing about Chinatown is it doesn’t matter where you are, Chinatown is the same, it’s Chinatown the world over, there’s something wonderful and comforting about that. The ladies that work in Chinatown shops are also rampantly comparable, often they are the wives of the owners, hardworking, middle-aged, and indefatigable. When you enter their shops, they thrust shit at you and trumpet the quality and goodness of their wares with a greatly casual paradoxical disinterest. They barely even make eye contact as they mumble declarations along lines of, “You like. You want. You buy. Very nice. Special for you,” straight ahead into the air. It doesn’t matter what the shit is, or what shit you need, or what shit you might be interested in, to these Chinatown shopwomen, it’s all the same. These excellent ladies put little effort into their statements and encouragements toward purchase, but they always engage, however aimless and inattentive the engagement.
One blustery wintry day, we were in some Chinatown shop looking for a hat for my cold head. It was so terribly cold that day, I was desperate to buy anything warm enough and just put it on, concerns like fashion or cost took a back seat entirely. I considered my options for no more than a second, before the Chinatown shoplady thrust some headpiece at me and said, “You like. You want. Very good hat. I have best hats. Good hat. Special for you. You like. You buy. Perfect hat.” I put the hat on and it was so huge it slipped down over my face and my whole head. I could see through the large roomy fabric the shopwoman gaze briefly at me. With elaborate disregard, she shrugged her shoulders, looked dismissively into the horizon, made a “Hhhmyh” sound and declared, “Small head.” The Chinatown shoplady dexterously washed her hands of the whole affair. The unresolvable freak of nature that was my supposed too tiny head had certainly nothing at all to do with her wonderful hats.
“Small head,” she said again.
“Big hat,” I countered, peeved.
The Chinatown shoplady made another “Hhhmyh” sound and forged on with her dispassionate horizon gaze. She didn’t bother to accompany the “Hhhmyh” sound with a second shoulder shrug.
Dylan and I exited the shop without purchasing a hat. I had to suffer the winter cold and go it alone, my “small head” shrinking even further away and inward. Every once in a while and ever since, Dylan and I sometimes look at each other in unison without planning it, make a “Hhhmyh” sound and declare, “Small head.” Then we grin and chuckle or we laugh a lot. We do a similar thing with the word “vast,” but “vast” is a whole other story. Let me tell you though, it’s these small shared history moments and inside jokes that keep a love going and make a thing real and strong.
Hhhmyh. Small head.
My sister’s boyfriend has a big and beautiful penis. The only reason I know is because one morning I woke very early to go to the bathroom and there he was completely naked gazing at himself while shaving. For some reason he had an erection. It was massive and gorgeous. I was needless to say startled on all points. Later I relayed the news to everyone. My sister was embarrassed but proud. “I guess I was feeling good that morning,” my sister’s boyfriend said. He added, “Plus I really like shaving.” My sister’s boyfriend mistakenly seemed to think we all were more interested in why he had an erection rather than the fact that it was huge and exquisite.
My sister’s boyfriend got up far earlier than we did, because he worked very long and hard every day, and so was in bed much before us, and was thus forced to miss out on whatever fun we might still be having. He absolutely hated to miss out on all of the things.
One night we were giggling in the living room and a few times we laughed out loud. Suddenly my sister’s boyfriend stood partially dressed hectically before us with the world’s most worried expression upon the face. “What are you laughing about!” he shouted. He might as well have been wringing his hands. We paused and gazed at him deeply. Then in unison, at the exact same moment, we looked at each other, threw our heads back with eyes tight shut, and laughed uproariously. My sister’s boyfriend stood there pained. No one told him what was so funny. His beautiful erection was nowhere to be seen. It probably also wished it knew the story or joke, it likely was as sad and confused as he. When no elaboration outside of our loud laughing happened, my sister’s boyfriend hung his head, and went back to bed.
Dylan recently was dealing with a hater and we made the mistake of checking out the guy’s Facebook. Among the many light-hearted opinions and whimsical comments we saw this person finds solace in not being able to lock down a girl who likes to go shooting because then he only has to buy ammo for 1. The guy refers to women as cum dumpsters and feels giving ladies the right to vote is stupid and a waste. He dislikes people who make irksome distinctions between steroid muscle and nonsteroid muscle and offered the naysayers the chance to be punched in the balls by his steroid muscles so the beaten person could resolve whether the pain from the punch was real. There was so much more but we had to stop to catch our breathes. We reeled in fascination and amazement. I kinda wish now I was a politician involved in a political debate just so I can call my opponent a cum dumpster. This is all so wild and unthinkable and ferociously offensive it paradoxically approaches fun. How in the first place was this young man ever a fan?
My girlfriend says, “This girl, she’s a vampire and every time she has sex her hymen grows back and she’s a virgin again.” “Fascinating,” I say, “From what world doth this woman’s rare and diaphanous gift proceed.” “True Blood,” says my girlfriend. Matter-of-fact and with shrug. “That’s quite the plot device,” I say. “I enjoy for this hymen to be so substantial and apparently central to the greater narrative.” I speak in my ain’t nobody got time for that voice, even though clearly plenty of people do have time for exactly that. Regenerating hymens. Who in good conscience could really ask for more.
Back when I used to work at a newspaper assisting homosexuals to make sexual hook ups with greater immediacy and a higher rate of success, a lot of crazy fucked up shit would happen to me, even within the seven minute windows of my many randomly taken breaks for cigarettes and coffee.
I’d stand there at street level blinking in the sunlight smoking and drinking coffee and fielding constant comments and perpetual inquiries from all passersby. Drag queens serving daytime realness would accost me with entreaties to do their make up before their next big show. Cops driving by would honk and either give me knowing nods or subject me to a brief suspicion of passing scrutiny. Rentboys and drug dealers would offer services and products or bum smokes. Homeless people gave me sob stories that I quickly knew by heart. All these encounters occurred with a kind of clockwork consistency and many of the meetings were for the most part amusing, endearing and bearable, usually.
Some passing males however would darken my days with their forwardness and lack of anything at all approaching intelligence, grace, or chivalry. These men seemed to presume I was put on God’s earth literally for their sakes. They also assumed I was “specially equipped” and was just hanging around waiting for business to happen, or to score. In the simpleness of their minds and the thickness of their skulls, even the most faintly attractive stylized Asian female living or dead has got to be a ladyboy.
Put yourself for five seconds into my six inch stilettos and imagine how irritating and absurd it might actually be to deal with these rejects.
One man chatted me intensely up while I monosyllabically offered the odd reply. Suddenly this man leaned hard up against me to closely address my total face. He cocked his head vaguely in a certain key direction and huskily declared, “Listen. I don’t care what you got down there. I’m ready to go all day.” Obviously this man had aims and an advancement of skills to utterly redefine romance and bring things unforgettably to the “next level.” God knows how I found the strength to resist the magical delights he clearly had on offer. Surely I would never again in the rest of all my days receive a proposition that could be more gorgeous and enchanting. Knight in blazing armour, I mean, shit. “Thank you, but no,” I replied, “My calendar is pretty much booked.” Men really are retards flashed across my mind. I gazed neutrally around as I put out my smoke.
Later up in the office it was calling Vancouver time. My co-workers had a special dislike for making calls to BC because the province was overrun with rich Asians who could by all accounts barely speak English. In the din of all those one-sided conversations, I could hear a righteousness of annoyance and exasperation in many of my co-worker’s voices as they struggled to complete business with the Vancouver Asians. Statements were repeated loudly and slowly many times. “God! Speak English!” my co-workers would angrily afterward shout into the uninterested air amidst the sound of receivers being downward slammed. “Yeah!” I’d say, “Jesus. Come to our country, the least these chinky bastards could do is learn the goddamned language.” My co-workers mutteringly chorused casual agreement. “I mean,” I added, “if I went to China, I’d learn both Mandarin and Cantonese in five fucking minutes. Be the least I could do cause like. Go there. Take their jobs. I sure as shit should immediately and perfectly learn Chinese.” Here my co-workers would flounder a bit, losing the thread of wherever the fuck it was I was going.
For reasons including but not limited to the fact that my command of the English language approaches levels of both scathing and awesome, people when they are being racist and slamming “immigrants” for whatever unforgivable faults sometimes forget for quite a while before they notice or remember that at least one of the present company is in fact not white. That person with brutal usualness turns out to be me. Then commences the clumsiness of backpedaling. The more astute co-workers of quicker wit and greater awareness of their surroundings then suddenly cease with the Vancouver Asians Speak English complaining. The bright innocence of the look in my eyes I hoped spoke volumes; the abashed “oh shit” expression on some of my co-workers faces was nonetheless sufficient to amuse and appease.
“Nunich—how did you come to Canada?” one of my co-workers cautiously inquired. Her eyes were wide, her expression eager, and her tone of voice was carefully pleasant. In the sudden clarity of circumstance, girlfriend attempted a feigned interest in my personal refugee’s making it to the land of milk and honey story. “I walked,” I said. No one challenged the claim. “I mean,” I said, leaning forward and with a drop in tonal modulation to develop and deepen the conversational intimacy, “There was a boat of course but I didn’t do well with so much water. All that bobbing. No thanks. So I walked.” The bravery and brevity of my narrative was met with muted appreciation. The silence of the room felt very dense. “Long walk,” I added. Then I grinned with most of my teeth on display. The collective look I received was not comfortable. Nunich 1, Racist Co-Workers 0. Not that I genuinely enjoy “winning” in such moments, but when shit gets increasingly racist and the situation heads eye-rollingly south, it’s important to try for the teaching of a lesson, but it’s also important to still have fun. Winning is irrelevant.
“Apple can suck a bag of dicks.” Someone drunk and moderately famous said that once, right before he face planted spread eagle exuberant upon asphalt outside a sushi restaurant before startled passersby one particularly undomesticated evening. Tomorrow I fly away to be joyously reunited with certain exceptional humans. This group includes the face planter, I may or may not be married to him, and I look forward to saying, “My, my, Chicago, but you are windy,” as I deplane.
This morning I privately messaged a girl on Facebook to basically compliment her great figure and her wonderful boobs. I said I was particularly impressed when I learned that they weren’t fake as they are so beautiful in size, roundness, proportion, and cleavage. Then I said I’d leave things at that since I imagined it was probably a bit weird to suddenly get a message from someone praising you for the niceness of your bosoms. She was, taken aback, embarrassed, and self-conscious, but happy. Night Nurse spreads the love.
I skipped out of the house one night gleefully wearing my badass Yan Zombie tee, Dylan was standing by a waiting taxi ready to immediately denounce me since there he was dressed smartly in the man-sized version of the same badass tee. “Go inside and change,” he commanded, “You’re wearing the same t-shirt as me.” “Oh yay!” I responded radiantly, “How sweet and adorable! We are twins! Everyone will know we are in love and together! How ultra oh my God nice! This is what I’ve always enjoyed in mind, described and wanted! Matching outfits! Deeply in love! Jesus motherfucking shit hurray!” Dylan’s expression held clear the wordless message that only geeks and losers thought in such a painfully lame fashion and uncool way but Masia One was in my corner with her single clap and delighted giggling and so there we were happily dining proudly in public with our Wicked Wednesday group all twinned up seated side by side in our his and hers Yan Zombie tees. It’s true that Dylan’s hoodie was zipped tight all the way up but I’ll get that shit zipped open and totally down, you can pretty much goddamned count on it, what else am I goddamned here for, you’ll love, just wait, you’ll see.
On exiting the basement bathroom at a dark and crowded club, two girls were standing there with solemn expressions on their faces and they gazed at me. I half-smiled and one of the girls made an unblinking extremely subtle head gesture pointing down. In the smoky noise and murk of the environment, I couldn’t quite make out what she was referencing. She had a kind of “Check it out, you dropped something” expression upon her sober face so I kept my half-smile by way of thanks and bent down to pick that shit up. It was a small greyish little fluffy thing so while reaching for it, I managed to convince myself I dropped a mitten even though I sure as shit didn’t wear any goddamned mittens out that night. As I reached for the mystery item, it felt soft and warm and moved in a greatly unexpected startled and sudden way. It circled tinily, nipped me and scurried off! It was a goddamned tiny motherfucking mouse! I went, “Oh fuck” and “Jesus” and “What the shit” and “Eeeek.” The girl’s facial expression said, “See?” I was like, “You’re goddamned right I see! Thanks fucking a lot!” I told the story immediately later to another girl who only halfway paid attention. Then with terrorized delayed-reaction eyes she gripped my wrist and said, “This place has mice!!!!!??!!!!!!!?!!” I was like, “What do YOU goddamned think? I mean. What is this story about!”
One evening at a girlfriend’s house, we were discussing some bullshit in her kitchen. We talked as I watched her fill her dog’s water dish up, carefully pour it out, then fill it up again. She performed this action five times. The maneuverings occured with such an unthinking and measured precision it was almost like girlfriend didn’t even notice what was up. She didn’t skip beats. There was the air of ritual to it and she kept up with the chatting the whole time. When I interrupted to ask her what the fuck she was doing, she said she always did that because she’d bring upon herself “bad luck” if she didn’t. I asked her how deeply had she tested this theory. Like how about some time she didn’t do the whole fill the water dish slowly up, pour it out again, do this five times thing. No way! She said. Did I already forget about the “then there would be bad luck” part. Clearly all that careful filling and pouring didn’t protect her from being a crazy superstitious water-wasting basketcase but of course I didn’t say this thing. The moral of the story is that life is beautiful and people are weird. There might be more morals but those are for you to find and decide. I can’t do everything.
While I of course do miss my heroic handsome housemates when they’re gone, it’s fun doing things like listen to my deranged music at upsetting volumes while sauntering around the place to wholly enjoy and mentally praise its relentlessly immaculate boyfree state and, when the urge strikes, (this is often), vacuuming the floors and the stairs joy-filled, shameless and naked. Also too I gobble with impunity all the dismal gruesome latest in gossip and celebrities.
Once I found myself staring with dead feverish eyes for some thankfully brief moment at a behind-the-scenes photo shoot video of some big-breasted blonde contorting herself into absurd nearly up-side-down positions and all the while maintaining a presence and air that was as unconscious and relaxed as it was deliberately sexy. I topped this private time-wasting surfing and viewing session by appraising random editorials of the models for Victoria’s Secret. Another night too, I spent some time openly admiring Kim Kardashian’s buxom rear. Especially in certain dresses, girlfriend’s got a beautiful rear.
Normally with others here, I have to be very much on my toes. Be capable of closing all such gravely incriminating browser tabs with lightning immediacy, should Dylan or anyone else suddenly materialize, appear without warning, standing in judgment and gazing levelly at my computer screen for God knows how long from a position of silence and power behind me. Getting busted in such gruesome fashion always sucks and deeply. Heavy-hearted and terrible, those moments. Difficult to bounce back from, act like that shit just never happened, keep the expression scholarly, the face at all costs straight. Goddamnit, don’t you judge me, I swear I’m doing important work. There is no God but God and Muhammad is his prophet.
Dylan was lying around for many hours late into the day spread eagle naked in bed with the patterned duvet twisted voluptuously round his middle like a puffy loin cloth and a bunch of pillows highly piled upon his face. He offered up the occasional loud sigh feeling sorry for himself while nursing a hangover. Dylan then began to call my name in piteous tones several times till graciously I appeared. “What is it, darling,” I inquired in my nicest I love you so much and I’m your nurse voice. “Fly,” came the muffled reply from a face buried beneath pillows and pain. I resisted the instinct to roll some eyes and set my attention with an elegance of speed to the audible languid sound of invisible buzzing. The buzzing of flies is by nature both relentless and annoying. I love life and living creatures but my love stops pretty much short of flies. In the absence of a fly swatter, I grabbed a discarded t-shirt to use for whip and kill maneuvers. The fly was hidden and moving in among the window’s many curtain folds and it buzzed with persistent interminability. I tried for several minutes unsuccessfully to cajole it into sight so I could kill it. “Mr. Fly,” I said in a bold low voice devoid entirely of nonsense, “Come out.” Dylan giggled from beneath his pillow pile. Ignoring him I said again more sternly, “Mr. Fly, I’m serious.” The fly paid me zero mind, remained with a casual confidence completely hidden and continued buzzing. “I like how the fly should respond to you,” Dylan said, “only when your voice is deep.” “Well!” I said, “You must mean business. Animals are like kids. They listen only to men. They don’t take women seriously.” Dylan giggled again. I gazed for a meaningful moment at the pile of pillows where a face should be, gave the project up and sauntered huffily out of the room. Dylan can take care of his own damned fly, I don’t care how hung over that motherfucker is.
Tea at Camilla’s is as much an enjoyable experience as it is a challenge that approaches something like pain. It’s as strained and upsetting as it is fascinating and fun. For all the great beauty and grandeur of Camilla herself and of her home and living room, I feel at times a private tension and secret discomfort.
Camilla serves gossamery hors d’oeuvres and superior tea all gorgeously arrayed upon a beautiful ornate tray. I smile brightly. She smiles brightly.
“Thanks Camilla,” I say,”You shouldn’t have.”
“It’s nothing! Nothing!” says Camilla.
We drink the tea in slight slow sips and share small talk and stories. I am careful not to let my thoughts and conversational compulsions stray too far away from “the mark.” I’m one of those people that talks with great animation and passion about whatever’s disjointedly on my mind and what’s on my mind isn’t at all always nice, safe, pretty, or sweet. Sometimes I’m preoccupied with terrible things and I want to talk about them. These things might include anything from political corruption, religious exploitation, violence, rape, war, murder, death, or animal abuse.
“Oh darling. Must we talk about those things,” Camilla says whenever I’ve accidentally strayed into undesirably troublesome territory. “It’s such a beautiful day. Please. Let’s not be depressing.”
“My apologies, Camilla,” I answer, “I’m just not 24-7 thinking only about designer handbags, celebrities, television shows, and gossiping.” Camilla sets her eyes to glaze while I finish. We both then with a pointed silence and neutrality drink our tea.
“I just don’t feel like thinking about exploitation, corruption, murder, death, and rape,” Camilla says.
“I’m sure the people being exploited, corrupted, murdered, and raped probably would also rather not be thinking about exploitation, corruption, murder, and rape.” I only think this response, I do not say it, because such relentless argumentation is sure to ruin tea.
The silence between us becomes more pointed and less neutral.
“Well!” Camilla says finally, “So. How are you. How are you.” The second how are you is a glory of auricular italics.
“Fine,” I reply, “Glorious and fine.” My glorious and fine fairly matches Camilla in terms of award-winning emphasis, to the point where it might actually pass for rude. I nibble primly upon the gossamery hors d’oeuvres. Camilla pulls from literally nowhere a dust buster petite and pretty in its design, and dust busts my blouse front to vanquish all crumbs almost before they can even happen. The whir of the little machine drowns my conversation mostly out and so I pause.
“Go on!” Camilla urges, “I’m listening! Go on!”
I wait nonetheless until she finishes with the loudly disruptive suddenness of the dust busting. I have no idea how clearly readable is the expression on my face. Mentally I think my expression couldn’t be louder or clearer as to the content of its meaning, but something tells me Camilla likes willfully to be blithe and blind to such silently loud and blatant things.
“Do you have to dust bust me every time I reach to eat?” I ask once the machine whirs to a stop. “I mean. Couldn’t you just give me one good final busting once I’ve finished with the food.” Camilla flushes, laughs ethereally and makes a gesture with her hand that is as dismissive as it is dainty.
“I just like to keep things nice and tidy!” She says, and adds in a low conspiratorial voice, “You know how it is.” Seeing as I too am often an unreasonably compulsive obsessive perfectionist neatness freak, I do in fact know “how it is,” but even I don’t barbarously dust bust the lap and shirt front of the person seated next to me while they try with innocence and discretion to eat.
“Anyway,” I say with a fixed and luminous smile, “Great crumpets.”
“Those aren’t crumpets,” says Camilla.
Dylan was fucking with my vibe which he does sometimes and we wordlessly argued a bit by what we did but didn’t say till I shouted, “Stop being destructive with your actions!” He said, “I’M NOT.” I said, “You’re a big pile of poo, that’s what you are” with the elaboration, “You’re a dirty diaper that hasn’t been changed in MONTHS.” This is how we fight, this is how we argue. I could hear Rd staying out of it, keeping to himself and quietly snickering in his room. Dylan after a shocked pause commented, “I get you a bit of booze and now look at you.” For the record, I look goddamned beautiful.
By the unexpected chance of a series of sudden events, Dylan and I found ourselves caught all up in Paris on Bastille day along with a million other people there to soon enjoy what would eventually amount to be one of the greatest fireworks display experiences of our lives ever, second only to perhaps Burning Man, the one before last year’s.
While we anyway before the show were riding the streetside tide of hundreds of thousands of locals and tourists alike, we saw a nearby happy woman in a short flouncy dress skipping with great carefree jauntiness hand in hand with probably her lover or boyfriend or husband.
Scrutinizing her with an air of compassion and delicacy, Dylan said, “That woman has a very unfortunate… stain upon the hem of her dress.”
I looked at the place addressed and indeed there was a stain that was exactly as unfortunate as Dylan described. The immodest markings were of a clearly fecal variety and devastating in their public visibility. Everything was in keeping with what might happen if a person not wearing an adequacy of underwear enacted Biological Business #2, didn’t wipe completely or properly, sat upon the hem of their short flouncy skirt and then at some sorrowful subsequent point walked rapturously round again.
“Hm,” I said carefully, “It is looking a bit—a-‘poo’-calyptic down there.”
Dylan said, “I’m not im-‘poo’-ressed.”
I said, “She likely won’t win any ‘poo’-pularity contests.”
When the poo puns ran dry, the rest of our company ignored us while we descended into a shared experience of giggling like retards.
Once I rushed upon my sister from behind to exclaim exuberantly about some stupid shit. I clutched bright-eyed and exultant upon her hand. She turned around and she was just SOME ASIAN. I was horrified. So was not my sister. The universe swirled into an unspeakable black hole standstill while we gazed with arctic alarm and a profoundness of dread deep into each other’s eyes. There was no love or recognition there, only confusion and fear. My grip upon this stranger woman’s Asian hands meanwhile was transgressive and severe. Finally one of us summoned sufficient strength to wrench themselves away. Think it was her. God. All look same.
This morning again doing my work outside and enjoying life on our bright big mountainside deck, a radiantly coloured densely designed purposeful little hummingbird came from clear blue sky and blazing sunshine rushing down at me with such speed and suddenness I ducked a little, it seemed at first like a brightly coloured high speed pocket baseball aimed with alarming directness straight for my head. The venturesome fast-winged palpitating exquisite creature hung flutteringly suspended for awhile in an enchanting display of gorgeousness that was as dispassionate as it was divine. Then it went beak first bearing down confidently hard right into one of our brightly tinted long-stemmed solar powered glass flowers that we have spiked at intervals into the surrounding mountain ground that edges the deck. There was a terrible bonking noise as the hummingbird rebounded out and off as hard as it had gone down and in. The tiny nectar-seeking New World darling made a discernibly upset confused displeased surprised bird sound. It seemed then to level a gaze accusatively at me that judged me responsible totally. Given the ability, this bird would have flipped me the bird and would have been sufficiently justified in the doing. I regarded with appreciation the brilliant iridescence of his plumage and felt sorry. “Ah,” I said to myself, “that is not so good. Should have seen that one coming. Poor little swindled impeccable thing.” Cause as kind of funny as that all was, it also kind of wasn’t. So I gathered up the brightly tinted long-stemmed solar powered glass flowers and grouped them in such a way that they were still enjoyably visible to us humans but more obscured and inaccessible to all potential further nectar-seeking winged creature visits. Little Mr. Beautiful’s probably still puzzled and provoked out and high up there somewhere. Hope it eventually found some legitimate sweet delicious nectar for real.
I asked my roommate where a friend of ours who was visiting had gone and then I answered my own question by saying, “Carl’s right.” Then I corrected myself and said, “Hot Carl.” Next I asked my roommate exactly why Carl is referred to as “Hot Carl.” Eventually I regretted my too casual inquiry into this matter. The first explanation was fine since one of our friends likes Carl and this makes him hot. The second explanation was exceptionally convoluted and involved a lengthy tangent about a bunch of other people and the crazy nicknames they had for their little-legged wiener dogs. The final explanation ultimately was not something I really wanted at all to know so very much about. Apparently it’s some specialty connoisseur type sex move wherein Person A is having hot sex with Person B. Then Person A suddenly stops to take a surprise attack steaming dump upon the unguarded torso of Person B. This regimented series of explicit action is for no discernible reason called a Hot Carl. Right. So there’s that. I’d love to say “to each his own” but that has to be about the dumbest sex move I have ever heard. Sexy Time is over once someone gets the bright idea to abruptly pull a Hot Carl. God. Humans.
