Always a Treat, but Nothing Special
by Austin Nash
illustration by Ocean Foster
Who fucked who, and what did it do? What about that flimsy rendezvous between those two? What was his name? Hers was Belle, and I heard she got rung. Why not lick and tell about something so strictly personal? Were my eyes deceiving me, or did I see K coming out of Mercury with J last Saturday? She claims she only let him “hot dog bun” her.
I was going to ask S next door out on a date two nights ago, and I didn’t mean to overhear her, but I was listening through the wall and it sounded good. Then through the keyhole I saw T come out of there looking sheepish and tucking in his shirt. Too late again. Man, I’ve got no guts. I can’t make myself follow up old T. Who would want to?
Well, who fucked who, and how did she do it? I thought she spent all of her time on the phone? No? I guess not. I heard that she took her ex to Bermuda over her current beau, and he was pissed. I brought it up, of course. Said “Hey Pandora, who did you let into your box?” She assured me that she didn’t do it to him. Didn’t let him “ride the big bike.” She told you that too, huh? That’s not the way I see it, no, you’ll never convince me of that. Things aren’t that clean these days, never were. What? No, I didn’t know she was screwing C for three months. My boss may want to keep a look out behind him from now on. You work with her… I’m beginning to think you didn’t play your cards right. I thought there was only supposed to be one winner in a game of poker, but it’s beginning to look like we’re the only ones who lost.
You and me pal. We couldn’t screw a dead dog in the ass between the two of us. What I don’t get, however, is when you have to sit and listen to them cry. Where are all these people with hurt feelings? They might say… well, here’s an example.
“I got invited to X’s party and D didn’t, and I’m pretty sure her feelings are going to be hurt, but hey, what do you do, ya know?”
Somewhere I feel like there’s a place for people in heaven. And hell. Then there’s a big gathering at the “Hurt Feelings Ballroom.” Picture this: I come home dragging my feet and I say, “Guess what, J? My feelings got hurt today.” Sob. Snivel. “Aw, come on pal. Does your pussy hurt today?” Slap on the back. “Knock it off. It’ll be OK. Just you and me… you and me… and me.”
I had lunch with R today. She’s made for a good time, I tell you. A little loud, but I wouldn’t say unrefined. She’s on her way to Miami tomorrow for 10 days where I doubt she’ll do much standing. When she comes back, I think I’ll try and tuck a screw under her hem. She told me she took the ball bearings out of it. The ones that keep it from blowing up in the wind. She says all girls sew them in like that these days. Of course “all” is always a lie.
I really miss you baby, and if you’ll believe me, I’ll tell you that the only reason I fucked A was because I thought you fucked M because X told me so.
So tell me. Who the hell did screw you?
