Nunquam Ante Numquam Iterum (Never Before, Never Again)

 

I regret the glance I made toward the couch, forgetting you are not on the couch. You’ll never be on that couch again—never again. I go out, not expecting much, not expecting anything, really. No couches with an imaginary you upon them out there, I’d expect that. 

 

Hour later, I’m barely screwed to a barstool, when this flame-cheeked, top-knotted, Caesarian laurelled, middle-age- ginger-snapping-baby-geezer, comes up to me wearing a tight, clear, tiger costume, with footed, visibly stained Green Eggs and Ham pajamas underneath, and spits in my Appletini.

 

Blatantly, this unremarkably bland “everyman” slaps me across the face, slaps my ears so I’m deaf, and he’s yelling “MUMMYAMMABOOBOO! MUMMYAMMA-BOOBOO.” He grabs me by the head and forces a beer down my gullet, throws a shot of Old Crow in my face, forces me to dance topless with the band, makes me read and edit his novella.

 

He shoves me in the shoulder, knees me in the ribs, shows his girlfriend's diary, makes me critique his office blueprints, cuffs me to the wheel and makes me drive from dive to dive, makes me stop and start the car, makes me pick up his wife and carry her from a bar, grope her, at pistol point, while I blow red lights! He makes me call him Countess QuackerPucker.

 

She fellates his handgun grip and bullets tumble to the car floor as I careen onto the freeway. Who ARE these cackling deviates!?

 

“PULL OVER!” he yells, “NOW FUCK TRUDY’S TITS RIGHT HERE IN THE CAR!” and I fuck Trudy’s tits right there in the car, then demands I blast to his house, crash into their garage, watch them masturbate each other in the kitchen, but on the flaming stove, there’s a monkey eating spaghetti, with an overturned colander on his head, while they enjoy figs stuffed with pimentos and Roquefort, and you can guess where they were stuffing them. 

 

I try to sneak out, but Trudy kicks me in the balls from behind! Countess QuackerPucker demands I fuck him in the ass, but I can’t get it up, so it just presses there against him, and no one laughs but me. Because I’m nervous. And I fear for the soulless flaming monkey.

 

He makes me cook, she makes me clean. They make me feed their cats… in little pieces to the dog! They make me say, “I want to stay, do it again,” but I am SICK of that expectation. I steal the gun and shoot holes in the waterbed. I tell them… [NOON – KWUM – ANTE - NOOM – KWUM - EAT – A – RUM]! Never before, Never again!

 

Back home, I sit with a sniffle, feeling like piffle. Glance accusingly toward your ghost, regretting the gesture. Regretting the couch.