Do We Need Cynar? 12

August 28, 2012

Whose mutt was that? Was Z dog-sitting? Was it Z’s idea to have a staff retreat in the Rockaways? And what was I doing there, and where was that old bowl of soup I’m married to? Cooking class sounds right, but why bother even guessing? I was following M as she crawled around the blankets like a puppy, laughing at her jokes, like the one about hosting a wine-and-cheese party in her vagina, what was she even talking about? Does M only filter herself at work and elsewhere will try whatever line no matter how half baked?

Hadn’t she called it off with me a week before and already said she was moving in with the internet guru? Steve, or Sean, who came into the restaurant on a Saturday hours after service had begun and said, Want to know who this guy [pointing thumbs to his chest] is consulting for this week? And M stopped folding napkins and played with her hair all girly and said, Who? And SeanSteve said, The motherfucking city government, Bloomberg, baby, isn’t that sweet? M said yes and kissed him on the cheek and said, Does it pay well? And what did he say? Fuck yeah, it does? Or: Ten grand, but loudly, he’s tacky like that, like, Hey all employees and patrons, listen up, have you heard I’m making ten grand consulting for some government website? How do you feel about this guy using your tax dollars to pay for this lady’s [thumbs pointing to M] birth control? And sho wants to know what SEO is and how I swindle companies into paying me to sprinkle SEO dust on their e-commerce sites? Who wants to have internet chat with Sam the internet guru?

But that mutt: Wasn’t it me, Z, M and the mutt in the backseat on the way home, with Robbie driving? We were sandwiched back there tightly and M’s wet sandy leg was against mine, and if we had still been at it I would  have whispered, Your leg’s giving me full-on bone , and she would have said, Why does it always have to be about your boner? Yeah, why is it always about my boner?

Wasn’t Z smoking out the window with a hand on the mutt’s head and talking about the horse farm on Jamaica Bay was we passed it: Who has enough money to take their kid horseback riding, but not enough money to go somewhere better than Queens? Did he see what M pulled? Was it the mutt’s front paw or back paw? She took a paw and stroked my thigh with it, his nails catching my trunks, slowly up to the waistband, and back down to my bare leg, and back up, and the whole time she was shooting me a pout, like, Take me back, you know I’m just a human, don’t you? Did she stop because I looked at her like, I’m going to murder you someday? Or did she think Z would catch her using the mutt as a torture device? Doesn’t she keep her cruelty discreet?

Wasn’t the mutt smiling and tongue-out panting the whole time? Such a happy weapon, thinking something like, Where am I? Am I a dog or a person like these people? Or are they dogs too? And surely nothing like, I wonder if later tonight this guy will scratch his thigh as he beats off in order the replicate the sensation of my paw being dragged against his leg by this evil woman?

If someone were to do that, it wouldn’t count as masturbating to a dog, would it?

What is M doing right this second? Massaging poor Sven’s shoulders as he clackity clacks on his laptop? Oh Sven, how will tri-state area Cinnabon franchises rank higher in local Google results? What sort of keywords could you load their pages with?

What’s he like in private, with only M around? Does he still bellow like he bellows in my restaurant, like: This guy loves the dinner you made me, baby, or: This guy is ready to watch an old Sopranos and hit the hay?

What is Scotty Boy’s dick like?

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