6 A.M. Day After Christmas

I have a date.
No, not the good kind.

The kind with coffee and spite, and I don’t even like coffee.

All because of human nature, wrapping ourselves up in our little narcissistic tendencies so that we cannot distinguish between when we are thought of and when we are thought about.

And we all (though some more than others) cultivate some kind of inner ecosystem replete with life. There’s Guilt, Ego, Pride, Anger, Sloth, Lust, Vengeance, Calm, Neurosis, Self-satisfied all fucking and killing and dying together daily.

And what preoccupies my hours of silence? Half truths, whole lies, a clinical interest in the gut-clenching orgasms of others

And I look on in mild disgust at the idea of a boy and a girl fucking. Kind of like how I see little children still shitting in their diapers, jaundice pearls of snot dripping from nostrils.

Except I expect incontinence from little children and diapers bordered with cartoon characters go unnoticed but Depends shock, an affront to any sense of dignity.

A full grown man crapping his pants.
Because he hasn’t got a reason not to and it feels good.

And to approach it, perhaps the best way is cold and aloof. A necessary function devoid of desire, mere mechanical upkeep. Devoid of his warm breath on the back of her neck, for reasons too complicated to explain, and you wouldn’t get it anyway.

And there is no thin loop of copper metal in the uterus to keep it from welcoming life, a strip of it hanging down through the cervix to nudge his prick.

Without a plastic bag of condoms and lube, without anticipation or premeditation. Carefully collected and hoarded like an obsessive hobbyist, each one with an accompanying fantasy for when the neat little rolled edge is pulled up and the spiral-ribbed-ultra-thin-for-her-pleasure-prelubricated-rescepticle-tipped-
but-it’s-still-a rubber tumbles out.

And there is no little patch, baige and paper-thin, pasted to her buttock allowing minute amounts of hormones to seep through the skin so that there isn’t even any potential life to reject.

Because it was never about the fantasies that accompanies each little prophylactic communion wafer. No more illusions of passion, just the certain conclusion of masturbation. And passion is an illusion, after a time couples have learned all the little secrets and tricks of each of the partners and it might as well be masturbation. And it’s a bitter mix of disgust and smirking superiority with which she can know exactly how he’s going to ball her tonight.

And there is always the smell of latex.