A Romantic Interlude
No apologies for what you're about to read
I used to know this guy many years ago. Good looking, kind of a dafty in an endearing way, like when you see a fancy cat suddenly do that two-legged walk with its hands out when it gets scared. He looked like Christian Slater in Heathers, but if Christian Slater laughed like HURHURHURHUR and had a Yorkshire accent.
We had chemistry, but the time was never quite right, or we were too awkward to do anything about it. One of those “no idea how to be a human person” situations.
One new year’s eve, very drunk and after a classically disappointing party, we ended up sharing a bed, out of convenience1 more than anything. We spooned, and he nervously asked for a little bit of skin on skin contact and just rested his hand on the dip of my waist. I think neither of us turbo nerds dared push it, so nothing else happened and we went to sleep.
The next morning, I came back from the bathroom and opened the bedroom door to find him bent double, putting his boxers on. I had a front row seat to his weird angry-looking red balls swaying in the breeze and winking arsehole on full display. Much like looking at an eclipse with your bare eyes, the image was burnt on to my retinas. “HURHURHURHUR,” he goes, “soz boz!”
For quite some time afterwards, any time I spoke to him I could only see him like this:
So that put an end to all that.
I would share a bed with an homunculus made of human turds rather than sleep on the floor anywhere ever again.