For the longest time my sexual fantasies involved me in a long pastel negligee, swanning into a sunny living room where a salt and pepper gentleman caller is awaiting me with a fully charged rabbit pearl in hand. Sometimes I’d swap the generic silver fox for Mr. Burt Reynolds himself. After having hours of sex in a bedroom covered wall-to-wall in vinyl monstera leaves, we’d go to the dinner theater where the conversation usually revolved around Mr. Burt asking how he could better prioritize my pleasure —the big band music roaring on in the background. …
Partners come in many forms. The ethical and trendy choice lately has been to shop local: seeking out partners organically through friends of friends, in the workplace, or maybe even at Target. Perhaps you are more of an arm chair dater and prefer to slide into a virtual inbox of some sort — we don’t recommend this one (read: telling someone they “look really good” after not seeing them since high school). But maybe, you are looking for a more unique and challenging experience. You’re a self-described overachiever and people can’t quite figure out why you’re still single. If this…
“No one told me that stooling yourself to death was one of the symptoms of COVID-19,” I said to my friend as we eyed up the industrial sized packs of toilet paper being guarded by a police officer at Costco. I grabbed my one allotted pack of TP and headed to Target next. I figured that if everyone was making a mad dash to grab toilet paper, then they would do the same for tampons (spoiler alert: they didn’t). And not knowing the true magnitude of what the pandemic had in store had my mind cosplaying near-apocalyptic scenarios where I’m…
“Do you know who I am?” A man in a white jersey emblazoned with a stitched number seven asks me. Of course I knew who it was. Standing there in the middle of a Target in front of the tampons was the Buffalo Bills starting quarterback from 1998–2000.
“You’re Doug Flutie!” I wrapped my arms around his neck to give him the tightest squeeze possible. I then woke up to the strange taste of corn flakes in my mouth (See: Flutie Flakes)and to the startling realization that I was no longer eight years old and that one of my childhood…
It was the kind of tired that didn’t necessitate the usual six episodes of Forensic Files to coax me into a slumber. On this night, the narration of someone’s murder would not be putting me to sleep. No sooner had my subconscious pulled me into my typical dreamscape of catholic churches and Bravo television personalities than some flying monkeys violently erupted on the scene. I startled myself awake to discover the culprit behind the noisy interlopers: a cacophony of howls and extremities flapping, taking place on the roof directly outside my bedroom window.
“Those sons of bitches are having a…
I sat on the carpet and pretended to be engrossed in the Montel Williams show coming through the giant console television in front of me. But what I was really focused on was behind me: my grandmother—known affectionately as Mother — in her easy chair the same color as a baked potato. She was clicking her pinky and thumbnails back and forth, biding her time until she’d light her next Marlboro Red cigarette.
Mother has always maintained one exceptionally long thumbnail on her right hand. The other nails are comparatively shorter but still pretty long by normal standards. The thumbnail…
I don’t need to set an alarm anymore. My brain’s like, “No. I got you!” And every morning at around 7:50 AM, Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s in the Cradle” plays in my head and jerks me out of my sleep. Chapin’s hit song entered my subconscious a few months ago and has since given himself an underwear drawer and spare key.
The first sign something was amiss appeared one morning shortly after I mustered up the energy to log roll from one side of my bed to the other. As my big toe made contact with the carpet, that intro riff…
I walk along the harbor’s edge with the law clerk who is borderline incoherent on Slack no matter what time of day. We are eating very long hot dogs and recounting our mornings at the stressful and important law firm where we work. He says, “It’s okay. You’ll get used to it,” gesticulating the whole time with about a foot of his hotdog wiggling out beyond its bun. We make it back to the office, which is filled with folks hunched over, working at those $9.99 end tables from Ikea. One of the lawyers pulls me aside.
“Hey, off the…
Fiction
I thumb through a dating app late one night, letting the answers to prompts swirl around in my head. The editorial patterns reach absurd predictability:
Oddly attracted to facial scars, big noses, nerdy girls with glasses, girls in STEM, crazy chicks.
Be down to earth, be outgoing, be kind.
I want someone who can handle my bullshit, call me on my bullshit, deal with my bullshit.
I know the best spot in towns for brews, tacos, tacos and guac, tacos and margaritas.
I am overly competitive about everything.
Find me at the party near the dog.
I swipe until the…
Hey, you. Yeah, you, with your exposed cinder-block foundation and twisty wrought iron balustrade. Thank you for letting me sit on you. You’ve provided me with a welcome escape from the living room throughout this global pandemic.
You make a superb platform to sit upon to cast disapproving stares at passersby and an excellent barrier to that guy who walks by everyday around 5 pm and shoots me the finger guns, “Eyyyy. Ya got the best seat in the house.” Thank you, sir. I don’t need to be told.
When I stumble home and collapse on you — letting out…
