Don't Believe Everything You Hear
by John Dooley
 
 

I go in for coffee at the usual place on my way to work. But instead of the accustomed espresso packing cherubim girl with straw brown and coveralls, today she's behind the counter with a matronly Moo Moo Mama who is well over 300 pounds, stuffed into corduroy overalls, and her paps are practically in her socks.

And when the Moo Moo Mama grinds her buttery thighs up to me, I order my usual. Mocha Mocha Mocha, Generalisimo Grande. Even though I know there is no such thing on the menu. And no, I don't think it's cute when I order that. I'm as surprised as anyone when they repeat it back to me like imbecile parrots.

"Mocha Mocha Mocha, Generalisimo Grande?"

I say, "ya." And they make it.

So, I'm walking off, frenching up a huge vanilla pudding breast of whip cream off my Mocha Mocha Mocha, Generalisimo Grande, and I hear young coveralls say to sock yams, "I just don't think my boyfriend respects me enough to be myself."

I resist the urge to blurt something out that would disparage her questionable use of personal choice such as 'Who cares?' And I think to myself, I want to overhear someone bitch about his or her relationship with someone like ME--to hear complaints outside of the usual moribund gripes.

I want to hear a tangent about a relationship where the offending partner got caught trout spanking someone's dirty little sister. Or someone left her kids in the hands of a controversial faith healer in Poka-Joob and rode a world class swimmer to Barcelona.

I don't want to know he bites his toenails or doesn't like the same herbal-tofu toothpaste as you. Or that she hides nude photographs of old boyfriends along with industrial dildos in her panty drawer. Or that she or he farts in bed. That's what beds are for!

I want to hear that after the bitch bit a nipple off, stole your inheritance and broke your puppy's cherry, she ungratefully left the toilet seat glued down.

Or that she came home early to find you engaged in a group Titty-slap with twenty topless pizza delivery girls.

What I don't care if I ever hear again, is "She doesn't like having sex." To cut down on repeat offenders, I'll let you know right now, that means she doesn't want to have sex with you. Not me, or Jimmy the Fist, or other deserving fellows. It means you don't get to hold your filberts in the same county as her, until she conjures a believable fantasy--enough to blind her to your phallic lame ass blundering. And what I don't want, ever, to hear again, is, "He isn't sensitive to my needs."

What that says to me, besides the fact that you have too many needs, is that you don't deserve shit, let alone a lover.

You need to have an asshole that functions properly, or you'll die. Anything else qualifies as a desire.

Try to remember what it is that you really need: A working body that takes your brain where it wants to go.

I want to overhear someone bitch about their relationship with me. My fetish for bizarre masks, and how every time I mount I'm never John Dooley, but a spooky Tiki Ghod! Or Frankenfuck! Captain Picard engaging the Borg! Or Popeye, with arcane phosphorescent spinach squirting everywhere! Casper the cunnilingual ghost.

How I burn blouses with errant cigarettes while I talk excitedly about my quirky exploits, and endlessly test small harness inventions on the pets, while I perform Psychic Tonsillectomies with der viener-scalpel. I want to overhear when my lover complains to a friend that the spurs hurt.

Tonight I'm buying some hippie-bib-cover-over-alls. Drinking a pint of Jim Beam. I'm popping two date rape pills and heading out for a Mocha Mocha Mocha, Generalisimo Grande and a new relationship. One I can be proud of.

And if I end up with the Moo Moo Mama instead of the doe eyed straw brown, then that's just the way it's going to have to be.