Jeremy S. Simmons
Chuck and Stephanie were drinking wine, listening to comedy records. They were into the third bottle and Chuck was wobbling. He was big, but hadn’t eaten since two-thirty; it was nine-fifteen. Flipping through albums, he thought that he was very horny, and needed to fuck Stephanie tonight, then he thought how they hadn’t done it since last Tuesday, it was Friday, and God-damn that moody, picky, frigid bitch. The words rolled around a screen behind his forehead, like the news ticker on the building in Times Square. Need to fuck; frigid bitch; repeat.
He picked Gilda Radner, put her on, and sat down next to Stephanie on the couch. They kissed a while until she grabbed his wrist because he was doing what she called twiddling the dials.
Chuck said, “Hunh?”
Ninety-seven seconds later they were screaming, and if you were outside their living room window on Walnut Street, you would’ve done a double take, because of how they were punching the air with their fingers, and how the spit was coming off their lips in snowy gobs.
Gilda sang, “Honey, touch me, with my clothes on.”
Chuck asked what the fucking hell Stephanie wanted him to do.
“Sweety, kiss me, with your mouth closed,” said Gilda.
Stephanie said she didn’t fucking—she swore as a reminder that she didn’t like it when Chuck swore—want him to do anything. Also, she said that Chuck obviously hadn’t the faintest idea how to touch her, and four years was more than enough time to learn to leave your girlfriend’s tits alone when she had her period and her nipples felt like giant cold sores on top of two black eyes and a hangover.
Gilda said, “Just like you love me, and I love you.”
Jeremy S. Simmons: 35 – Boston native, recently returned after nine years in NYC. Fiancee: Candice, 33 – poetess/model of fecundity. Future Stepson: Trevor, 5 – sweet devil/standup comic. Jeremy likes to write. E-mail: reficul_tpecca[at]yahoo.com.