It was that time of the month. You know, the time when I really wanted some sex.
It was the busiest of times and it was the slowest of times, because there’s nothing rational or productive about me as an adult devoting all my energies to pursuing sex. Engels may have challenged Marx on this point, but he was a bottom anyway.
I must have been on my B game, because this quest brought me to four houses, all of which started with a B. Once through the door, I and everyone else started crying for joy. No wonder they call it Blear House. All the emotions tend toward purging, and all eyes are full of tears. It was like Zeno’s paradox. Everyone held space for everyone else, so no one could get close enough for sex, but it’s the feelings that count.
How relieved I was to arrive at Bleat House. I cracked the door and saw couples smearing goat cheese all over each other. Was it aromatherapy, or some offshoot of silent disco, but not silent because of all the bleating? In any case, I decided feta was not a good lubricant, and walked away.
Next stop was Blood House. Naturally, this was dedicated to donating plasma. It was a bit exhausting, though I did experience a long line of tiny pricks. A nurse in a very short lab coat brought me fresh juice of blood red oranges. I hope someone, somewhere, benefits from having my life force put in them.
At long last, I arrived at Bleak House. There was a one-question screener: “Are you a lawyer?” I knew what this meant. Everyone was getting fucked in this place.
As I felt beatified by this belated bliss, a moral burned in my mind.
Don’t be aggressive. Don’t be sharp. Don’t be flat. Just be natural.