I haven’t gotten ass in ages.
Has it been seven, eight weeks? It’s hard to keep track. I used to get ass anytime, anyplace. I’d get ass at the office. I’d get ass on the subway. I’d get ass going out for pizza. I’d get ass walking the dog. Sometimes I’d even get ass sitting on the couch. I got so much ass I wore a hole in the back pocket of Tim’s cords.
Along with Charger, Keys, and yes, stupid iPhone, I was the most important thing in the world and I had the leathery, sat-upon face of an aging movie star to prove it. What does precious iPhone have, a cracked screen? iPhone is trash, I’m timeless. Or at least that’s how I used to feel. Now, without ass, I’m nothing, a flap of dog-chewed leather left on the dresser.
I can trace my dry spell back to an otherwise unremarkable day in March. Tim skipped work to take me to the liquor store, the grocery store, and to CVS to stock up on Propecia (shhhh) and toilet paper. Toilet paper! I thought he was planning a romantic evening to make up for leaving me in the bathroom at Chili’s a few nights earlier. I hoped it involved the butt.
That afternoon, we took Scooter for a walk. (Scooter because he scoots on the sidewalk to wipe—clogged anus, I’m afraid.) Tim was on precious iPhone the entire time and didn’t once take me out. He put Mom on speakerphone and said that he was stocked up and ready to take a long vacation from pants. With a flex of the sphincter and a dainty groan, a fart burbled out, hitting me full in the face. I couldn’t help but feel incredibly loved.
A separate trip to the ATM later that night left me bloated. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d carried two twenties—that’s in addition to a Dunkin’ Donuts punch card, a credit card, and three damp receipts.
I figured my time alone with Tim would be epic: no Keys, no iPhone. Just us.
At home, Tim turned on the shower and pulled off his cords. Thanks to that hole in his back pocket I got a peepshow from my heap on the floor, my eyes trained right on that ass. Tim scratched, squatted, clipped his toenails. What a tease, making me jealous of Toilet Seat. Ha!
When he finished toweling off, Tim stepped over me and out of the bathroom. The scents of grilled turkey, bacon, and spinach tortilla wafted into the bathroom. Tim must have been making a wrap with our dear friend George Foreman. Later, more footsteps. Springs squeaked, Cheez-Its crunched. Tim had crawled into bed in the middle of the day and he wasn’t alone. The incessant pings and dings let me know he was with that nitwit iPhone.
At first it was a day of not getting ass. Not a big deal. I could go a day. I thought it might even be good for me. Optimistic on day two, I was unnerved by day three. Day four hit me hard. Five days in a discarded pair of pants on the bathroom floor, five days of Tim shuffling over me to grab his toothbrush, demoralized me even as I noticed that showers were becoming less frequent. iPhone was always in his hand.
It was Scooter who eventually came to my rescue. Scooter! I had almost forgotten that anally challenged mutt loved sniffing ass as much as I loved getting it. Even weeks into isolation, I was grateful to have retained my alluring aroma.
It started with Scooter prodding me with his wet nose. Then he began licking me through the back-pocket hole and snorting so hard I thought he might suck me right up, cords and all. With a flash of teeth, almost nonchalantly, he nibbled me free and carried me aloft like a toy, my stitching ripped, my leather chomped with fangs. I could only hope he wouldn’t mark me in other ways, or simply dig a hole and bury me as his kind do.
A shriek came from down the hall. Not a holler or a yell but a childish shriek. “Scooter no!” Tim yanked me away amid one-sidedly playful growls and strands of saliva. The bedroom around us looked ransacked. Tim’s hair was shaggy, his fingernails long. He had indeed taken a vacation from pants, and apparently from any sense of decency. My second short-lived rescue in as many minutes ended in consignment. Hardly wiping me off, Tim tossed me on the dresser with Keys, where we remain to this day.
Week after week, the routine never varies. Tim wakes up, reaches for idiotic iPhone, eats Cheez-Its, and sits on his sweet ass without me. We’ve gone out for booze and Cheez-Its a couple of times, and when we do Tim wears basketball shorts that have no back pockets and what looks like a pair of underwear over his nose and mouth. Apparently, everyone sniffs ass now. Everyone but me.
Keys and I have long talks on the dresser. Keys is a good egg, very real, tangible, not showy like iPhone. Keys can really shake it, and in our shared captivity we’ve fallen a little bit in love. Looking out onto Tim’s unmade bed and the window beyond, we dream of a different life, a better life. We dream of escape. I’ll maybe invest. Keys will cut hair. He’s already learning to crawl, the gym pass and CVS card on his keyring paddling along like flippers, his apartment key and mail key rising unsteadily from the splits. We don’t have much between us—a punch card, one twenty and loose change—but we’ll get by.
Ass is no longer important. Freedom is what matters. One day we’ll up and walk away.