It was a dark and dreary February night as I drove home, fitting my mood. It was Valentine's Day, my least favorite day of the year. A day championed by Hallmark to peddle overpriced, sappy cards to the gullible masses in order to line their greedy corporate pockets. Not that I'm cynical, you understand. It's just a day that highlights my loneliness. But in all fairness, much of that falls on me. My compulsive pickiness. After all, I once broke up with Jan, a lady I truly adored, because I took her to a Reds baseball game during which she incessantly asked what "ending" it was. Hands washed of her immediately and never looked back. Then there was Terri. We split because she liked Police Academy movies. Plus, her disdain for subtitles and black-and-white movies created such animosity, we were always a murder/suicide pact away from becoming a Netflix documentary. She and Steve Gutenberg deserved each other.

I cursed each mile as I witnessed couples walking hand-in-hand, whispering sweet talk stolen verbatim from The Gilmore Girls. Courtin' and Sparkin' like a Joni Mitchell blast from the past. I was in no mood for such foolishness. I was in a hurry to see my dog and my bong, not in that order. Plus, I would be watching My Bloody Valentine with my slasher movie aficionado, Vanessa. Always a highlight since she has a different slasher flick for each holiday. We're even collaborating on an Arbor Day story tentatively titled "The Willow Weeps for Thee." In my melancholy, I also knew there would be plenty of Jackson Browne songs tonight.

My heart and brain were aching with the crippling pain normally reserved for stepping on a Lego.  No drug could remedy that, although I was willing to mix and match my pharmaceuticals as part of my tireless research.

I walked into my silent apartment with a sense of dread as if walking into Hardee's. Something felt amiss, a great disturbance in the force. I've had this feeling since exhuming a dead mouse from my dishwater recently. My dog is a rat terrier, so I suppose he captured then drowned the varmint. I'll have Amnesty International and P.E.T.A. on my ass for sure. Speaking of which, Fleabag, my rescue pooch, greeted me with his constant yawning and stretching after a strenuous day of napping. Naturally, he needed his bladder relief but I was too tired and depressed to trek down three floors, so I simply opened the window and held him outside. A couple below looked up and the man shouted excitedly upon seeing my dangling dog, "Don't jump, buddy! Ain't no bitch worth it." 

He quickly turned to his female companion and corrected himself, "I didn't mean you, baby. I meant other bitches." To which she placed a very well-aimed knee to his groin just as canine urine splattered his head. Ah, Valentine's love. Once he finished, I brought him back from the ledge and fed the spoiled beast. I'm careful now with his diet after he devoured an entire bottle of stool softener.  

When suddenly I saw IT! A small red envelope lay on my poo-stained carpet as if pushed beneath my door. Could it be fan mail from some flounder? Ripping it open with great anxiety. It couldn't be, but it was; a valentine addressed to, "the sexy lady of the house" in dazzling calligraphy; a true sign of someone with too much time on her hands but sealed with a scarlet lipstick kiss. The card itself was not overly impressive, much like one parents buy their kids in bulk for an elementary school party; cheap, perforated cardboard that usually ends up torn. 

There was no signature. Perplexing. But I kept admiring it; a simple rendition of Gollum captioned, "Liking you is a hard Hobbit to break!" At least I knew the sender was a LOTR fan which had me appreciating my new 'precious.' Despite that, her identity remained as mysterious as why I paid good money to watch "Rise of Skywalker." As I mulled over a shortlist of the usual suspects, my reverie was broken by a gentle rapping at my chamber door. I inched it open fearfully as if expecting the Deadly Vipers Assassination Squad from "Kill Bill."

To my great relief and surprise, before me stood a true vision of loveliness who offered her dainty hand and introduced herself as Daryl. She looked like Gina Gershon with the husky, raspy voice of Jennifer Tilly. However, I had watched "Bound" once again last night so my evaluation could have been clouded in wishful thinking. Her Calvin Klein hooded jacket fit her like a supermodel, while my yard sale sweater fit like on a mannequin at the Dollar General Store. I knew she was in trouble but didn't care.

"I just moved to town. I've noticed you and wanted to say hey," she informed. "Hey?" Where did she move from? Mayberry?

"So, Daryl, do you live alone or with your brother Larry and your other brother Larry?" She looked perplexed.

"I don't have a brother named Larry and certainly not two," she said with a straight face. I surmised she wasn't a fan of classic sitcoms which meant ... STRIKE ONE! She then brushed past me with a regal wave of her hand. I stood aside to view that delectable derriere that could make Shakira envious.

"Did you find my cheesy valentine, sugar lumps?" Another mystery solved and my heart and pussy began fluttering like butterflies on Adderall. Food references always turn me on.

"I found it and thank you so much. It's my first valentine since my initial go-round in fifth grade."

"I've seen you around and you always look sad, so I wanted to cheer you up on a special day."

"Well, you certainly accomplished your goal." I then moved my love seat in front of the large window and began playing a roaring fireplace DVD on my TV with a roaring space heater nearby to complete the romantic ambiance. Keeping it real in other words. As I prepared my white-trash ski lodge, she meandered over to my DVDs and didn't appear impressed.

"I haven't even heard of most of these," she stated. Picking up a Blue-ray, she broke my heart by saying, "What's Dr. Strangelove? Is it kinky, I hope?"

If this mystery floozie thinks she can come into my home and throw shade at a Kubrick masterpiece I had no choice...STRIKE TWO! One more faux pas and that beautiful bubble butt will be sitting on the bench instead of my face. Not taking any chances, I hurried her to the couch, draped us in a wooly blanket and began kissing like it was our last seconds on earth. Which it could be, due to the heavy smoke billowing from the heater. The delicate clicking of frozen rain on the window was completing the mood aided by an exorbitant box of wine and a frozen head cheese Pop-Tart.

By the time I had her down to her mauve bra and panties, it was time to adjourn to my luxurious yet dilapidated bedroom. The manacles attached to the headboard didn't scare her away, always a good sign. Laying her gently on my trendy waterbed, I began slowly kissing down her supple frame while reciting Adele lyrics. Both seemed to be having the desired effect. By the time I maneuvered between her slender legs, she was salivating like Pavlov's dog at a Gravy Train buffet.  

It was then time for my perfected coup de grace learned from observing anteaters at the Columbus Zoo. Extending and stiffening my tongue until it slithered inside her warm, welcoming pussy, my senses on overload from her taste and scent. I call this patented move "aardvarking." It has never failed me, unlike my fifth-grade teacher. With my tongue busy, my hands moved to her bum, of course, where they immediately began squeezing her cheeks like they were deluxe rolls of Charmin. She arched her back and ground her mound to my damp face, driving my tongue deeper into her glistening anthill as if searching for the queen.

Alternating squeezing with caressing on each formidable cheek, I spread them just enough to inspire a sense of wickedness. My tongue then slathered saliva between them, finding the path of least resistance. Grabbing behind each knee, I pushed her legs back until her knees were now pressed into the bed on each side of her head, posed like a turkey in the classic flick, "Blood Rage." All these gyrations had the water bed turning into a wave pool. After a brief, but necessary, Dramamine break, we resumed. Kneeling now, my stiff tongue began to piston like a deleted scene from Ford versus Ferrari. With quivering legs, my valentine asked for permission to cum, a request I magnanimously granted.

Three seconds later I deftly straddled her face. It was now my turn finally. After strapping a plastic Hamburglar bib around her neck (with "ham" crossed out, replaced by "fur"), I was bumping and grinding all over her pretty face, thighs tight on her cheeks. She tried to come up for air twice which I found incredibly rude. Just like a millennial.  But still, she knew what went where and why, and my climax was swift yet powerful. A quick kiss and hearty handshake later, I led her back into the living room on wobbly legs, put on some Lady Gaga and danced slowly, holding each other tightly until our fluid movements led us in front of my large mirror. At that point, I was more than a little surprised to notice she cast no reflection.

That could only mean one of two things; either she was a vampire or I was losing my mind. But there were no marks on my neck, so it must be dementia which my family has a history of, dating all the way back to me tonight. It just means I'll talk to myself and masturbate often...been there!  And so what if I set extra plates at the table for my imaginary friends? At least I'll have fewer leftovers. I had to digest this new info, so I stood gazing through the icy window without saying a word for countless minutes. Finally turning, I discovered Daryl had vanished, a microcosm of all my previous relationships. Fatigue, physical and mental, had set in. I had to lie down.

Pulling my comforter over my head to shut out the real world, I held my Vancouver snow globe, symbolic of carefree days gone by and closed my tired, tearful eyes. As the snow globe slipped from my fingers to the carpet I whispered to my empty room and even emptier life, "Swan song." Eat your heart out, Orson Welles...fade to black.