Afternoon Friday, August 4th, 2023

Garin and Joseph met at the outdoor range biannually. Garin brought the same bolt-action Springfield he’d ever had, which was an old gift from Joey himself. Joseph was there to try out his new precision chassis.

Under the least drizzle and a fickle breeze, Joseph loaded his box magazine, “There is the standard cost of living to income per capita, and if the gap between them isn’t wide enough to allow for disposable income so as to make sizeable investments or leverage debt in asset acquisition or business formation, then there’s an anti-natalist conclusion.”

Garin put his first hole through his silhouette-man target, in the chest. “If you can’t make sizeable investments, or acquire major assets, or form a large business, then there are little investments, minor assets, and small businesses. Big things start tiny, revenue and returns included. Then comes love, next comes marriage, then comes Joey Jr. saying dad let’s play catch and you think he’s got a shot at the leagues, he’ll get signed and then he’s going to put a purring 2-seat speed demon in your garage.”

Joseph, talking over the sound of several other marksmen at their stations, “Think big to get big? When a man thinks big, he gains foresight, he understands he’ll live a long, loveless life, terminated by accident or illness, but not before regretting having lived emptily. It could cause him to wish to be born over again, the next time at a better starting vantage. If I were allowed to choose, I’d opt to be a woman.”

Garin smiled, “There’s a surgery for that.” With another pop, he cycled his bolt.

“Fain! Talked to my insurance about coverage, I’m saving up for a potato press.” Joseph shrugged, “Women have it better. I can close any argument there; women have a much lower suicide rate, higher longevity, lower work injury rate, lower incarceration rate, even corrected for relative crime rate, and lighter sentences.” Joseph readjusted his stance and grip, unsatisfied with his accuracy so far… though it would be almost imperceptible for a novice.

"If you hate the opposite-sex like a scourge, there are two possibilities: you pick them so pick better, or if you're picking the best of all kinds and they're unanimously bad matches, then you're the common denominator." Garin gave Joey tough love.

Joey waved at his words like an annoying flying bug, and gave Garin the bleak outlook, "So be better? Or there are so few good of the opposite-sex available that there's little worthy to pick from, and the common denominator is that they're all from the same bad pile because I have no access to the top-tier."

Garin offered opposition. “Surely there are ten righteous women in Sodom. What about your ma?”

“Whenever ma sees or hears about a cunt being a cunt, she asks why Adam ate and answers herself that a cunt told him to, she says don’t ever do what a cunt tells you to.” Joey cited straight from the horse’s mouth.

“It’s convenient for us your ma isn’t a cunt or her advice would cancel itself out.” Garin nodded, “Some of them do belong behind bars, but they’re free. I read about this woman who’d just come over from the CCCP, back in ’77 or ’79 I think, started as a waitress in a classic diner, married the Greek owner, he made her manager, she robbed it daily. Stacking green. He took her on a road trip into the Rockies, nature called, she locked him in the bathroom of his RV, and set it on fire up in the mountain wilderness. He barely survived; he broke through the skylight with his shower rod, climbed his sink, and pulled himself up and free through it like a smokey-spelunker.”

Joseph, with eyebrows raised, “Did he catch her?”

Garin squinted, pulled his earmuff to the side, “Huh?”

Joseph repeated himself, “Did he catch her?!”

Garin gestured poof with his hands. “She was gone, and he was stranded. She’d had her girlfriend tail them 1,700 miles for 5 days. Picked her up, the duo disappeared. They weren’t caught for several months, and didn’t do time for any of it. She lives in Bayonne, if I recall, and could be your neighbor.” Garin snickered. Closing his left eye and bending at his right knee, leaning into his bench, "Not attempted. Not arson.”

Joseph’s eyes were exhausted with disappointment. “That’s how it goes. Courts favor them in divorce, alimony, and custody. Human resources favors them in the workplace. They’re granted affirmative action preference in admissions and graduation, hiring and firing, all on less merit and lower performance."

Garin mocked, "Yeah. Women, dawg. They took us off the gold standard and had forewarning of Pearl Harbor."

Joey stopped, unsure if Garin was serious. "Wait. Seriously?"

Garin shrugged, "Probably. Give me a day and an energy drink and I can slap together a good bonkers conspiracy theory."

"Not a theory: women have sole power of birth and abortion; the father can’t keep the fetus against the other parent’s wishes nor can he cancel its birth unilaterally, though the mother can do either." Joey rambled.

Garin, letting his rifle rest, “One day they’ll grow the fetuses like on farm fisheries, and you’ll pick them up at the gas station, out of the cooler, and then to the counter to scan your ID to show you’re at least 21.”

“Will there be late-marrieds standing outside asking me to buy them a fetus?” Joey smiled with an eye-roll, “A woman can threaten and strike a man, and face little to no consequence, though he should be careful not to bruise her wrists restraining her in self-defense, or when the police arrive, he’ll be the one taken off to jail, brought up on charges, and slapped with a restraining order."

Garin leaning humorously into Joey's rant, "Taken away to an all-male expenses-paid monstery where no woman can hurt us; free to read and lift in peace."

"A woman can end a man’s reputation, employment, and freedom with a false sexual harassment or rape accusation, no witness or evidence required.” Joey fired, squeezing his left fist as he put one in that he could be proud of.

Garin tongue-in-cheek: “Don’t get me too’d too Joey.” Garin stopped to look down range at Joseph’s target, whistling with approval.

“To reek of the odor of opulence that femme-flies swarm me. Amen.” Joseph prayed, “They can get almost anything they want with sex and get out of almost anything with tears. And they have all this privilege because men allow them to have it; some men want them to have it. It’s for most held axiomatically self-evident that this is the way it should be, though our great-grandfathers married purer women who raised homesteads full of their children, faithful and trustworthy till their deaths they did part.” Joseph also looked at Garin’s target, pointing to his own target and then Garin’s and back again to his own, “I got that one with breathing control. Are you over-correcting for wind?”

“It looks that way. You’re reduced to parroting misogynistic meninist podcaster shills.” Garin rubbed his eyes and sat up. “You ranted, that whole spiel, and I heard no hint of a solution.”

“Is there a radical solution?” Joseph raised his power-struggle fist backhandedly, returning to his station.

Garin took a shot and cycled his bolt; he laughed such that it carried across the range, “You become a Deobandi, grow a beard, and join the Taliban in Waziristan. They’ll let you carry a Kalashnikov around in the street, sing nasheeds about the mountain heartland, burn poppy fields, you’ll feel like a big man. But there’s a solution to your dissatisfaction with your life.”

“Mullah Joey. They have MRAPs now, courtesy Uncle Sam and his lil’bitch the taxpayer.” Joseph added with a smile, gesturing with his hands as if on a wide steering wheel, also laughing now that his friend was having a good time doing what he’d recommended getting together for. "I drink too much and eat too much pig to assimilate happily into a pre-industrial -stan society."

Garin took a shot, this time with a truer understanding of the wind, and saw better results, “Happiness, which isn’t a dumb word, is predicated on the integrity of your agreements, written and unwritten, spoken and unspoken, formal and informal, all about agreements. Agreements are the cornerstone. To be party to bad agreements, or held to broken agreements, or to have unsettled disagreements, is to be disgruntled atop a crumbling foundation.”

“Damn. I don’t believe I have any agreements with anybody.” Joseph shifted his bipod back, then a touch forward.

“You do with me. And so we have an amicable relationship.” Sniffing up the smell of carbon and burnt powder residue. Garin shot, cycled, shot, cycled, shot. Beautiful.

“That’s right.” Joseph grinned and took a shot, his good feels and instincts lending him better accuracy than any of the mechanics he’d practiced a moment earlier. "Beautiful."

“You’re content at work because your agreement with your employer, though not stellar, is fair in your judgment.” Garin pulled his target in on the carrier, plucked it down, and prepared a fresh one.

“That’s right, but I could do better.” Joseph also changed his target.

“It’s whatever clauses or provisions you have with yourself that have you in fits.” Garin sent out and repositioned his clean sheet farther than the first had been. He took a ragged hand towel and dried the drizzle off his stock and barrel.

Joseph swallowed, “I’m not satisfying them.”

Garin shot during a break in the wind, into the silhouette man’s forehead, giving him a third-eye, “And so not satisfying yourself.”

Joseph, observing Garin’s shot, gave a pumped uppercut, “Very nice at 150 yards. I commit your musings to memory. If I weren’t Joseph, I’d like to be Garin.”

Garin, feeling like a conqueror and steadying himself for a shot to the heart, “If I weren’t Garin, I’d wish to be Garin.”

⚜

Afternoon Saturday, August 5th, 2023

Lyrou drove into Grantwood and parked in a tenant’s space, having arrived just as they pulled out to go start their shift. A wave and smile through the windshield, Lyrou would call this one later. She readied her keys as she inspected the back of the building for anything out of place and found none, then, upon unlocking the back entry, came up the back stairwell, knocking on doors. The first floor, a retired cop who had lived there since long before Garin and Lyrou bought the property. Everything is good in the apartment, no issues, no, good, don’t hesitate to call if there are, you’re looking healthy, have a nice day. The next apartment, and the next apartment, and the last, different tenants, same conversation, but for one of them asking for a new vent fan in the bathroom as it’d become noisy. Of course, he should have it within the week. Lyrou locked up and made the call to have it installed, then texted the tenant the date and time he’d need to be there to let the handyman in.

Monika, the babysitter. Lyrou sat in her car, elbow poking out the window and on her phone talking to the trusted kid carer about when she’d be needed at the house in the coming couple of weeks. Yes? Alan said he was telekinetic. He did a spoon-bending trick? He had shown the babysitter he had several bent spoons. Where was he getting all these spoons to bend? None were missing from our kitchen. Penny threw her math book down the stairs? You made her come down to pick it up, but she neglected to apologize? I’ll talk to her, merci. Have a good afternoon.

Before anybody would arrive home, Lyrou had time to drive a lap around the neighborhood and stop in the tour agency, Orlando. December. Discounts. Packages. Options. Clauses. Miles. Rewards. Business class? Four seats, please. Average temperature and precipitation by date, optimal days, compare against height of crowd rush, arrival, departure, hotel reservations, identification, credit card, check your email, good, good, good, thank you, have a nice day.

⚜

Evening Sunday, August 6th, 2023

Garin was in the kitchen finishing a protein, vitamin, and mineral drink he’d been making for himself these days. Lyrou came in and, without asking, smiled and tried a sip of it for the first time. She stopped to decide what she thought of it.

Garin excused his concoction, “It isn’t supposed to taste good, but drinkable.”

Wincing and frowning, rolling her tongue against the inside of her cheek, “It’s sticking in my teeth. Why is it sticky?”

Garin placed his hand on a plastic jar sitting on the counter beside him, “There’s a collagen powder in my placebo-ass elixir.”

Lyrou swallowed, clearing her mouth, “I can use the collagen in my desiccated skin, not my teeth.”

Garin leaned back against the counter, “You aren’t becoming a raisin yet, pretty woman. I throw it in the cup for my joints.”

Lyrou moved to the pantry and spoke from within, “Are you getting arthritis?”

Shaking his head, his arms crossed, “No, but I intend not to.” Garin looked around to be sure they really were alone, then doing a joint-rolling Jarabe Tapatío coqueteo, “I found a college girl on the same app you’ve used. Her name is Andrea Moreno, a spicy little Mexicana.” Garin spoke excitedly.

Still in the pantry, shifting through boxes, her heart missed a beat at the mention of his interest in a younger Latina, and to have a name. Hers was a strange, potent emotion that she tried to suppress. “Have you found a ripe, plump grape to pluck fresh off the vine? Spicy Andrea, huh? I don’t think you can just call her that because she’s Chicana.” She said too casually as she reemerged from the pantry with a jumble of ingredients in her hands and arms.

Garin gave a dumb thumbs-up, “Sí, se puede.” Then helped her to place the ingredients out on the counter by the oven. It looked like she’d be making pasta of some kind.

“What does she look like?” Her hand moved to her own hair, stroking her dark, coiled locks as if to reassure herself.

Garin nearly hesitated; he didn’t want to cut her too deep already, but he found the words, “Glasses, freckles, friendship bracelet, with her hair bleached platinum blonde and a titanium spike piercing in her ear helix. Cute as hell. If she’d braces, then you’d call the police on me, and I’d understand why as they pushed my head down into the back of a cruiser, off to horny jail. She wears the leather bomber jacket with the cartoon show appliqué and heeled boots college girls wear these days. I’m looking forward to it. If you’re there to watch, I’ll be very happy.”

Involuntarily, "Non!" Lyrou’s eyes strained to settle as she looked away from Garin, out the kitchen window onto their backyard with the wooden swing playset, but then back to him, curiosity and something sinister with lust. 

Garin grinned, "Non? OK."

The sight of him with a younger woman would sting, but the magnetic wrongness of it was undeniable. She leaned in closer, her breasts brushing against his chest as she whispered, “And if I’m there to watch, chéri, what will you do to her?” A strange sense at the thought, a quailing desire that made her core throb.

Garin gave Lyrou a light, quick kiss. “I’ll make her show her nakedness to you and ask your permission to ride your husband.”

The offer of more control, fiery emotions burning within her. The thought of another woman asking for permission to have him was both humiliating and thrilling. “And what if I say no?” she challenged. “What if I tell her she can’t have you?” She watched his reaction closely, her hand stroking his forearm.

Garin shrugged and feigned a sad smile, “Then we’ll go home... no fun for me. I’ll respect your boundaries so that you respect mine. If I ask you not to meet someone in particular, you’ll also listen to me there and then.”

Lyrou gave his arm a squeeze, a hint of defiance. “But then what if I don’t want to say no?” she whispered, her hand moving up now massaging his triceps. “What if I want to see you?” She watched his face, the way his eyes darkened at her words.

Garin raised an eyebrow thoughtfully, “In that case, I’ll come back to you after leaving a hot mess of and in Andrea.”

Smirking and tilting her head, “You’re so sure? And if she makes you feel a way you’ve never felt before?”

“She might. But I’ll go home with you.” Garin placed his hand over his heart, as if in a pledge and parting-sorrow.

Garin’s eyes stayed on Lyrou, and she could see in them her need for reassurance. “If she does, mon cœur, remember that I’m the one who knows you best.”

That night Lyrou slept so deeply that when she woke, it was as if she’d fallen through a time warp, a dark, warm, rest of nothingness. The next night was the same, and the night after that. No falling hypnic jerk, no hypnodontia, no finding herself the embarrassed nude female in public, no testmare, no hidden roomscape corridor maze, no legs failing while being pursued, none of that. She was sleeping easily and lightly, and not waking before dawn once. It occurred to her she’d gone years of being on edge. She’d gone through years of dreams that ran scenarios in which Garin discovered it and demanded divorce, cold sweat dreams that put her in the event of being left alone, of Garin not answering her calls or texts, of him going out the door and never being seen again. Were those over?

⚜

Afternoon Friday, August 11th, 2023

The chime of the doorbell as Lyrou and Reine stepped inside, their usual Korea Town skin treatment clinic. The dim lighting cast a soft glow over polished wooden floors, and the scent of incense and persimmon tea lingered in the air. Shelves lined with jars of cream and vials of oil framed the space, while gentle instrumental music played softly. Lyrou smiled wide as the skin specialist approached, “Hana, Anyeonghasaeyo.”

Hana, with short, dark hair and a white-black striped sweater, greeted them, “Bonjour Lyrou! Hi again, Reine! Please, make yourselves comfortable. Balihaeyo.”

The sage-green plush chairs beckoned, each one draped with a white towel.. Lyrou and Reine sank into the cushions. Reine seemed to continue a conversation she’d been having with Lyrou before walking in, “Oh, then the drama director swapped that actress out for a new one, but the fans hated it and stopped watching. They couldn’t renew for another season, so it ended with nothing tied up.”

"Which drama are you talking about?” Hana asked as she turned toward the tools, the scent of warm oils filling the air.

Lyrou closed her eyes, and Hana began pressing it into Lyrou’s skin with a methodical anti-tension technique. “A K-drama. Kingdom of Broken Hearts.”

Hana lit up, “Aha! Sangchuh Ibeun Maeumdeulae Wanggook! Her name is Lee Hyun Ju. Right, that actress was involved with a cult of about 3,000 members, if I recall. The leader was brought down in a scandal because he had a dozen hidden illegitimate children he was paying for out of the church coffers. He went to prison. There are maybe 3 pictures of her standing with that old guy, though she denied knowing him well. Her fans believed her and took her side when she was released from the show.”

Reine, as the same oil was applied to her face, “Will she get any more roles, though?”

Hana was the expert, today, in all matters. “Lee Hyun Ju is in a lot of recent releases and some in production. I think the popular demand for her acting ability and pretty face cleaned away any bad reputation marks. I’ll begin with the double cleansing now.” She reached for a gentle oil-based cleanse, its light floral scent superb. With precision of fingers and palm mounds, she massaged it into Lyrou’s skin. Her hands glided across, tracing in patterns the contours of her face. The pressure shifted between smooth, easy strokes and firmer motions, forgetting no facial muscle.

Lyrou spoke, a voice from a motionless body, “If Lee Hyun Ju were ugly, then she’d have sunk with the cult ship. It’s important we’re here today.”

“She got into hot water, though, this week. She said she never wants to have children. Netizens attacked in swarms, posting that she’s promoting the 3B movement.” Hana moved to Reine, repeating the same process.

Reine mumbled, “Has she responded to those charges?”

Hana guffawed, her hand over her mouth, “Yes, she posted about it like right, maybe she’s 3B, so what!” After a long moment, Hana reached for a small, finely textured cloth and wiped away the cleanser, leaving freshly cleansed skin. “There. Now, I’ll exfoliate.”

Reine fretted, her voice resigned, “My skin will start aging now that I’ve had a baby.”

Hana wondered, “Children should keep you young, not age you faster. And if not, my ginger customers look younger than they are.”

Lyrou chuckled, not moving but for her belly rising with her laugh, “Pale don’t stale, Reine.”

Hana smiled, “Oh, how do they say… Black don’t crack.”

The three laughed, Lyrou returned the compliment to Hana, “No, it’s Asian don’t raisin.”

Hana giggled, “The horrible truth is all three of us will stale, crack, and raisin one day. But that isn’t today.” She mixed a scrub, a fine, cool exfoliating paste of citrus and herbs. Hana’s fingers worked the scrub onto Lyrou’s face.

Lyrou with a melodic chant, “Not today. Not today. Netizens go away.”

Reine commented, “The cult leader had enough children for everybody there, why should she feel pressured?” Reine, too, welcomed the gentle, cool pressure as Hana began on her.

Hana had left them for a moment in such a relaxed state that they barely registered she’d gone, and then she returned, “I’ll now remove the scrub. Please relax. You’re doing well.”

Lyrou replied, “Isn’t everything a cult anyway?” With a hot towel, Hana swept over Lyrou’s face, the soft fabric lifting away the scrub with a tender pressure.

Reine thought about it, “If so, then what cult are you in?”

Hana tried to answer, “My family is Buddhist, but I don’t know anything about Buddhism. Maybe my faith is in my business, my condo, my things.. but that sounds materialistic.” Hana moved on to the mask, selecting a creamy mixture, and applied it.

Lyrou approved, “So be it. Be a material girl. Material is the only undying god nobody make-believed.” As Hana applied the mask, Lyrou feared no power.

Hana moved around them, making small adjustments, her movements fluid and unhurried. “You’re both very relaxed now. The mask will settle for a few more minutes.”

Reine asked Hana, “What is Jeju Hwasansongi?”  

“Jeju Hwasanongi? Why?” Hana moved to her. She applied the mask to Reine’s freckled face, her fingers following the natural lines of Reine’s jaw, her fingertips tracing the shape of her face with practiced ease.

Reine explained, “I saw it in a skincare product. I almost ordered it, but I wanted to ask you first.” With the masks ready, Hana started the final phase, using a hot, red light to draw the cool moisture out.

“Ah, right. It’s volcanic rock from Jejudo, it’s an island famous for that. It helps clean pores.”

Lyrou liked the idea, “I tried it in a bath soak, I do recommend.”

Hana removed it, the mask peeled away, the skin beneath reborn. ‘It’s put into all sorts of things. There is a campaign to ban it, because so much has been removed from the island that the locals imagine it’ll all be stripped away. Maybe you should stock up before it’s discontinued and the price goes up-up-up.” Hana moved on to Reine. She removed her mask, a better Reine beneath.

Reine sighed, “That makes me feel guilty. I should give them back their volcano rocks.”

Lyrou saw in her mind’s eye the volcano as it must have been when it spewed out the lava that formed into those black porous rocks. “They’re capable, Reine, of making plastic rocks that look and feel just like the original to put in museums for tourists to see, saying behold, this is what geologic heritage we had before we sold it to women like Reine in Jerz.”

Hana was unbothered by the scenario; she cared not for any far-off island. “I visited Jeju once as a small child. I barely remember it.” Hana’s hands glided over her skin once more, pressing with a toner.

Reine’s mind shot to a list of vacation islands, “I’ll take Elena to the Bahamas, but I want her to be old enough to remember it.”

Hana thought about how her business kept her from travelling, “I should hire someone so that I can sit on a beach, too.” After the toner, Hana moved toward a small cabinet for a serum, and then worked it into their faces last of everything.

Lyrou listened as Reine talked for them both, “Working in the school district, I don’t get to be my own boss, and I won’t bring in the dollars running your own business can, but I do get time off.”

Hana noted, “My mother was a teacher, like you. I was biased against becoming a teacher because, well, I wanted to prove I don’t have to be like my mother.”  She let off a light mist, a hydrating spray of aloe and chamomile. “Your skin has been well cared for. You’re ready to return to the daylight.”

“Merci, Hana.” Lyrou found her feet, and then from her phone case, her credit card.

⚜

Afternoon Saturday, August 12th, 2023

Garin walked into the bustling cafeteria of the outlet mall, scanning the crowd for her, his baseball cap slightly askew and the soft rustle of his blue blazer pulling against the edge of his shoulders. He was dressed casually, in blue jeans, sneakers, a grey t-shirt, but the blazer was a touch too formal, an odd addition to the setting. He had to admit, the whole thing was a bit surreal.

They’d only ever spoken online, via messages, memes, and the occasional phone call, but this was the first time they were meeting in person. Andrea was sitting near the window, her presence unmistakable even from a distance, the kind of energy that made it hard to ignore her.

When she saw him, she stood up, her smile and her hair bright as she walked toward him. Her eyes glimmered with that playful energy. She stretched out her hand for a handshake, her short fingers poised as if she would pluck something from him, but as he just kept his hands stuffed in his pockets, she let out a soft laugh and grabbed him around the elbow instead.

“How’s this? Less transactional?” she teased, her voice light. She couldn’t keep her lips together from breaking into small smiles.

“Less transactional, sure,” he said.

She laughed again, gently leading him. “Do you want to eat while we’re here?” she asked, tilting her head to the side, studying him.

He raised his eyebrows. The question would set a precedent, “Are you buying?” he asked.

Her stomach let out a small, almost imperceptible giggle, and she bent at the waist, her hand pressing to her middle as she laughed, “No!” She poked him lightly in the belly, a teasing nudge, like they’d known each other far longer than the few minutes that had passed since meeting.

They began walking toward the heart of the mall, more lights, more people, more chatter. As they passed a luxury women’s bag shop, she stopped, her attention fixated on the glass windows displaying shiny leather bags inside.

She glanced sideways at him, her grin sly and playful. “I’m ready, Zaddy…” she said, her tone half-joking, half-challenging, as she pulled him forward.

His smile widened, total amusement at the nickname, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he just gave a slight nod, and they stepped into the store.

What followed was a blur of brightly lit stores, the rhythm of credit cards swiping, and her ever-growing collection of bags hanging from his arms. He found himself carrying them one by one as she flitted from store to store, pulling him along with that playful energy. At each register, he was the one to pull out the plastic, without hesitation, as though it was second nature.

She grabbed a designer handbag in a bold color, a new pair of trendy sneakers, several cute crop tops in pastel shades, a chunky knit sweater just because it’s cozy, a stack of chunky gold jewelry, a few oversized scarves, a brand-new makeup palette she didn’t need, a pair of high-waisted jeans that fit just right, a satin camisole she’d been eyeing for weeks, a statement belt, a fresh set of nail polishes in every shade imaginable, a couple of satin scrunchies to match her outfits, a small portable speaker for her dorm, some fuzzy socks, a couple of cute phone cases with her initials, a bold lipstick in a shade she’d probably never wear, a bunch of scented candles that’d make her dorm smell like a spa, and some skincare products she’d read about online, all of it stacked high in the bags she’d handed off to him without a thought, “Don’t be stingy…” she winked.

As they strolled through the mall, Garin couldn’t help but notice the way women his age discreetly glanced at them. Their eyes lingered a fraction too long, their looks disapproving, like they were dissecting him. Their silent judgment, a kind of telepathic shaming that buzzed across the airwaves, same as radio and 5G, his choice to splurge on a younger woman, the disparity between their ages, the way she flitted from store to store with that whole playful kitten thing she was, and collecting bags like trophies. For a moment, it made him uncomfortable, the weight of their judgment pressing on him, making him self-conscious of his role in this strange arrangement. But then he looked at Andrea, at how she was completely unfazed, laughing lightly at something unfunny he’d said, her posture relaxed, her confidence unwavering. She didn’t care what anyone thought, and in that moment, it clicked inside him. If she could be unbothered, so could he. With a small shift in his mindset, he stood a little taller, dropped his shoulders, and decided to lean into the moment, to embrace it without hesitation. He wasn’t here to explain himself to anyone. What had that ever gotten him? Fuck them. Not today.

Andrea kept her phone to her ear with one hand while the other slapped through hangers for the right size, talking to another college girl, “The only friends you had were a couple of ferrets. And one bit you.” She stopped and gasped at the sight of some little piece, “.. oh bitch this corset is steezy! You’ll see me in it.”

By the end of the afternoon, he was laden with bags, a tired but content smile on his face, while she bounced along beside him, excited by her new purchases. The way they moved together, a little strange in love and a little perfect in mutual exploitation, all at once.

⚜

Noon Wednesday, August 16th, 2023

At Paulo's place, he’d a mattress on the floor, clothes stuffed in plastic bags lined up along the wall, a bong, a smoke alarm with the battery lid hanging off empty sitting on his breakfast bar peninsula countertop, and little else. What could he have to care about? Nothing. Beautiful unmoored nothing. Lyrou lay naked with him on that mattress. He was staring around at the walls and ceiling, deep in his thoughts, his long hair enmeshed in hers. She began looking over his tattoos; under the chain around his neck, a weeping Virgin Mary with a halo of stars, then tugging down the sheet to see on his shoulder a pair of crossed swords, one breaking the other.

Tugging the blanket down more, she propped herself up on her elbow and then parsed through his chest hair to see a portrait of Simon Bolivar in full anti-colonial regalia. On the opposite pectoral, a pair of serpents spiraling round a staff, quixotic chimeric wings behind, and the eye of Providence above.

Tugging the blanket down farther, she found his abdomen breathing, up-down-up, and the Latin phrase, 'memento mori' in a sizzlingly stylized medieval Iberian font. She tugged the sheet down farther, now revealing his ineluctable V-line and pubic hair, where he’d a very small something inked.

She raised forward onto him, looking more closely as he lay flat and allowed her inspection. It was a pair of interlocked hearts drawn by a single stroke and not intersecting once... these two were really one when you genuinely looked at them. Under the sheet, she saw stirring and then a tent pitching, and she need not tug it down farther as his member exposed itself, the edge-line of the fabric sliding off it in rising.

Her hair gently cascading across his chest and abdomen, eyes narrowed, she met her lips to his glans, parting her teeth, met it with her tongue, and pressed until it filled her mouth to the back of her throat. She breathed deep through her nose, her tongue sliding internally between her cheeks and the mass of cock she'd stuffed her face with. His hand rested on her head, and he began gyrating his hips, pulling out, thrusting in... her lips airtight to his skin sliding through, her saliva an added sealant. His free hand caressed smoothly around her ass-cheek and then down into her groin, and he lightly touched her clit between his fingers before slipping a finger into her, then rubbing and strumming her clit with his thumb, a quick vibrating of his digit he’d mastered just to her liking.

Working her neck and stroking the remaining length of him she couldn't consume, he hissed to hold his final urge in. She, too, was going to orgasm from his busy thumb and probing middle. His fingers burrowed into her hair down to her scalp, and his ass cheeks clenched up. She tasted him unloading into her mouth, and she swallowed it down as soon as it met her palate. Her presence of mind that she was really doing this, that he was inside her at multiple entries, and how great what he was doing back there felt. She cummed, moaning and folding onto him, pressing her legs together to ride out her orgasm face down across his body. Paulo.

⚜

Morning Saturday, August 19th, 2023

In a hotel post-coitus, playing an autotune mumble rap playlist on her phone, Garin sat back and watched Andrea stand at the vanity mirror in nothing but her white panties, applying her makeup. “Don’t you think your future husband will be ashamed when you tell him you were a sugar baby? Or that you sold internet woman-respecters your socks and bathwater? Or that you ate things you won’t find on any menu?”

“What if I didn’t think that far ahead?” she smoothed a light cream across her face in circular finger motions.

“Astounding. Think that far ahead now.” Garin watched her butt wiggle as she pressed the cream around her face.

“Mmmmmmmm.. I could just not tell him, I guess. Right? I don’t want to know his past.” She dotted foundation on her forehead and cheeks.

“Don’t ask, don’t tell. Seems to be a go-to solution for many. Speaking of which, what if his past is gay?” Garin wondered if he might bend her over the vanity for a double helping.

“Yeah, no, cause I have great gaydar. Nobody is in the closet, to me.” She gently brushed the dots across her skin with quick little flicks of the bristles.

Garin smiled at the little wedgie progressively deepening between her cheeks. “What if he has a $9,000 furry costume in his closet?” 

“Cuuuuuuuute!” she cooed, saccharine, making eye contact with Garin via the vanity mirror.

“Woof! His costume or his disposable income?" Garin watched her foot slide up and down her skinny leg like a grasshopper.

“Me when I redivert his spending habits. But what’s wrong with not telling spouses things they don’t need to know? Like, things that are none of their business. Like, you don’t tell your wife about me.” Andrea dabbed the faintest concealer.

“I tell my wife everything,” Garin said dutifully.

Turning a moment to face him, “You do? About me?”

“Anything I would want to know without asking, and then anything else if she asks, I tell her.” Garin specified.

“For real? Cool. Maybe I’ll marry a guy like that, someone who knows about me selling my socks and digs it.” Andrea returned to her process, brushing at her eyebrows and plucking one essentially invisible small hair from between them.

“Maybe you’ll marry one of the guys you sell your socks to.” Garin teased.

Looking back at him with a scowl, “Gross, Zaddy. There’s a reason they have to pay for worn girls’ socks. They can’t touch a woman in their real lives because they’re skinny-fat, ugly, short, little men with man-boobs and tiny, tiny, tiny dicklets.”

Garin snickered, “Ouch. Not the gynecomastia, micropenis, manlet deal. Must hurt to be them.” 

“It costs them too.” Andrea said dispassionately, steadying her hand to do her eyeliner.

“And me,” Garin added.

“It’s very different.” She neared the mirror and angled her head back to see her eyes closely as she worked.

“They pay, I pay. I am them, them am I.” Garin said humbly.

“They pay to have some item that touched me. You pay to have me, to be the item that touches me.” Andrea distinguished him.

“Exclusive all-access pass?” Garin tested what it was they had.

In a schoolgirl voice, “Exclusive is a big word. What does it mean?”

“They let you into college?” Garin joked.

Andrea was doing her eyeshadow and speaking maturely now, “To maximize how much can be collected in student debt and tuition, maximize the number of students, let everybody in. It doesn’t pay to be exclusive. That is, unless you make it pay to be exclusive. So, what does exclusive mean to you?”

Garin thought for a few seconds, then answered, “It means I own you, no timeshare.”

“Own is a bigger word. This is why we can’t have a woman president. Can you join me in the 21st century, please?” Andrea scolded him dismissively.

Garin waxed political with her, “It means you’re my running mate and we’re a two-person ticket.” 

“You pay for your ticket…” Andrea drop-juggled a lipstick and crouched to pick it up. Twisting it and standing, “... you get to ride.”

He nodded. “How many seats are on this ride?” 

“Does my face count as a seat?” Andrea asked, applying bright red lipstick.

Garin asked with admiration, “You’re going to put in all that work on your face just to have it sat on?” 

“Sounds fun?” she affirmed.

Garin tsk-tsking, “No thanks. I’d come away with my ass painted like a mandrill.”

“That’s so funny, Zaddy.” She turned and passed him on the bed to gather her bra, hooking it behind her, and then sitting on the edge of the bed, his toes brushing against her butt, to pull up her knee-high socks, “That would make good content, would you ‘mandrill’ me for my viewers live?”

Garin chuckled, “No, but I hereby relinquish to you intellectual property rights to ‘mandrill’, ‘mandrilling’, ‘mandrilled’, and derivatives. Have at it, go monkey-shit.” He smiled to himself rearing up to get dressed.

⚜