Periorbital Hematoma

“So, sweetness, what do you say? You think maybe we could have some sex again tonight or something?”

“Wait a second, wait just one fucking second! So what you’re trying to tell me here is that your idiotic stoner buddy let some sort of poisonous spider crawl on his cock and then when it – surprise, surprise – bit him, you had to take him to the hospital because he couldn’t get rid of his excruciating boner. Whereupon, he met some big-chested bimbo, who had apparently shoved a light bulb up her ass, and then they proceeded to hump their brains out. Right there in the emergency room. And, somehow, during this magical moment, you got hit in the head with Kyle’s. . .”

“Technically, I believe the spider was venomous.”

“What’s the fucking difference?”

“Do you really want to know?”

“No. What I’d really like to know is why my husband has shit for brains. I mean, you probably think the ER is like this cool place to hang out and pick up chicks now, right? It’s like you totally forgot about what that awful fucking place put me through back when my tumor burst. Well, you know what, screw you, asshole! Next time you pull some stupid shit like that, you can walk your lazy ass home from BART.”

*

“And why do you need to have sex tonight so badly anyway?”

“Well, I was just thinking that it’s like our anniversary and. . .”

“No it’s not. Our wedding anniversary was weeks ago. Remember we had that terrible fucking fight and you ended up crying under the bed. . .”

“Actually, it’s the anniversary of the first time we made love.”

“Really? How do you manage to remember that?”

“How could you forget? I still have the used condom.”

“Gross! Why would you want to keep something fucked-up like that?”

“I dunno, it was such a magical evening that I never wanted to forget how it felt.”

“But we’ve probably done it hundreds of times since then. Do you have all those other condoms too? Please don’t tell me there’s some box in your mancave filled with. . .”

“No, those ones don’t matter as much.”

“So do we really need to have sex to mark this momentous occasion? I mean, you know I’m still kinda sick, right?”

“Yeah, but the doctor said. . .”

“The doctor said I needed to pace myself when it comes to doing any strenuous activity and that I should only do what I feel comfortable doing. And – frankly, honeypot – after the BS story you just fed me about why you never came home last night, I ain’t so sure that I want to exert any energy on your behalf. You know I puked all night again, right? All by my fucking lonesome!”

“I’m sorry, sweetness. But what did you want me to do?”

“Leave Kyle to his own pathetic devices with his boner flapping in the wind. Obviously. What do you think I wanted you to do? I was throwing up!”

“I didn’t realize that. . .”

“And do you honestly think hearing even the bare mention about Kyle’s pink package could possibly put me in the mood? I can’t even comprehend why you want to do it. After witnessing all that disgusting dick Olympic bullshit, you’d think you’d become like a monk or something.”

“Oh, c’mon, honeypot, I fucking miss you. I miss us. I miss being close.”

“Well, it would seem that you were pretty close with yourself recently.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing. Just that the shower drain was all backed up with some sort of sticky goo. So I assume you were jerking off again.”

“Why on earth would you assume something like that?”

“Can it, honeypot. After living with you for all these years, a woman knows when her husband’s been masturbating. It’s cool, I don’t mind. Really, I don’t. All I’m saying is that it tends to undermine your avowed overwhelming need for carnal knowledge.”

“Hey, I’m sure that I’m not the only one who jacks off around here.”

“Perhaps. But those of us with vaginas prefer to call it jilling. Also, we usually don’t cause the shower to back up. Seriously, honeypot, no one likes standing in come water.”

“So where the fuck do you do it then?”

Grinning – as we pulled in front of our house and she killed the ignition – my bombshell of a wife confidently declared: “Oh, us womenfolk never reveal our secrets.”

“Whatever, I bet you just wait until I’m gone and you do it in our bed.”

“Since when do you leave the house?”

“Very funny.”

“I do try.”

Sliding her newly svelte frame out of the car, she skipped up towards our home.

Chasing after her and nearly tripping over the empties littering our porch, I hollered: “How about in the bathtub? That seems kinda hot.”

“Jesus Christ, you’re such a fucking guy sometimes! Why does a woman pleasing herself have to be all sexy and shit? It’s not like when you – or, God forbid, Kyle – stick your nubby knobs into a used sock and whack it off, it’s like the epitome of sexiness. Why’s there constantly gotta be this double standard?”

“I dunno. That’s actually a good point. But it’s not my fault, sweetness. I didn’t create the patriarchy.”

“No, but you’ve yet to overthrow it for me.”

Hanging up her coat, I muttered: “My bad. So what do you say? You up for some sweet lovemaking or what?”

“I think I’d rather watch TV.”

“Are you serious? You fucking hate the television. I mean, you’re the one who’s always calling it ‘the opiate of the masses.’”

Collapsing on the sofa, she chortled: “Yeah, but I just can’t wait to see if Glenn Beck is going to burst into tears over the Constitution again tonight.”

“Okay, now I know you’re straight up fucking with me. That douche-fountain probably hasn’t even read the Constitution.”

“Guilty as charged. Still, seriously, honeypot, I’m not really feeling up to it. Not tonight I’m not. Sorry.”

“Why not? Remember that day after your last mammogram, we had some amazing. . .”

Sprawling out on the couch, she announced: “Yeah, well, that was then. This is now. And the new treatment’s been kicking my ass.”

“Plus, the doctor said you couldn’t get pregnant – which means we could do it without the. . .”

“No, he didn’t. He said I shouldn’t get pregnant since they don’t know if the chemicals might interfere with the development of the fetus. And why would we want to risk it?”

“Oh crap, here we go again.”

“Just so you can get your rocks off, you’re willing to enlist the use of my womb, not only for another human being, but for one that’s most likely going to be drastically damaged. Man, what the fuck is wrong with you lately?”

“I suggested no such thing.”

“And what’s so wrong with condoms anyway?”

“Oh, I dunno, it’s just that wearing them is kinda like going on the bumper cars at the State Fair and not making contact with any of the other cars.”

“What the. . . That doesn’t even make any fucking sense. Anyway, they’re a perfectly sensible and simple solution to a rather complex problem. Tell me what else is as effective at preventing. . .”

“Then why don’t you fucking wear ‘em?”

“Hey, man, we tried the female condom that one time and neither of us could figure out how the fucker worked so don’t you dare. . .”

“Fine. Whatever. So it’s back to having to hump latex and ending up with my dick all covered in jizz. As usual. I’m sorry, sweetness, but I just thought that maybe one of the perks of all this dreary bullshit might be. . .”

“Knocking me up with some sort of fucked-up flipper baby! That’s pretty selfish of you, don’t you think? And, by the way, I’m so fucking sorry that my cancer is providing you with such few perks.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it! All I’m trying to say is that if you’re up to it, we should be able to make love without interference. In fact, now that we’re actually discussing the topic, maybe you should go back on the pill.”

“Why? So, on top of all this other crazy health shit, I can deal with my hormones being completely out of whack and having to act totally crazy.”

“Wait, you’re not acting totally crazy? I thought those steroid shots were already. . .”

“Will you please just shut the fuck up! I’m not going back on the pill. Not just so you don’t have to wear a little tiny piece of rubber.”

“Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Well, what way did you mean it then?”

“I just meant that condoms are like no biggie. If we do decide to have sex, the least you can do is wear one since it makes everything easier for everyone.”

“Now you sound like Kathy.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nevermind. My point was that – given all the shit you’re going through and given all the shit your mom’s been through – maybe we’re better off not passing on. . .”

“Wait just one motherfucking minute!”

Honestly, I’ve never seen my wife leap off the couch (or any piece of furniture for that matter) as fast as she did at that precise moment.

Wagging her finger dangerously close to my injured face, she screeched: “First, you want to hump bareback cause condoms are just way too uncomfortable for your precious cock, no matter that I might get pregnant. And not just pregnant, but pregnant with some sort of hideous dolphin-esque creature. Though, of course, none of that matters to you so long as you get to fucking come.”

“C’mon, sweetness, settle down. Please. You know that’s not what I was. . .”

Stomping her shoeless foot, she continued: “But now – now – you want to sterilize my wretched cancer-ridden body because I’m damaged. And because my poor mother is damaged. Obviously, you don’t want to be surrounded by any more damaged people.”

“That’s so not fair! And it’s not what I said either. I love you. I really do.”

Pushing past me as I attempted to embrace her, my wife dashed off to the bedroom.

*

When I tiptoed into our room about an hour later, it was clear to even someone as dumb as myself that she’d cried herself to sleep. Unfortunately – before I could sneak back out to further ponder my many sins – my heavy breathing apparently disturbed her slumber.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You know the funny thing is I feel like such shit that this whole argument is kinda moot. I’m sorry, honeypot, but you aren’t getting any action any time soon.”

“That’s cool.”

“Seriously, there ain’t gonna be no make-up sex tonight.”

“Fine by me. I just don’t want to fight anymore.”

“Well, if we can’t screw and we can’t drink and we can’t fight, then what’s there left for us to do?”

“Once again, you’ve got a point there, sweetness.”

“Oh, come here, you.”

As I climbed hesitantly into the bed, she pulled me close and it almost felt like the first time we cuddled. Really, it was that fucking good.

“Man, I could do this forever.”

“Now you know why Kathy sticks with her strategy.”

“What?”

“Forget it.”

“That reminds me, I know we decided the whole issue was moot and everything. But I was just sorta curious. I mean, if you’re feeling so sick that you can’t screw, then how come you’ve been smoking?”

Sucking gently on a lozenge, my wife shot up on her pillow and squealed: “What the fuck are you talking about? I haven’t smoked in so long I can’t even remember what that shit smells like.”

“Well, I just happened to be looking for the scissors earlier. . .”

“How come?”

“I dunno, I was working on some cut-ups. You know, just like fishbowling and shit.”

“The scissors are in the kitchen drawer, honeypot. As usual.”

“That’s what you say, but I can’t ever find them. Anyway, what I did find was like the mother lode of lighters. A bevy of Bics, if you will. Some of which looked like they’ve been used recently. So I was kinda curious as to why. . .”

“So you just jumped straight to the conclusion that I started smoking again? That’s real fucking generous! For all you know, I was lighting candles last night as some sort of religious ceremony to stop the nausea.”

“Unlikely. First of all, you’re not religious.”

“Says you?”

“Only cause of your penchant for making jokes about Dick Cheney meeting his maker and being surprised that it’s neither himself nor anyone else.”

“So what’s wrong with a healthy dose of agnostic humor?”

“Nothing. All I’m saying is you’re not really the ritual candle burning type.”

“Maybe I just like lighting candles then.”

“In that case, you’d use matches.”

“And why is that?”

“Because everyone knows that you invariably burn your hands if you try to light candles with a lighter. Whereas, matches are the preferred. . .”

“You know, for an anarchist, you’ve got a lot of fucking rules.”

“That’s not a rule, it’s common knowledge. Anyway, I’m not an anarchist. Not no more, I’m not. And if you really must label me, I prefer the term: ‘anti-authoritarian-eco-socio-progressive-collectivist.’”

“Socio-what?”

“You’re changing the subject, sweetness. So why were you smoking. . .”

Angrily rolling out of bed – in such a frenzied manner that her elbow only narrowly missed making my damaged eye even darker – my trapped wife finally admitted: “Fine, I’ll say it. You were fucking right. I wasn’t lighting candles. I was smoking, but. . .”

(Of course, I knew there’d be a ‘but.’ There’s almost always a ‘but,’ particularly on those astoundingly rare occasions where my wife utters the phrase: ‘You were right.’ Still, I must savor these moments, even if it’s only parenthetically.)

“I wasn’t smoking cigarettes. I was smoking weed.”

“Weed? I thought you hated that shit.”

“I do. Kinda. Well, actually, I don’t. It’s just that ever since you stopped smoking it, I’ve been trying to, you know, not smoke it too. Like in solidarity.”

“Really? Wow, that’s totally sweet of you.”

“Tell me about it. Unfortunately, I got super fucking ill last night and – as usual – we’re pretty much out of pain meds. . .”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that. My stomach’s been hurting.”

“Yeah, sure, right. Anyway, so I got kinda desperate and decided to smoke some weed, just to see if that shit would help at all.”

“And did it?”

“A little bit. I was able to stop puking and eventually fell asleep.”

“Well, that’s fucking awesome! We should get you some more. I’ll talk to. . .”

“Don’t worry, I’ve already got a solid connection.”

“Who?”

“Kathy.”

“Kathy?”

“Yes, Kathy. You see, after your cheap-ass friend wouldn’t throw down, I told her all about it and she felt so bad that she like totally hooked me up.”

“And where did she get all this weed from?”

“Ironically, I think it’s from the mighty K-Rod himself. You know that one night when they. . .”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that night.”

“Yeah, well, apparently, he tried to impress her by giving her like a giant sack or something.”

“So does that mean you’re like high right now?”

“Pretty much, yeah. Sorry if I’ve been a little all over the place today. You know how that shit can be.”

“So that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Nothing. So, anyway, how am I supposed to know when you’re high then?”

“Well, here’s a tip, you know that broken toilet bowl in the bathroom. . .”

“Oh yeah, I’ve been meaning to call up a plumber, but. . .”

“Hey, honeypot, here’s another tip. If you want me to explain shit to you then you really need to shut the fuck up and listen sometimes.”

“Sorry, sweetness.”

“As I was saying – from here on out – if you don’t see me kneeling in front of that toilet, puking my guts out, then you can pretty much assume that I’m high.”