by Lacy Maran
But being a member of the wolf pack was about more than just cutting firewood while topless. There were important decisions to be made. No, not about world peace, poverty, or global climate change. About my potentially lethal bun in the oven (I guess it really was true. I was the center of the universe).
But despite how pussy whipped Second Fiddle was by me, he was only one wolf--and was vastly outnumbered. So while the broken hearted wolf was securing his place in the competitive moping hall of fame, his pack was pondering the ramifications of the most famous fetus in the world. It seemed absurd to be holding such intense meetings over something in my belly, but yet they were.
People kept acting like the kid was going to jump out of my womb with a bazooka and open fire on the whole underworld. I had put my unborn child on a strict diet of classical music though, so I was pretty sure my kid was going to be a total genius. At least it had better be, otherwise all my stage Mom training would be a complete waste. But before I could turn my kids childhood into a clown show that was secretly about me making up for my own deficiencies, I had to push the little bugger out of my womb.
One thing was clear though, when it came to the wolves though, my diaphragm spelled the apocalypse. And, since the wafer thin plot hinged on me defiantly defending my unwanted pregnancy, I flipped the apocalypse the bird. Second Fiddle meanwhile wasn't about to let me bite the bullet so quickly though, so he splintered off and formed his own renegade pack based on defending my honor again (wow, maybe I really was a home wrecker).
My womb had other ideas. Go figure, but pregnancy totally blew. As bad as the morning sickness and the migraines were though, it was labor that tried to kill me. So when my water broke, my bones and spine followed suit. The scene turned into a horror movie, with blood splattered everywhere. Then suddenly at the least opportune time, my brain went and had a thought (maybe giving up the baby wasn't such a bad idea after all).
Surprise surprise though. I managed to not die yet again (ha ha, take that Grimm Reaper). It turned out Hunky swooped in at the last minute and injected his swoon worthy vampire serum into my heart, thus saving my life. See kids, being stabbed in the heart really was romantic (please don't try that at home).
If the most dramatic labor in the history of childbirth wasn't enough, Second Fiddle knew how to add that extra layer of insanity. In an epic miscommunication (there seemed to be a lot of those in my life), the shirtless Wolf thought I'd died mid labor. And, blaming my kiddo, ol' Fiddle decided the best course of action was to murder my child...wait, huh?
Let me get that lunkhead logic straight. He thought I was dead, never to come back again. So naturally the way to make the situation better was to kill another person too. Hmm, I think I made the right decision picking the hunky vampire instead of a hot yet unspeakably dumb werewolf.
In the end though, logic mattered little in my world. But with another ridonkulous twist, Second Fiddle didn't actually end up killing my kid, but rather imprinting on her by mistake, thus making my child and the wolf soul mates for life. Clean up in aisle five, I think my brain just exploded.
I meanwhile woke up with a new sense of immortality. For once in my life, I wasn't just a damsel in distress anymore. Instead I was a blood thirsty damsel with a kid in tow that I was ill equipped to raise (thank God I had eternity to learn).
***
Even after all that melodrama, I still couldn't live whiny ever after in peace. An annoying little twit of a vampire, who just happened to be moseying through my plot, went and misidentified my kid as a threat to existence (did the poorly executed missed communications never end?). And, instead of just clearing things up with me and my Hunky hubby, she went and tattled all the way to Italy.
Naturally the Vultures went and overreacted like the little bitches they were, leading to the most epic of all unnecessary fang off's on the horizon.
That revelation did not lead to the bedroom banter I was expected.
"Hey, so thanks to you, my whole family is going to be exterminated by super powered vampires. But at least I got to change a few years worth of diapers before kicking the bucket," Hunky said.
"Hey, it's not my fault another easily avoidable misunderstanding has led to an all out war. Besides, don't forget the years of sleepless night our daughter has given us too. Ah, precious insomnia," I replied.
"You know, it's almost like we've stumbled into a completely unnecessary chapter in our lives. Hell, make that an entire book that seems to exist only to cause more drama."
"Hey, why don't we just video chat with the Vultures and show them our daughter isn't some hell spawn bent on world destruction?"
"Nella, now is not the time for rational thought. We must instead unite totally random vampire clans to fend off the royally pissed off Italians."
"But doesn't that seem like we're just wasting time before we inevitably walk into the sunset together totally unscathed?"
"Honey, you forget we have to introduce a whole slew of new characters and form the biggest hack sack circle in the universe."
"You're right. Because when you're immortal, there's nothing better than a nice game of hacky sack. This is going to be so much fun."
***
While the Vultures prepared to kill every vampire in their way, the fang convention was in full swing in Sporks. T-shirts were printed, bands played, and designer blood was chugged. It was the most fun you could have before an impending slaughter. Eventually the full fanged rager had to come to an end though with the final showdown at hand.
"Damn, we are so going to kill you," the Vulture leader said.
"Is it too late to say this is all one big misunderstanding?" Hunky asked.
"Nice try, douche magoosh. This kill-a-thon is going to happen, and there's nothing you can do to stop it."
"Wow. That sounds kind of anti-climactic. You do realize how many times I've cheated death so far, right?" I asked.
"Just hand over the kid already. We have a lot of murdering to do today and not a whole lot of time to enjoy it," the Vulture leader insisted.
"Whoa whoa whoa. Not so quick with the death and dismemberment," a member of the O'Buzzkill clan said, with a surprise visitor. "I have just the intellectual proof we need to end this war non violently."
The Vulture Leader stomped his foot in a hissy fit. "Damn it, why do I get the feeling I'm not going to get to brutally kill someone today?"
"Meet Fang McSavesourasses from the neighboring town of Convenient Plot Point, Washington. He is half human, half vampire, and has zero ambition to enslave the world. Hell, the guy barely has any ambition at all. He just tokes up and runs an alpaca farm."
"I can't believe it. I just flew seven thousand miles in coach next to a manboobed tourist with epic body odor. Someone is so getting executed," the Vulture Leader insisted.
"How about the vampire responsible for this big time mix up?" I suggested.
"Ah, why not?" the Vulture Leader replied. "But before I get to the main course, I just have to ask, do you have any pigs in blankets? The food on the plane sucked."
***
"Well, we managed to talk our way out of certain death," I said, walking into the sunset with Hunky.
"I know, right? That was pretty boring of an ending," Hunky remarked.
"Maybe I should shamelessly put my life on the line so we can have another unnecessary adventure," I continued.
"Nah. I think that was unnecessary enough as it is. Besides, people can put up with only so much whining, right?"
"Not when there's hunky vampires involved."
"Oh, right. In that case, what ridiculous shenanigans should we get ourselves into next?" Hunky asked.
"I'm sure we'll think of come up with something overwrought," I replied. "But in the meantime, let's hump."
The End.
Hey Kinky Billionaire, Stop Spanking My Butt
When your boyfriend acted like the deranged leader of a butt spanking cult, swooning was hardly on the menu for most women. Luckily, I did not invo
lve my brain in decision making very often. I did however like a highly degrading back story, which it turned out there was plenty of.
Go figure, being treated like day old donuts by your family did not lead to a spiritually fulfilling life. And what better way to take the frustrations you had about your three sheets to the wind crazy parents on a young, impressionable dodo brain like me? Wasn't the cycle of abuse grand?
Speaking of mal adjusted wack jobs, I had forgotten to use my safe word "you're a deranged psycho, please stop beating me" during my last rump romance rendezvous, so my poor buttski was in full whimper mode.
I used the afternoon to pout that Slap McHappy had the nerve to poop without sadistically forcing me to wipe his butt for him. But soon Slap and I were triumphantly reunited, allowing me to hold his delightful dong while he peed just like the old days.
It wasn't long before the old douche-a-saurus went full ass clown, pulling out the paddle with sadistic glee. He demanded to know why I didn't stop him from beating the tar out of my tush (like I knew why I do anything) during the last round of pooper paddling. But in that moment of extreme cardboard villainy, an idea popped into my head (I know, right? Miracles did happen).
It occurred to me that maybe a relationship shouldn't be built on butt cheeks being sore for weeks at a time. That maybe just maybe, relationships should be based on making improbably bone headed decisions like falling in love with an emotional cripple. At least he was hot though. I did mention he was super duper hot, right? And rich too. What more could a woman with the IQ of orangutan dung ask for?
Amazingly enough, the idea that I should flee the twisted bastard to find a man that would love, honor, or at least cherish my boobs did not enter my cavernous mind.
I did decide to law down the law at least a tad though. But the conversation to free my tush from torture was awkward at best:
"Hey, I was thinking you should stop spanking my butt during sex," I said.
"What am I supposed to spank then, your cervix? Because that's just twisted," Slap replied.
"I was thinking maybe you shouldn't spank me at all," I continued.
"What are you, some bra burning feminist nut job now? I'll bet next you'll think women should have the right to vote next. Or that they should actually enjoying having a meat flavored scrotum rubbing up against them."
"You kidding? I don't think anyone should vote. Have you seen the parade of morons running for office lately? I was just hoping my ass wouldn't whimper so much after making love."
"Wait a minute. You think a numb nut, nincompooped, domestic abusing, manipulative twat like me is capable of love? That might be the most romantic thing to ever make me pop a woody. From now on, the only time I will beat you is in a battle of wits. Now, let's have a marathon over the top sex. I'll even rent rabid raccoons to watch us."
"Woodland creatures in the bedroom. Yippee. Wait until my friends hear about the extremely normal sex we're about to have."
***
"Wow, that was like muff magic," I said. "Penile paradise. A carnal cornucopia."
"It must have been good. I've got you alliterating," Slap bragged.
"What can I say? You're my dick destiny. My horny hero. My lusty legend."
"I am pretty awesome, aren't I?"
"Let's have sex until it hurts when you pee," I suggested.
"Wow, if this is romance, I might just get the hang of it," Slap replied. "Hooray for emotional growth. Now, let me drip ice cream all over your body and lick it out of your belly button."
***
It turned out every once in a while sex had to take a backseat to haphazard plotting though, so I found myself at a charity event with Slap McHappy on edge with the sighting of a jilted ex girlfriend (a relationship with Slap just had too many perks to count). It seemed Crazy McEx was having a tough time screwing her head on right after years of Slap working his masochistic magic. Lucky for me, I planned on spending the rest of my life with the belligerent bastard, so I didn't have to worry about a break up clogging my noggin.
If it were up to McEx though, Slap's tortured soul would be bleeding out on the newly steamed carpet, hunky hemoglobin and all. It was like having front row seats to my favorite soap opera, only I got to be the dumb chick chewing scenery in the corner. Still, all the intense drama was threatening to ruin my chances at scoring the half off therapy sessions in the charity auction.
The drama wasn't all psychological though. Gunplay erupted between Crazy and Slap's burly bodyguards, putting on a fireworks show that left me dumbstruck (although making me look dumb wasn't hard). It was more amazing than watching a guy light a firecracker in his heiny. Speaking of exploding things in butt's, nothing brought on a gratuitous sexual interlude like almost catching a stray bullet in the booby.
"Hey, do you want to break the head board with our vigorous sexual acrobatics?" I asked, back at Slap's dong dojo.
"Why stop there? Why don't I whack your butt cheeks with the broken head board to really get my schlong soaring?"
"Oh, Slap. I thought we agreed to hide your sexual skeletons back in the closet with the waffle maker and butt plug you never use."
"Fine. But you can't blame a douche for wanting to beat the snot out of the woman he loves, can you? Besides, how else can you show a woman you love her if not through erotic physical flagellation?"
"I dunno. Flowers. Dinner and a movie. Buying me a pony and dressing it like a unicorn."
"Why don't I just pork you in the most romantic way my pea brain can dream up?"
"You're right. Tawdry sex solves everything, even gaping plot holes."
"Now put on the meter maid outfit. My winky's feeling kinky."
***
It was hard to believe civilization wasted time with dumb things like work when dental dams were laying around tragically unused. But there I found myself, amazingly enough gainfully employed at a publishing house. Our latest piece of literary dung was a scholarly critique of the decaying of modern literature. Could you believe there wasn't any salacious sex in it? Who'd read such well researched nonsense? People wanted a muff diving deep dicking good time with a smattering of incomprehensible plot, not something that gave your brain cause for pause (thinking made my head hurt).
But an unnecessary diversion from carnival style coitus wouldn't be complete without a romantic rival of therapy inducing proportions. Sure Mr. Schizo had eye candy to spare, but then again who didn't have underwear model looks in Seattle? Being a bastion of beautiful buffness didn't mean much when fat and ugly people conveniently disappeared from existence.
Still, Mr. Schizo did make me question whether a relationship of mutual love and respect might be worth flirting with. Until the guy went seriously Schizo and started talking about the erotic pleasures of monkeys flinging poo.
Slap meanwhile didn't like the fact that anyone with a penis that wasn't him would have the nerve to even talk to me. So being the emotional dill weed he was, Slap stormed into my office and threw an epic temper tantrum. It was so romantic. Who knew a grown man coming emotionally unhinged could be such a turn on? Yet seeing Slap unnecessarily going off the rails made me tingle all over.
And if you were out there thinking that was yet another example of how I should have cast Slap to the side like the used tampon of torment he was, you really haven't caught on to how dimwitted I am. Besides, was I supposed to have inappropriate sex on the office copier with myself? Puh-lease.
After heading home for a second round of coital calisthenics, another interlude into insanity occurred (no, not running off to the County Fair to ride ostriches professionally). Instead it was Slap's family bringing the pain of yore into the fore. And me oh my were Slap's folks nutso. It was more twisted than stumbling into a cave of cross dressing cannibals. But you had to hand it to Slap, even after a childhood fraught with pain and tortured tomfoolery, he managed to accrue a billion dollars while seemingly never doing any actual work.
Seeing Slaps parents though, I had clichés to comfort me. It
was true. Money really couldn't buy happiness. It could buy a strippers pole and sex swing in the bedroom though. Not to mention an indoor tennis court and an amusement park in the backyard, but what good was obscene wealth if you only used it to wipe your tears with?
Not buying the sob story? How about some more pelvic gyrations? After all, sex was a great way to fill holes, plot or otherwise. So Slap brought his erection in my direction and I took his boner for a spin. I would tell you all the illicit details, but a woman deserved her privacy.
Ah, who was I kidding? I was the baroness of blow jobs. A wide-legged wanton wonder. And my clitoris cooed at very sight of Slap's bulging best friend.
The sex was epic. To say it was mind blowing was an insult to carnal cranium cracking. It was a white cream dream. A horny heaven holiday. Can't miss dick bliss. A labia puffing muffin stuffing. A long schlong swan song.
You'd think you would need to take a nap after such arousing alliteration (not to mention all the wild sex), but more unrealistic drama awaited. I mean seriously, it was like Slap's life was being choreographed by a failed soap opera writer. I went home to rest my naughty bits and drop the deuce in private (Slap insisted that watching me poop brought us closer) when crazy went and found me. See, it turned out I wasn't alone in my apartment (then again, with my hemorrhoids I was never really alone).
Psycho Von Ex wasn't just any garden variety nut job. Her buttski had once belonged to Slap. And though most people would be happy to be free from the punishment of the paddle, her tush craved the torture. She was a psychotic wreck and insanely jealous that her bottom wasn't being beaten anymore.
That was just the typhoon of turd I wasn't looking forward to. Maybe wanton sex with a mal adjusted madman had consequences after all. I just never expect those consequences to be waiting to kill me in my living room.
