Love Hurts, Love Scars

I am definitely too something to be in this club: old, fat, ugly, out of touch, dumb, horny.

There is a large dance floor with mostly small groups of women doing their thing. Their techniques are more shadow-puppet party than booty shake but it still creates the desired effect: lust. The remainder of patrons, mostly small groups of men, including me, circle the floor while slamming back overpriced beer. Our techniques need work.

The fine ale I am currently on was paid for by neglected tips at the bar.

Stop judging, bartenders are the doctors of the working class.

Flesh. Dark. Teeth. Dark. Flesh. Dark. Eyeballs. Dark. Life. Dark.

I scour the area and spot my friends at the bar through the dancing hands and shitty light work and detour to find a friendly stranger. The smell of weed has climbed my nostrils and has knocked the reek of body odour and desperation to the ground. The bloodhound has his scent.

I am pulled towards a group of ladies. There are two joints being passed among them and they are having the time of their lives. This is an intimidating situation for any man.

I know exactly what would take the edge off.

I slice into the circle as the two joints cross over. No time to think, I put them both in my mouth and start sucking in the sweet herb with gusto. The girls turn into a cheerleading section for their new friend. I finish the haul of my life, exhale and cross my arms and pass the joints in opposite directions while bouncing up and down to the music. When did I get this cool?

My body is relaxed. The wet from sweat and spilled drinks and my brick feet turn into experienced moonwalkers. I am the sun and these female body parts are planets rotating around me. Pretty eyes, tits, shoulders and thighs circle me in sync with the beat of the music.

I look up and realize there is no ceiling here. I see straight up into the galaxy which I now know I am the centre of.

I am certain all the girls in this group are in love with me. I tilt my head down to face my harem.

Whoa, the rotation has changed to spinning and gravity no longer exists.

I slowly get down on all fours. I am surrounded by a field of ankles with one good pair in the crop. The thick ones make me feel comfortable about this situation, they seem motherly. I look up expecting compassionate loving eyes, instead I get laughing and snickering.


I’ve seen the real you. You’re a bunch of middle-aged Italian women, you cankled whores.

I try to write my number with saliva on the calf of the slim-ankled one. She kicks me in the ribs but her skinny leg only manages a tickle.

I roll over onto my back and start giggling like a baby. I should have predicted a situation like this, a white shirt was a stupid choice.

Where is the local adoption agency? I don’t like these moms.

Thanks to a couple strong brothers I am flying through the club like Superman. Onlookers cheer this heroic sight: A god among mortals.

What are these two doors under bright red letters?


I open the door with my face and land on chipped concrete and cigarette butts.

I have just been thrown in the staff’s ashtray.

Superman can’t be stubbed out this easily.

Charged with adrenalin, I launch myself from the ground into the back of one of the goons who tossed my lit ass. His nose slams into the door we just exited and it sounds like a tire popping on the highway.

This is not a bad decision–I had no choice.

Blood. Blink. Black.

My cheekbone kisses the pavement long and hard like a desperate lover and my hands are cuffed together behind my lower back.

This goon is a fucking cop.

The three-course meal of dirt, ash and humiliation is definitely not the tasty dish of pussy I desired. I bet this cop never goes down on a girl, probably only fucks doggy-style.

The bouncer/cop/goon/doggy-fucker tells me a cruiser is on its way to take me in for assaulting a police officer. Fuck me.

How early on in life did he decide the crew-cut was it?

My friends are hiding behind dumpsters across the the alley, their heads pop out once in a while.

Are they entertained? Scared? Mad? Curious? Are they plotting an escape for me? Do they give a fuck?

Barely-dressed female bartenders come out for a nicotine fix while I wait for my limo. Handcuffs are like spanish fly to these women but G.I Joe steps in, flashes his badge and tells them to get moving. My being a witness is probably the only thing stopping him from actually flashing them.

I belittle the size of his dick in my mind.

The girls turn away. There is no way I was wrong about these ones, Crew-Cut is just a shitty-ass wingman.

The cop car comes, finally. The ladies here suck.

“It might get pretty violent where you’re going, we’ve had to pull a lot of gang-bangers off the street tonight.”

Good, sounds like a place where a man can definitely pick up.

Fingerprinted and standing behind bars, I take a look around at my fellow bad-asses. They all appear to be here for worse reasons than too much weed on the dance floor. I knew I should have worn my muscles and tattoos tonight, this white shirt is really haunting me.

The only other white guy in the cell is making his way towards me. I really hope he does not say the words ‘white power’.

“Hey man you got a girl?” KKK asks me.


“Smart brother. Bitches are nothing but problems. Tonight I was in my ride with this real nice piece of ass when my wife starts knocking on the window. I always tell her to not bother me in my truck. Rude cunt never listens. So I get out, and give her a nice one right across the face. You know how that song goes man: ‘love hurts, love scars…’ ”

Please stop singing wife beater.

I find some personal space, puke, feel my raw cheekbone, look at my chafed wrists and realize this domestic abuser and his favourite song are right.

When did those massive puke-stained boots invade my personal space?



About Brett Butler

if my dick were a gun is a collection of short stories by Brett Butler. He is also an award-winning filmmaker/screenwriter and co-creator of the Toronto based entertainment production company SubProd. View all posts by Brett Butler

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