I didn’t get Marla wet enough before stabbing it in. I know we both like a forceful penetration from time to time, but I also know it is going to take longer to get Marla off.

I didn’t make her cum the last time we had sex.

When this happens I have to write her an IOU

Embarrassing? Yes.
Emasculating? You betchya.

Over the course of our relationship, when I give her multiple orgasms, I try to establish the same accounting but to no avail.

I stopped giving her multiples six months ago.

If I ever drop the ball twice in a row I end up in the sexual doghouse. No blow-jobs.

The pressure is on.

When we first started living together I developed a technique that would get her fucking crazy and blast off in minutes. Stride, depth, angle, hold, I had that shit down. Over time this wasn’t good enough for me. I started to feel like a typecast actor. But director, I can do drama, I’ll grow a beard.

I don’t know why I thought two people getting off in three minutes was a bad thing, but I did.

I also wish I was six feet tall, my dick was bigger, and that I would never lose another bet in my life.

This took us to some strange places. Exhilarating places, deviant places. Oh yeah, that’s why. That’s why the IOU was born too.

Exploring the unknown is not always going to be successful, but without it you are going to miss out on a lot.

I have pointed this out to Marla to dissuade the IOU. I have reminded her of the time I put two fingers in her ass, applied a choke hold and gave her just the tip before power fucking the shit out of her while stuffing a dildo in her mouth from my mouth. I brought her to the brink of passing out because her orgasm was so powerful.

Airways be damned!

She places the IOU’s on the fridge. For the last two days, I have been reminded of my failure every time I get a beer.

I have friends who ask me what the IOU’s are for and I can’t tell them. They ask me why I never carry money around, why I don’t pick up the check more often, they don’t know. They don’t know the pain of pleasure.

Do I go back to my fail-safe technique?

I slowly manoeuvre Marla into that perfect angle.

I am cheating. I am a lazy cheater. I am disappointed in myself. I suppose these are the natural feelings of someone in debt.

I am not a bum at the horse track. Is that how Marla thinks of me?

Harvey, you can forget ever getting your dick sucked again if you fail today!

Harvey, I will break your fucking legs if you don’t get me off this time.

Harvey, if you don’t make me fucking cum, your dick is going to end up in the fucking river!

How do you fuck someone in the mob? I roll us both over so she is on top.

“Slap me!” I yell staring at her right in the eyes.

She does. Her face goes flush, and her eyes roll slightly back in her head. She starts pounding down on my cock and slaps me again.

I feel powerless and powerful at the same time. Marla starts screaming in ecstasy. She looks sexy as hell.

I am in trouble now, I know she is going to be cumming in moments but I need to cum right now. I close my eyes and think about having my ear cut off.

Then I think of my sexy mobster cutting my ear off naked.

She clenches and screams. We made it. I squirt.

See ya at the track.


Man Vs. Cat

The fan kept me cool all night. I am refreshed. The air smells like opportunity and not like stale beer farts. For once I am ready to open my eyes and take on the day.


My cat’s asshole stares back at me.

I close my eyes too slow. Why would she do this to me?

I’d choose the barrel of a gun over that.

With my head stuffed into the pillow, the cat’s anus painted on the back of my eyelids, I wish for stale beer farts.

I am a man. This cat’s moxy is not going to take my day from me.

I peek open my left eye. Maybe, just maybe there will be a loaded rifle opposite it. I see the alarm clock, no rifle. It’s 12:34 in the afternoon, well past the feline’s feeding hour.

The bastard chose not to cry or slap me to wake me up, but instead planted her personal sunrise in my face for when I got up. Conniving bitch!

When did she come up with this idea and how long had she been waiting like that?

I wish I had the discipline of my cat. I would have a college diploma, a real job, and a dog.

Pulling myself up to a sitting position I remember doing sit-ups. That cat’s asshole vacuumed my potential right through my fucking eyes.

She sees my lifeless body in the sitting position and brings her full-frontal attack. Her eyes normally cute, now had the look of someone on a gin bender, the line between right and wrong does not exist for this cat anymore. I remember this look in the mirror from my younger days.

The quickness of her paws and the screaming of her voice make me think of Bruce Lee. This cat is a drunk Bruce Lee. Or am I drunk and she is Bruce Lee? Lucky for me she only weighs seven pounds.

Fuck you cat. You’re hungry and you can’t eat without me. You should have thought of that before setting me up for that brown eye.

I knock the rabid beast onto the floor with the power of a fucking sasquatch.

Now to the washroom. I struggle to get there-a boxer in a 12-round battle to the death looking for his corner.

I can’t shake this fucking cat. This Muhammad Ali-Bruce Lee motherfucker. She follows me while bitching me out. I am Tina to her Ike. I don’t want to face her hunger cries while I shit. I need to shake her. I need my corner. I need my seat.

The pain of all the abused and battered people out there gives me a surge of energy. I will make a stand for us all!

Donations accepted at the door.

I fake a move to the kitchen, pull a quick spin and shut the bathroom door with the grace of a ballet dancer. The cat is locked out. Sucker.

I settle onto the warm seat, a nice perk of the summertime.

It’s not so bad.

Next to the toilet is the kitty litter. It is full. The shit/piss to actual litter ratio is very one-sided. When did I last clean her litter? I don’t fucking know.

It would suck to have to shit on old shit and piss on old piss. I can understand why the cat is upset. If my toilet couldn’t flush for a week I’d be sure to show my landlord my dirty hole.

I flush my personal shit down the toilet. There is such simplicity with human waste management.

I can hear the cat growling for food over the the running water.

I can’t feed her before cleaning this litter. She always shits right after her breakfast. Her metabolism is higher than a marathon runner.

She’ll take one look at this box, turn up her nose and unleash her fury all over the floor.  I’m not going to give her the opportunity to turn this place into the bathroom of an Irish bar.

I will have a coffee first. I owe that to myself. I must regain my title of owner in our relationship.

I own you! I picked you! I feed you!

Newspaper in one hand and coffee in the other, it is clear who is the boss. Smooth like a Brazilian wax, this coffee is bringing me the satisfaction a man deserves in the prime of his life.

The paper is from the last time I cleaned the litter, but I find it comforting that tomorrow’s weather forecast has the same chance to be right.

Why is it a Brazilian wax? Does that make Brazilian women very smooth or very hairy to begin with?

“You’re a lazy ignorant asshole!” My cat screeches in my ear.

You fool! You think I will feed you before cleaning up your shit!

I won’t let her see me cleaning up her shit. I have worked hard enough to get the power back in this relationship. I have to get back to the washroom without her seeing me.

You ever play chess kitty?

You ever been in a drinking contest kitty?

You ever wrestled a man naked kitty?

You ever raced for your life kitty?

I sprint to the washroom and slam the door. The coffee has given me a human-growth- hormone like jolt. Thud! The cat hits the door. Ha! A drunk Bruce Lee is not so dangerous after all.

I scoop all the droppings and breathe in victory.

Man, there is hardly any litter in there.

Is there enough for the cat to use?

I spread it around evenly and there is barely enough to cover the bottom. I have to pile up the remaining litter near the front of the box. It is very useable.

I wash my hands and head back out to the battleground to feed the maniacal loser pet. She is grateful. Humbled pets are the cutest.

I need a shower to wash away all the asshole, shit and piss that started my day. The water pours over me and I feel good about what I have already accomplished this afternoon.

Man, Brazilian women are sexy.

With no tissue needed for cleanup I feel environmentally responsible, that’s a green load. I turn off the water feeling great about myself.

Pipes cleansed and body cleansed, I get out of the shower. Life is in my control.

I look down for the bath mat and see a freshly smeared shit staring up at me from directly in front of the litter box.

Time to go back to bed.

Good Fortune

Two hours ago I was selling a painting. I didn’t make much more than what the materials cost, but it felt good.

Now I am cleaning shit off a toilet seat, and not the underside of the toilet seat either.

Nobody likes to clean shit, but there is at least something enduring about anonymous shit. Unfortunately this time I know the asshole this shit came from.

She sits in the shop for hours at a time.

I have seen her here every day since I started this job. Every day I smile and make her coffee and every day she takes her coffee away without a glance at the tip jar. Today I scrub the rot from her bowels off the top of this toilet seat. I suppose she saved up her tips for this one grand gesture.

Her family would put her in a home before cleaning up the waste from her aged and loose intestines. Here, I am making just a sliver over minimum wage doing the repugnant job.

I am fucking depressed.

Pucker up Harvey, you’re the potty trained one. That poor old bag can’t even get her shit into the toilet. Yeah, you’re the lucky one Harvey.

That would have worked better in an English accent.

Earlier life smelled like roses. Now my nose is rammed right up against a pile of old-lady shit. Her feces spread on porcelain looks alarming. I’d recommend her to see a doctor if I wasn’t wishing for her death so badly.

I used be able to do work like this no problem: Gloves, bleach, wipe, done.

I used to be able to tell myself I am paying my dues. But, at this point, I could have served a term for manslaughter and been back on the streets. Debt to society–paid.

How many assholes will I have to clean?

This shit is weighing on my shoulders and when that weight smells like a dead rat buried in cow dung it is time to do something about it.

I make the bowl spotless, remove the gloves and throw them and the paper towel in the trash and tie the bag up. On the way out of the store I notice her sitting with a newspaper.

I cannot believe she is still here after making that mess. She must have balls like a whale.

Fuck her!

I drop the bag next to the old hag, open it and toss in some dirty napkins. Before tying it back up I make sure that fucker has time to breathe.

Does she recognize the smell of her insides? Can she feel the venom darts shooting from my eye sockets?

She looks at me as I pick the bag up. It brushes her arm. I swing the sack of hag feces as hard as I can right across her saggy face. Her skin contorts like a crumpled ball of paper. The bag rips opens. The soiled paper and shit remnants fly all over the café, into customers’ cups, on their laps. She is blinded from the corn she ate last night. Shit is smeared all over her face and her head looks like a ball of used toilet paper. Her insides are on her outside. Finally, a shit shower for all the people who overpay for their coffee to have their asses wiped.

This seems right.

I imagine a voice over a loudspeaker:

“Ladies and gentlemen please remain where you are and stay calm. Someone will be right out to remove any unwanted material from your coffee and body. A second person will be out to wipe you and your mug down, followed by a third to refill your cup, comb your hair, and do your makeup if needed. Please remember you are more important than most other people, and you shall be treated that way.”

Unfortunately it did not rain shit on these assholes. But as I reach the dumpster outside I cannot stop smiling.

I drop the bag in the bin, take off my apron and do the same with it, and keep walking.

The fecal encrusted boulders on my shoulders roll right off my back. They are someone else’s problem. I do not need this shit.

There is only one asshole I have to worry about now. Sure money might get tight, but at least I have plenty of stolen toilet paper to keep one thing always taken care of.


My local grocery store has started putting pink 50-percent-off stickers on products they need to sell. Because of this I have become a daily regular. My diet consists of only items with pink stickers on them.

The burden of deciding what will be had for any given meal has been lifted from me. I let the stickers guide me. The problem is I have to get there early in the morning or late in the night for these deals. Middle of the day? No chance.

For the first time in my life I am using my alarm clock to get out of bed instead of arguing with it. I am staying up late for deals and getting up early for them.

I am running myself ragged but I am eating better than I have ever before in my life.

The morning and night crews are starting to give me strange looks. I am really twice as crazy as they think since I am shopping when they are sleeping.

This passion has recently started, but I can pinpoint the exact day the seed was planted.

It was my 12th birthday.

It was the first time I had a big birthday bash–one where everybody you know gets invited, not just your one friend.

Things were going well. With inhibitions lost due to my mother’s excessive rum-ball stash I was even able to talk to a girl, then blow her mind by sneaking us a couple beers.

At cake time I was feeling good even after the terrible rendition of Happy Birthday in front of my new girlfriend.

While everybody shovelled sugar into their mouths, my dad decided he needed to speak to the crowd.

“Everybody enjoying the cake?” There was a positive grumble through the chewing.

“Can you believe it was 50 percent off? They were going to get rid of it, can you believe that?”

Until high school graduation I was known as Half-Off.

I moved out of town for university and left the Half-Off stigma behind. I grew with confidence over time to believe I was a person of full value. I would scoff at bargain bins during the day and drink the night away.

Then adulthood settled in–bills, rent, kitty litter, it was just a matter of time before I realized being a Half-Off was my destiny.

It’s not so bad. I feel more satisfied than any of those khaki-wearing folk who shop with blinders on to any deals and then take their overpriced groceries back to their oversized house in their oversized car.

I am the leopard of the cat family. I may not be the King of the Jungle in the grocery store but I am the shrewdest.

There are other Half-Offs as well. You can see it in their eyes. The way they scan the aisles in a fluid motion, the way they walk into the store with a sense of direction. Half-Offs may look like they don’t know what they are doing with the rings under their eyes and bed-head, but they know.

They know the order of priority when they walk in the store: Meat, bakery, produce, and then, of course, personal taste. We avoid eye contact with one another most of the time.

Our relationship is competitive but respectful.

On any given day we eat better and cheaper than the rest of you fuckers.


I sit on the futon, sweating.

A fan blows hot air in my face.

I choose not to do anything but sweat, no television, no music, no books, just the sole act of using my body to turn the hot air around me into salty water from my pores.

I am wearing only boxers, but this one article of clothing causes a massive pool of moisture in my crotch.

I put two fingers down the front of my shorts, across my balls then up to my nose.

The aroma matching how I feel, I nod my head.

In this heat it is simply about survival. I think of myself as a soldier on watch in Afghanistan.

I believe my futon to be a trench.

After hours in the trenches, a man needs a cold beer. This is not going to be a normal beer. This is going to be a beer of reward. This will be a beer to celebrate a hard day’s work.

I peel myself off the futon.

On my way to the kitchen I see my cat sprawled out on the bathroom floor.

I think of my time spent on that same linoleum, wrapped around the toilet bowel. The coolness always felt so good against my toxic, sweaty body.

Smart one kitty.

Perhaps I will get the cat a beer.

I halt at the kitchen entrance. Lucky the soles of my bare feet are coated in hot glue.

Marla is crouched in front of the fridge cleaning it out. The fridge has not been cleaned out in months and smells like Chinatown when you open it.

I want no part of this.

What I want is a cold, refreshing beer. I could taste it in my dry mouth, the only thing dry on my entire body.

I knew if I took a step into the kitchen that I would be roped into this task. Little did Marla know that I spent the day in the trenches and have no energy to clean up Chinatown.

I see the beers at the top of the refrigerator, dripping on the sides because the door was open causing condensation.

Science you make me thirsty.

I stand in my boxers with drool pooling at the sides of my mouth, caught between two worlds: Fantasy and reality.

My eyes dart between the beers and Marla. She can sense me and could turn around at any second. I have to make a move.

“I will go out and buy beer! That’s it!”

My anxiety builds as I try to quickly slide on clothes. This proves difficult with the sweat and the stick. I feel like a fat man trying to go down a kiddie slide.

The rest of the get-a-way goes smoother, keys, money, sunglasses, check.

Not a sound exiting the apartment.

I walk down the street towards the beer store with the Shaft theme music playing in my head.

Should I, in fact, be helping Marla clean out the fridge?

Focus Harvey.

I know I cannot let my thoughts drift in this errant manner again. I think of the men out there who fought for our freedom. Good.

I catch the crossing guard out of the corner of my eye. This is an inspiring man. He knows what he has to do. He has to get people across the street safely. One purpose. One goal. This is somebody I can look up to.

I now walk with speed and focus to the liquor store. I am on a mission. I have a purpose. There is meaning to each step, each breath. There is meaning to my life.

I sit in the park smiling with my purchased beer and watch the condensation slide down the can before opening it.

The beer hits my lips and I feel fucking proud. The ice-cold liquid and my hot tongue are like two lovers who have not seen each other in years.

I have out maneuvered the obstacles put in my way to achieve my goal. No longer was I a grunt in the trenches, I was a General now.

Maybe Marla feels the same way, choosing a task that involves cold air being flushed over her body on a hot day.

I take another swig.

The crossing guard would be proud.

The Difference Between You and Me.

I decided to take a second job at a coffee shop.

Brew, pour and serve coffee.


I make sandwiches, blend smoothies, cook wraps, stroke egos and sell free bags of airplane peanuts.

I also clean a lot; sinks, toilets, asses, you name it.

My specialty is not giving a shit about people who treat me like shit.

It’s not that I am satisfied with my servant job and lack of success as an artist. It’s just I haven’t figured out who I am supposed to take it out on yet.

Bums beware.

I pulled out of a three-day bender and was struggling at work. I placed a sausage sandwich in front of a grizzled man. He was wearing a minor league hockey jacket. Coach or parent I knew right away this guy had an anger management issue.

“Isn’t there any fucking ketchup for this?”


My body oozed toxins, I hope my sweat didn’t give him any satisfaction. It was not because of him.

I thought of how minor league hockey referees would deal with him.


I worked on other orders, knowing full well there was ketchup in the back.

“You mean I gotta eat this fucking sandwich dry?” He gunned.

I didn’t like his tone, but I did enjoy his senseless swearing.

This coffee shop remained his hockey arena.

I looked at him with dead blood shot eyes. He looked at me with angry blood shot eyes. I was sure he was about to heave the scalding sandwich at my face.

The sausage would probably stick to my cheek. Boiling toxins providing a sealant. I am sure the other customers would continue to query where their order was as ground pig shit torched my face.

Societal rules need not apply while you’re at a counter, in front of plexi-glass or behind a steering wheel – places where the pent up and unsatisfied unleash their frustrations at the undeserving and unarmed.

The moisture this man was going to get on his sandwich was from the grease in the flash frozen meat, and the sweat from the beers I had last night.

He sat down to his sawdust sandwich and stared at me like I had a gun to his first born.

I enjoyed the gaze. Of course I would prefer it to be from an attractive woman with a tumbling blouse line, but this man is what I got.

I was about to clock out, but there were a few orders left to finish. These ones I did with glee and perfection. I laughed with each customer and gave them exactly what they wanted and then glanced at my guy.

I knew this would burn his insides: Me having a good time, and other customers walking away satisfied.

I saw him talking aggressively at his friend while his eyes stayed locked at me.

The last time I checked I did not own a pair of breasts.

The shift was over, my hangover subsiding. I took off my apron and walked to the office and got changed.

I threw on my jacket and grabbed a packet of ketchup.

I headed out of the shop and walked by my attentive man-child while squirting ketchup in my mouth.

The now gentle man was silent.

There was no counter, boards, or steel between us.

I hopped into my tiny, dented hatchback.

I rolled through the first intersection and was cut off by a car bigger than mine turning right.

I slammed on the horn and put my foot down on the gas.

This asshole was going to pay.

Hungover: A Love Story

Sun shone through the window angrily at my face. It was scolding me for the way I acted last night.

I awoke next to Marla, her eyes were still glued shut and she slept peacefully. I believed this to be unfair as she had yet to feel the pain from last night’s gluttony. I stared at her.

‘I hope you’re having a nightmare right now,’ I thought.

I tried to open my mouth and wake her up. This was harder than I expected. It felt like Spiderman had tied it shut during the night. The web-like saliva between my lips was the only moisture in my entire mouth.

I thought about wiping the sweat off my brow and licking it.

“What happened last night?” I nudged Marla.

Marla grumbled and rolled over.

“You decided we had to finish all the leftover drinks from the party,” Marla spoke through her pillow.

“Did we at least fuck?” I always feel better about being a drunk if I had sex.

“Ha! I was ready, you were dead to the world,” Marla shot back aggressively.

“I thought about kicking it to make it swell,” She continued needlessly.

The room smelled like farmers country. I thought about how impressive the human body is to create and expel such large portions of gas, even when–for all intents and purposes–the brain attached to that body is dead.

“Maybe if my sperm was made of wine you would have figured out a better way to make it grow,” I shot back. Sometimes in the morning, when the alcohol is still coursing through my veins, I can be quite smart tongued.

Marla seemed to not give a shit about my wit.

I decided for my tongue’s benefit, to keep it sharp and hydrated, to locate a beer.

There has to be at least one cold beer left. I hoped. I wished. I prayed. It was a similar feeling to being a child on Christmas Eve. If I get the present I want, I swear I will be good next year Santa.

As I got up, the blanket pulled off of Marla exposing her naked body. Naked! She had been ready. She looked good. For a moment I thought I might want something more than a beer.

Women always confuse your goals. Stay sharp Harvey. I stared directly at that angry incoming sun to blur my vision so Marla’s skin wouldn’t look so tantalizing.

As I stumbled out of the bedroom seeing splotches I realized I could of have covered her with the blanket. Where’s that beer?

I arrived at the fridge and opened the door. PLEASE SANTA!

I could not get my mind organized to control my eyes. They darted all over; hurling themselves from the top shelf, to the door panel, back to the top shelf, then the bottom shelf. There was no way I was going to find anything this way.

Be disciplined Harvey. Be thorough.

I started at the top shelf. There were a lot of bottles but none seemed to contain what I wanted. Damn, when did we get so many condiments? The international sauces for international meals I am sure we have yet to eat created a lot of traffic in the back of the shelf. They looked like prisoners who knew there was no release for them, no escape.

My eyes moved slowly down to the second shelf. This is where all short stubby items are kept; various pastes that I’m unsure of, cream cheeses and sour creams that have gone to die, fancy mustards that have only been used once. I’m hoping for a laid-down bottle. Nothing.

The bottom shelf.

I already knew it was empty. That is where all the beer was put for last night. That bitch was bare. My hopes were fading fast along with the remaining saliva in my mouth.

I started at the top of the door panel, and went down. So many expired salad dressings, too many. All from that second week in January when we made a promise to eat salad every day. I wanted to hurt that salad dressing, especially the vinaigrette.

I fell to my knees in desperation and opened up the crisper. This movement made my brain rattle.

My head was a bingo ball holder.

It didn’t matter.

There it was, tucked in with rotten vegetables, a gleaming bottle of suds. Some bastard had put his beer in there to hide it last night. Prick. The rotten smell from the vegetables did not bother me in the slightest. The vision of brown spoiled lettuce and indecipherable round objects just made the beer look that much more beautiful. For a moment I thought of how in the future I will choose a healthier diet, vegetables and international sauces will get consumed not just bought, but not today. I pulled out the beer and closed the crisper, I’m sure it winked at me, and the cold moisture on the side of the bottle told me it was ready.

As much as my head pounded, I knew it wasn’t going to last. I felt happy. I thought of Marla, and poured her a giant glass of cold water and headed back to bed. With optimism in my life I have the ability for selfless acts.

I crawled into bed to try and not disrupt Marla and pulled up the blankets around the both of us. I gave her a gentle tap and handed her the water. She sat up, chugged the water, handed me the glass, and fell back down without opening her eyes.

I cracked my beer and took a swig. It was the most refreshing drink I ever had. I felt Marla rub her leg against mine. My dick swelled. This was going to be a great day. Even the sun was shining.

Sometimes hangovers are exactly what the doctor ordered.