© Perry Glasser www.perryglasser.com
Pussy once read
the real deal, read it in Old English no less. Hememorized a few lines so he could chant them to admiring college girls, pounding arhythm with his fist on a library table. The girls giggled and whispered, the certain signthey believed he was cute.Pussy tomorrow will turn 26. C
no longer cuts it. In the mirror, imperceptibly, but certainly, slightly, daily, his hairline recedes.
If he had any guts at all, he’d shave his
head and polish it with wax until it shined like a bullet. All his life he has lied to be older:suddenly he wants to appear younger.There are no epic journeys, no quests. Pussy can fart and belch, but his flatulentemissions lack grandeur. Trapped in the early 21
century, he is glassy-eyed on a highstool in a second rate suburban sports bar where his two best bros chug weak beer.His blueberries rise and fall and rise again.Their waitress steps sideways to drop a large plate of buffalo wings ever-fucking-clueless Kyle ordered without asking anyone if they wanted or could afford them, hisidea of a birthday party. This is no barmaid with a fetching smile. You touch her, they pitch your ass out so hard the sidewalk breaks, maybe kick your ribs to make sure you
don’t come back anytime soon
. In recessed white letters, her black plastic name tag
Does it taste as good as it smells?
Janee’s gray eyes
fall on him like Death. Mikey is ROFLAO. Even totally hammered Kyle laughs.
I meant the wings, I swear it
. He grins crookedly. He did, in truth, mean thesmell of pepper sauce and grease, but now that his bros admire his bold tongue, he sees