Crazy Bitch Tortures Me at Beige


Sorry, that sounds a wee bit misogynistic. Let me amend that to “Crazy Dick Tortures Me at Beige.”

So anyway, the crazy bitch–I mean dick–was sitting at the weekly gay party last night, frantically waving to me like a deranged traffic cop as I entered. I politely smiled back, but kept my distance, having no idea who the fuck she was. Once I sat down, the mess came tottering over and begged me to waddle to her table and say hello to her friend Phillip. “He loves you,” she gurgled. “You’re his dream man. He’s way too shy to say so. Please come over and just say hi. It’ll make his night! He’ll die!”

I knew this was a disaster in the making–whenever someone shoos me over to act out some supposedly ego-gratifying gesture, it usually ends with them shoving my head in a pile of caca–but I went anyway, just on the off chance that this would be pleasurable to someone. I nobly greeted Phillip, expecting him to faint with excitement. “I like your glasses,” he said, then just sat there, glazed. Boy, this was magical.

I toddled back to my table in humiliation and soon enough Phillip waddled over to join me. “Actually,” he said, “I have no idea who you are. She put me up to this. It was all her idea.” Just as I suspected–she’s a mental case who just wanted to see me crawl, while trying to force her friend to act out her own fantasy. “Nice meeting you,” I said, shooing him away as if he were crabs. I took a sip of the orange juice Mess Woman had sent over by way of a thank you. It turned out to be a Mojito! Crazy dick.