Here follows some proof. Truth is far stranger than fiction. Real people and real events can be downright appalling.
Ace was an indie musician with a nowhere day job; and I was a miserable waitress and unrequited writer. It was love and rockets, and we were soon living together. I thought I'd found a diamond in the rough, but I had actually been duped by a cubic zircon. Actually, to my acute disgust, I later discovered that I had gotten one very bad nut.
Ace confessed that he had a fetish. I was intrigued. He pulled out a suitcase hidden under his bed. It contained an assortment of colourful balloons. I didn't get it. He sheepishly said that he liked to play with them in bed.
I went for it, thinking it fun and eccentric. I'd feverishly blow one of those beauties up to a climactic pop, and he would pop, too! I was hooked. In hindsight, he lured me into this game as a pedophile would lure a child with candy. The party was over when I figured out that the inspiration for this routine was an incestuous one.
Things got ugly when I met his father. Ace's dad had jumped ship when Ace was nine, leaving him and two sisters in the care of a broke and unstable mother. At Thanksgiving, this gentleman came on to me. Worse, even, was Ace's reaction when I later told him.
"People make mistakes," he said. Hmm.
I knew that I was in deep shit when I met his mother. She made Joan Crawford look like Jackie Kennedy. She was a dry drunk and pothead who'd been in and out of hospital and finally diagnosed as manic and schizophrenic. She'd been sexually abused as a child. The first time I met this abomination, a bone-deep and evil chill came over me.
I also detected something amiss between Ace and his youngest sister. The odour became a stink and I realized these two were obsessed and in love. She wanted sexual attention from him and he gave it to her. She competed with me openly. I brought this up with Ace, catching him off-guard so he couldn't slither out of it. He said, "You're acting like there's something wrong with me," and punched a hole in the wall.
This family was a Freudian feast for special guests Oedipus and Electra. They had a tight ring o' tainted love going on, bonded by Mother's own crazy glue. Ace knew I was onto him, and he rudely split. Then my pussy exploded.
I had to wait for results, but I had a strong suspicion that Ace was host to that ever-popular STD, herpes. The timing was off and my symptoms were off, but I was paranoid, even though I had used condoms religiously. Condoms aren't perfect, and he was sneaky. I cornered him on the phone. He denied it, and even tried to blame it on someone else I was supposedly sleeping with.
I decided that if he had infected me I was going to cut off his thumbs.
After weeks of agony, I got my results. Negative. I cried tears of relief. I did, however, have one foul follicle infection. Ace had a putrid case of athlete's foot when I met him. Unknown to him or me, the fungus had migrated to his groin and gotten a promotion. I had jock itch. It had crept into my freshly waxed follicles and caused quite a stir. Does it get any grosser than this?
I needed this relationship like I needed a box of frogs. Blessedly, no permanent damage was done. Sadly, though, I will never look at a balloon in quite the same way again.
Jennifer Drew is a pseudonym