Do you remember that time I swore I’d heard that Dick Clark had died and you said you hadn’t. I said, “It was on NBC, and why would NBC tell me Dick Clark was dead when Dick Clark wasn’t dead?” And you said “NBC didn’t say Dick Clark was dead, because he isn’t dead.” In the days before the internet was in our pockets there was no way to check, except to wait for New Years Eve when, by god, there he was in Times Square, narrating the dropping of the ball.
You said “you must have been high,” but you know I don’t get high, and you know how crazy I get when you don’t want to fuck, but say you still love me and prefer my penis to almost every other penis you’ve experienced. I am compelled to ask each and every time, “When was the last time you experienced a penis that wasn’t mine?” You always name-drop people you could never have had sex with, especially since we live in Cleveland, then you suggest we drive to WalMart for Advil and pie. I always shout YES, even though I know we have plenty of Advil and more than half a pie.
I gained closure once Dick Clark finally died, years after I had spread word of his passing to most of our address book. You threw me a little Dick Clark Really Is Dead This Time party, where you and I were the only invitees. We had champagne and chocolate cake, and spent an hour trying to figure out what NBC had really said that made me hear, “Dick Clark is dead.” Then we fucked in every room of the house while you told me mine really was the best penis you ever experienced. I knew you were lying, but as long as the answer to, “When was the last time you experienced a penis that wasn’t mine?” is always the same, I really don’t care.
F John Sharp lives and works in Kent, Ohio. He is the fiction editor for Right Hand Pointing and his selected works can be found at FJohnSharp.com.
