Bad Pussy

Cats.

My drinking buddy, Hank, was telling me about an interesting night he had that involved pets. I wondered how that night would have gone for me and my two furry bags of poop.

After meeting a lovely woman way out of my league, I was fortunate to have sufficient skill in deploying humor and flattery to have her consider me a dating option. Well, that and the fact that she drank me younger and cuter.

I’ll take it. Not proud. I have no problem using everything short of drugs and plastic surgery to make me more attractive. In a few more years, when I turn 60, perhaps I’ll consider other options. Maybe a Spanx top to gather in my man boobies. Maybe looser jeans and a pocket potato. Maybe some hair coloring. I’ll worry about that later. For now, she found me sufficient and I talked her home.

My cats (Syd and Symon) are the shy type. As we entered my humble abode, they were stealth.

“Thought you said you have cats.”

“I do. My nose tells me Symon dropped an atomic turd recently. I apologize for his stankiness.”

“I don’t smell anything.”

“You’re too kind.”

I uncorked a bottle, turned on some adult contemporary, and the lit three wicks of my Pier 1 (scent: Subtle Desperation) candle. The mood was set. I went in for a kiss. She recoiled a bit but relented. We made out a little. If things were to progress, she needed more romancing and more wine. Fine.

Then, shitbag number one (Syd) showed up. He jumped on the top of the sofa and meowed. I speak cat, so I understood what he said: “Yo, Pop. What’s this? A new toy for me?” My date did not speak cat, so she was startled and unimpressed with Syd’s timing.

“Ah, this must be …”

“Syd. He’s an asshole. I apologize.”

“Aw, no. He’s cute.”

Syd meowed again as he jumped into my lap. That meow translated to, “This toy you brought me makes noise. Does it dispense tuna? Can it rub my chin?”

I don’t know if you’ve ever had a pet jump on a boner. I’m guessing not, especially if you’re female-y. It’s unpleasant and creepy. I pushed Syd down and started kissing my date’s neck. That usually works. I kicked off my shoes and slid my hand up her thigh across her hips under her shirt and headed north to Nippleville. Right before reaching the peaks, Symon (bag of shit #2) announced his arrival. My date jumped. My hand extracted. No boob for this boob.

“Oh, so this must be …”

“Symon, with a Y because he thinks he’s special.”

“He named himself?”

“Good point. Hey, do you want more wine?”

Symon jumped onto my lap and began kneading my leg and purring. My date was not purring. My date was wishing she could text her bestie about the crazy cat guy.

“How many cats do you have?”

“Two. Only two. Not three. Definitely not four. Two is enough.”

As I poured her glass of a fine varietal (Ignore His Cats Drink Him Cuter Cabernet) I tried to justify being “that” guy.

“I love dogs, but they require so much attention and I work a lot and travel. I rescued these two at a shelter that was going to put them down.”

“Aw.”

“I know. How sweet am I?”

“We’ll see.”

We clinked and drinked. I hoped we’d become emotionally and sexually linked. As she rethinked, my chances shrinked.

“I’m sorry. I forgot your name. So embarrassing.”

“Phil. Phil from Philadelphia. Use a name association. That’s how I remember your name is Kate … because your neck tastes great.”

Syd took off chasing Symon across the laminate, scaring the fuck out of my date. Or, maybe it was my awful attempt at seduction. I sucked wind instead of her neck. We sighed in tandem.

“Ah, look at the time. I have to work early tomorrow. It was very nice meeting you and thank you for the wine, Phil.”

“You’re not going to sleep with me, are you?”

“No, silly. We just met.”

“I don’t mean tonight. I mean, like, ever.”

“Oh, who knows? Maybe take me on a proper date.”

“Right.”

“And, maybe don’t write about this?”

“Write.”

Now she’s gone, and my asshole cats have retired to their beds near the windowsill. It’s my destiny–many cats, few lovers.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.
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