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The Happiest Rat Alive (Essay)

The Happiest Rat Alive

"You must be the happiest Rat alive."

Crude interruption!--smashing its ill-considered way into my reflections like a wrecking ball through a wall of placid windows! A bull in a china shop, this idiot, this slab of meat grunting and groaning beneath me! Bad enough that he must sound me such a symphony of bestial pleasure; worse that he dare address me. Those granite shards in my skull--those are my eyes, slitting their displeasure between sooty sheafs of lashes.

"You must be the happiest Rat alive." How dare you?

"What...?" I loosen my grip on the bull's cock, pretending to slide it out of myself. Not that it was ever in. What kind of cheat would I be if I couldn't even fake a lay?

"I said--'You must be the happiest Rat alive.'".

"Why?" He thinks I'm asking why I must be so...bloody...happy. What do I care for his opinion? What I wish he'd tell me--what I'm crawling with curiosity over--is why...someone like himself finds himself entitled to speak to someone like me. Not that I fancy myself such a magnificent creature. But what has become of the natural timidity of corpulent America when confronted with unattainable youth? Unattainable, in that such a bovine specimen would have no chance of catching my attention without the aid of his wallet. I do not want to hear him answer the wrong question. I hate the sound of his livery lips pushing out stupid words, words like sausages, linked together into smelly, undercooked sentences.

"Well...I know if I got to have sex and get paid for it, I'd be the happiest MAN alive...so...."

"You're scarcely human," I tell him, curling my lip. An angry nerve twitches my mouth into a fleering monstrosity. I'm pissed off now. My flesh turns to white marble, hard enough to shatter raindrops. A terrible, maddening itch manifests itself in the very marrows of my bones. I want to bash this hairy-jowled walrus' face in until he chokes to death on his teeth. I'm full of more hatred than Hitler. More hatred, for mine is focused, all on this one sluggish specimen. Of course, he notices nothing. They never do, until it's too late.

"Huh?" He's confused. He just doesn't "get it". Oh, no...he REALLY doesn't get it. One sweat-grayed hand reaches for my breast. I hit it hard.

"Get your hands off the merchandise," I snarl, imagining the reflection of spouting gore in my eyes as I feed this blubbery abomination mouthful after mouthful of fist. Are you hungry, fatty? Are you HUNGRY, you squalid, stenching pile of horse dung? Of course you are. Silly me. I quite forgot--men like you are always hungry. That's why you're paying me for a miserable fake lay in a hovel of a whorehouse, isn't it? Well, don't worry, darling. I've got something for you to eat. Something you'll never, ever, forget, not if....

"Whaddaya mean?" Well, well. Finally catching on, is this one. It certainly took long enough. "I paid you six hundred dollars to make love to you, and you won't even let me touch you?"

I test him with my eyes. One more touch, snap storming orbs; one more touch, and you'll never touch ANYONE again. My eyes are not eloquent. His hand grabs violently this time, and I rip off the condom with long fake nails, leaving welling red lines on his hated dick. His face goes gray as I drive my left stiletto through his inner thigh.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" I'm screaming, burning out the inside of my throat with a ferocious rush of vitriol. "Six hundred dollars? Six hundred? You really think you were getting a piece of ME for six hundred dollars? I was doing it with my HAND! My hand, you stupid shit! Six THOUSAND wouldn't be enough for me to touch a hideous sack like you! You can keep your filthy little fish-smelling cock! You can keep your fucking herpes, or whatever vileness that is crawling around your crotch!"

"You must be the happiest Rat alive."

What? What? All this, and still he insists upon.... I blink quickly, and frown, sliding my hand up, then down (with a little squeeze). No...of course, I haven't answered yet. For one last tasty moment, I consider a scenario of bloody vindication. Then, I smile, dripping sickly saccharine.

"Oh, really...? And why might that be?" He winks repulsively at me. His eyelid looks like a pallid, warty slug.

"Well...I know if I got to have sex and get paid for it, I'd be the happiest MAN alive...so...." He gives me exactly the answer I'd imagined him giving. I swallow acidic spit that feels like glass shards in my throat.

"I'm not having sex with you," I smile in the land of imagination, raising myself high above him on one knee. "See? I'm actually giving you a handjob. Sucker."

I also answer: "I hate you", "Shut the fuck up", and with a brief sample of the real thing, followed by "You can't even tell the difference, can you, you stupid trick?"

In the gray land of reality, I widen my smile with truly Herculean valour, and wriggle provocatively. "Wellll..." Syrup, not acid. "When you put it THAT way...I guess you're right." I lick my lips and gyrate, pinching my nipple with my free hand. I can't even feel the pressure.

Apparently, he feels it for me. I watch oceanic ripples of fat spasming in twenty directions at once as the nasty snake of a thing in my hand pulses obscenely. Right through the condom, I can feel hideous warmth. It reminds me of spouting abscesses, of breeding-pools of hemorrhagic viruses, of suppurating wounds leaking gouts of pus into their bindings. I positively grin, vaulting off him. Even with my right hand still moving, jacking him off, he doesn't twig to my deception. He thinks he's had me. I smile brightly with a mouth full of venom.

"Well, my Casanova...Doesn't that feel better?" I watch myself in the mirror, a white greyhound ministering to a beached whale. The bony hands folding the fouled condom into swathes of tissues hardly seem my own. A stranger with dirt-coloured eyes and coffee-ground hair stares back at me, her skin the colour of semen. I favour her with a sardonic smile, then turn my back on the squalid scene. The satisfied, grunting pig occupies the mirror alone.

Ten minutes later, he's dressed and so am I, and I'm showing him the door. It's the moment I've been waiting for these past twenty minutes.

"Goodbye, sweetie! You come on back any time, now!" His back is turned, and he doesn't see me smile faintly as I turn off my Barbie voice. I have his money, and he has a vaguely embarrassing memory. I am the happiest Rat alive.

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