Fuck It (Yama Yama)

Silence greets me from the empty house as I climb out of bed. A snort of laughter escapes me when I notice that Sicily has eaten a piece of the penis cake. Apparently, the balls looked the most appetizing, but with the look of the foreskin, I can’t say I blame her. It looks like a sad anteater or maybe a deflated balloon.

After a quick look in the fridge, I grab a plate. Penis cake it is. After polishing off the other testicle and washing it down with a glass of orange juice, I spend an hour soaking in a hot bath.

Rain trickles down the windows, the wind whistling around the house. It’s a perfect day to chill out and finish my binge watching I began yesterday. Dressed in a pair of sweats with my hair pulled into a messy bun on my head, I curl up on the couch for nearly four uninterrupted hours of guilty pleasure programming.

It feels good to relax after the week I’ve had. I can’t complain. Things have gone smoother than I anticipated, but moving to a new city, starting a new job, making new friends—not to mention being fucked half to death by an old one—is a lot to handle. Just ask my poor vagina.

When the credits roll, I stretch and glance around the house. It’s kind of a mess. I should probably do something about that.

While the rain subsides and the sky darkens, I throw on some music and get to work. An hour later, I’ve cleaned the bathroom and kitchen, swept and dusted the living room, and tidied up my bedroom. I grab the full trash bag from the kitchen and let myself out the back door into the humid night air.

The outdoor trash can is kept in a tiny alcove behind the house, and I keep meaning to talk to Sicily about getting a light for that area or moving the can somewhere else. It’s darker than a pocket out here.

Only the outline of the can is visible, and I grope around for the lid. Apparently, it’s already flipped back because my hand meets something that’s definitely not plastic. It’s fuzzy. Garbage isn’t fuzzy. Before I can react, a hiss emanates from the can and two eyes pop up.

Glowing demon eyes stare me down.

Okay, it’s most likely not a demon.

No, it’s worse.

I jerk my hand back just as the eyes disappear and I’m buried in a thick stench that instantly turns my stomach. What the fuck?

Bobby Jo’s back porch light comes on, and she steps out. I must’ve yelled that out loud. My eyes are on fire as if I’ve been pepper sprayed, and I can’t take a breath without gagging. I’ve smelled a skunk before, usually after it gets hit in the road, but it was nothing like this!

The fog of stench clinging to me is like a living thing, chasing me as I dart around the yard like a mad woman, trying to outrun it. Since it’s dark and my eyes are pouring, a large, flat surface puts an end to my frantic race around the yard. A large surface otherwise known as the side of the shed, which slams into my forehead and knocks me on my ass.

“Oh! Lydia! Don’t move, dear! I know what to do,” Bobby Jo calls out.

Desperation to rid myself of the putrid smell overrides her command and some sort of animal instinct kicks in. That’s the only reason I can imagine that I start rolling around on the ground like a dog after a bath, like I can rub away the smell.

Oh, this is terrible! There’s nothing that could be worse than this.

Have you ever had the universe single you out? Just reach out after you’ve had some thought or made some declaration and prove to you how wrong you can be? Yeah, my big fuck you from the universe comes in the form of a deep, confused voice. “Lydia?”

No. That’s not Simon. My poor, abused brain and senses have just created him to distract me from my misery. The man I’ve crushed on for years, and only recently got to sleep with is not watching me writhe in the mud while gagging and smelling like a cesspool.

“Don’t touch her!” Bobby Jo cries, and I see a wavy version of her approaching me with a blanket. “You don’t want to get that skunk funk on you!”

Bobby Jo grabs my hand, and I get to my feet. She throws the blanket around me, and I’m instantly swept up into strong, familiar arms. For a split second, I allow myself to think everything will be okay. I’ll shower off the smell, and we’ll all have a good laugh. A split second is all I get before a wave of dizziness washes over me, and I cover Simon in a regurgitated piece of penis cake.