Alien Night Club - Show 35?

Alien Night Club <the transcripts>

Ryan Schneider

Apr 25, 2025

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Good evening.

It’s Christmas. My first Christmas up here. Away from home. Pretty wild. A little sad.

But who gives a fuck about that – answer: no one! – so on with the show!

Dee-duh

duh

duh dee-duh

Dee-duh

duh

duh dee-duh

Dee-duh

duh

duh dee-duh

Big song and dance number. I can’t sing or dance. Not really. Just stupid shit that I hope everyone thinks is endearing.

Although I did do the splits at a wedding once and everyone lost their minds. That was pretty funny.

I recently realized I like to complain a lot. I’m definitely a complainer.

Which sucks.

It’s definitely not a good thing to find out that you are.

The reason I complain so much is that I see so much shit that is fuckin wrong.

That’s the reason. It’s a pretty good reason, actually, as far as complaining goes. Complaining has a bad reputation. People always say they hate complainers. They always tell the complainer to accept reality as it is, to accept things as they are, to stop talking about the way things ought to be and why everything would work better if they did it a different way, and they always tell you to shut the fuck up. Sometimes they even use the F word.

The thing is, though, that most of the time when I complain about shit, it’s because the way things are being done now are clearly wrong. And to immediately begin doing things correctly is actually a pretty easy fix. It just requires that we all follow a slightly different course of action. That when we go do this thing that we all do or we go buy that thing we all need and use in our lives everywhere in the world, just do it a little bit differently.

[[[just typed do it at the same time nickelback sang it on Rockstar I’m watching stroke listening to right now. Holy shit that was awesome. Real fuckin serendipity JUST fucking happened. It JUST happened. That shit happens to me all the time. And if you don’t accept that proof of the divine or the universal or whatever, what do you attribute it to? Coincidence?

No.

Fuckin no way.

There is no way.

It’s too specific and too perfect.

By the way, I always interpret it as a confirmation. It’s a good thing. It is a confirmation that I am where I’m supposed to be and that I’m doing what I’m supposed to do in this moment. For however long this moment lasts. Feels kinda long.

Point being — ahhhh! I said it; point being should be the eternal secret word; the permanent secret word — that…

Fuck I forgot what I was going to say.

Oh, I remember: point being that

fuck I forgot again.

The divinity of coincidence.

It’s like a wink from the universe.

When someone winks at you, it’s awesome. I love it when people wink at me. They’re inviting me. I like that. I always feel alone and excluded so it means a lot to me when people reach out like that. When they initiate stuff. And when they’re genuinely themselves around me. And they respect me enough — though probably not very much — to not talk shit about me behind my back.

Anyone else feel like that?

By the way, what I was in the middle of trying to say — I know I’m longwinded – was that, oh, it was 2 things: to ask a question and to make a statement I wasn’t sure I should make but then I got the message to quote DO IT unquote.

The question: Who should we get to be in Dirty Blond. It’s a new movie. And it’s about exactly what you think it’s about. Because that is the point.

I’m thinking Kristen Bell or Liz Banks.

Ooh, I know: they’re both in it. They are 2 best friends who’ve been competitive since they were kids. They competed all the way to ivy league schools. They competed for the highest GPA. For the highest BAR score. The highest salary at the best firm.

And they even competed to see who would have a nervous breakdown first.

I don’t know which of them had it. Maybe they both had one at the same time.

And they quit their jobs at their firms and were in the plans of opening their own firm together when they realized one morning over breakfast that they didn’t want to practice law any more. They were drinking orange juice at the time. Big, sexy glasses of the best, most amazing and delicious and fresh orange juice that was just squeezed a little while ago. And it’s been refrigerated and is at the perfect temperature.

So naturally the girls pour some really primo vodka into it.

And in the next few hours, as OJ & Vodka slowly dissipate, OJ & Vodka concoct a plan for the business venture they ACTUALLY want to do. They want to be gym owners. And they want to work there and be trainers there and make sure it’s the kind of club they always wished they could have to work out in.

And most importantly, they want to be able to have a lot of sex. Either with a lot of different guys or just a few guys or even with one guy. As young girls they bonded over their mutual nymphomania. And they’ve always repressed it. Which led them to being competitive with each other. That energy had to go somewhere. And it caused them to feel resentment toward each other. And that’s something they don’t want to ever let happen again. Ever. Like…EVER.

So they want to open a totally awesome gym together and sleep with all of their personal training clients. A feat which makes the business BOOM.

And they decide to go by their nicknames from now on: OJ & Vodka. And they can never decide on who is OJ and who is Vodka. And every time they haff to introduce themselves they say their name is Vodka.

People get confused.

Once they come together and see that both women are named Vodka. One of them goes, She’s OJ. I’m Vodka.

And the other one goes, No, I’m Vodka. Like I told you. She’s OJ.

And this goes back and forth endlessly every time.

And it gives us the impression that maybe some of that resentment is still there between them.

That is the name of their gym: Vodka’s & OJ’s.

The point is to see who is the quote unquote best dirty blond. They’re both blond. But which one is dirtier?

Their favorite thing to do is to sit on their big-ass sofa in their kickass house they bought together — like seriously kick-ass; not huge but obviously VERY nice — smoke some amazing weed — Toad? — and drink red wine and talk about sex. Specifically the graphic, detailed, intimates recountings of their sex acts with the men in their life.

Their social media is BANANAS.

You can already picture it.

Bananas.

Literally bananas. It’s nothing but them doing perverted, sexual shit with bananas. Graphic, hardcore images of them getting it on with bananas. But all the sexy parts are blurred out and pixelated so you can’t see anything. Just their face and their shoulders maybe, depending on what they’re doing. But it truly looks like they’re having sex with bananas. All over the world, too. They have millions of followers. They’re the banana girls. When they do media, that’s how everyone refers to them.

So if they go into a radio station or to do a podcast, the host always — always — asks which one is OJ and which one is Vodka.

And they each have 2 answers to choose from. From which to choose. If you like brie and know how to cut it perfectly. Which is like a piece of pie, by the way. Because the center of the brie is the softest and creamiest and is by far the best part of the wheel of cheese. And if you eat it like it’s a pie — a cherry pie or a peach pie or a pineapple pie or a pecan pie, with fuckloads of vanilla ice cream on top — or like it’s pizza and you slice it up like that, then — and this is the secret so please listen — everyone gets to enjoy the middle of the cheese.

If you’re going to eat a pie, you don’t start digging everything out of the center of it with a big spoon. You cut triangles.

Same thing with brie.

I learned that from Chuck Palahniuk, by the way. Cool guy and author of Fight Club among many, many others. Listen to him read his short story Guts. And then listen to him talk about being in Paris and running on foot, hauling ass, to get to the Eiffel Tower at night. It’s an awesome story.

Point being — AHHHHHH! — Led Zeppelin just said, OHHHHHHHHH, baby at the same time I wrote AHHHHHHH. See? It happened again. That’s twice in just a short span of time. Don’t tell me there isn’t something bigger at play here. Either we’re on a preordained path and that was orchestrated long ago or we’re in a simulation. Or it’s a sign that you’re doing the right thing.

It’s a wink. From God or the angels or the Universe.

See, what happened just now is that Led Zeppelin heard the secret word so they screamed real loud. Which is what we said we’d do anytime someone says the secret word. I said it and as I was screaming, Led Zeppelin screamed with me. From 1975. From when they did that live show at Earl’s Court. So that’s a long time for them to haff to wait before they could scream real loud after hearing the secret word. That’s not to say that this was the first or only time they’ve ever done that. But it definitely just happened. You guys probably couldn’t hear it. I was listening to Stairway to Heaven and as I typed AHHHHH, he sang OHHHHHHHH, baby.

Trippy.

Anyway, point you-know-what that they have 2 options: they can say She’s OJ or they can say I’m Vodka.

If they both say, She’s OJ together at the same time, it’s hilarious. Everyone always laughs.

If they say the opposite thing, it sounds more natural. But you can’t hear the answer, so everyone has to ask again.

The point is that they can never agree or decide. They both want to be Vodka. Neither wants to be OJ.

And they have this discussion on air all the time.

Howard, the Banana Girls are here.

The Banana Girls are here? What are they doing here? We haven’t booked them. We haven’t even tried to book them yet. It’s too crazy. You can’t get them.

I know. But they’re here now.

What are they doing here?

They’re here to see us.

But why here? Why us? Were they in the neighborhood? Were they doing Letterman?

Maybe. But isn’t Letterman married?

I don’t keep up with these guys. Or anyone, really. I don’t care.

I know, I don’t either.

I really don’t care. I used to care. But now I don’t care. You know why?

Why?

I stopped caring.

You stopped caring?

That’s right. I stopped.

Why did you stop? And when?

I had to. Years ago. I was going crazy. I couldn’t keep up with it anymore. Plus it seemed so meaningless. Whadoo I care? You wanna date zillions of people and be all over social media getting your picture taken going in and out of clubs, ga head. Enjoy, sincerely. But just realize that we’re all busy, everyone is busy, and we’re doing our best to take care of everything we haff to take care of and we can’t keep up with the love lives of every single celebrity and wannabe-celebrity couple. Nor should we, really. If you wanna know the truth. You guys, we should all be out living our lives. You should be the one meeting that sexy and mysterious stranger and having the best love affair of all time with them. You can totally do that, it’s not that hard.

No, it’s not that hard.

Everyone thinks it is. But it’s not. It’s just not.

Well would you care to enlighten us and teach us all how to go out and finally meet that special someone with whom we can have this best love affair of all time you speak of with the sexy, mysterious stranger?

Yeah, easy: Just find a person like you. That’s it.

That’s it? Find a person like you?

Yes.

That’s it?

Yes, Robin, that is it. All you haff to do is know who and what you are and then find a person who is the same as you are. You know them when you see them or when you meet them. I don’t mean race, either. It’s deeper than that. It transcends race. It transcends gender. It transcends everything.

It transcends gender?

Of course. That’s how we get homosexuals. Queer folk. LGBTQ and others in that cohort.

Cohort?

Yeah, cohort.

What does that mean? Explain for the listeners. What is a cohort?

It’s just a group. It’s a word scientists use to describe a group. Because some groups can’t be created based on appearance or origin. You may have a group that includes people from every country and every ethnicity and skin tone and sexual preference and self-identification. You can’t call them Americans or Europeans or Koreans or Japanese or anything like that because they’re from every country. And you can’t call them men or women because there are people of both sexes or all sexes or however you prefer to describe it. So they had to make a new word for these groups.

And cohort is the word?

Yeah, cohort is the word.

Interesting. They’re still outside, by the way. They’re waiting to come in while we’re in here chit chatting.

They’re not ready. They’re getting ready to come in. They probably wanna say hello to everyone in the office and have a little something to drink and maybe use the restroom before they come in. We’ve got time.

Okay. So, the Banana Girls, Vodka and OJ. But which one is Vodka and which one is OJ? They’re sweet girls. Smart, too.

Very smart.

Sophisticated.

Very sophisticated. You know they both went to Harvard.

Yeah, I read that.

Harvard Law. They are not small-time.

No, they’re definitely not. But which one is Vodka and which one is OJ?

We’ll find out.

Will we?

Won’t we?

I don’t know, that’s what I’m asking you.

And now I’m asking you. Because I thought we were.

You thought we were what?

I thought we were going to find out which one is which. Which one is Vodka and which one is OJ.

Does it matter?

It matters to them. Clearly. This is an ongoing dispute they have.

Is it? Oh, I didn’t know that.

Yeah, it’s been going on forever. By the way, I’m pretty sure lightning just flashed in perfect sync with the very last note of Edge of 17.

Really?

Yeah, I just saw it. Out the corner of my eye. I saw it and was like, Oh, another serendipitous coincidence that’s not a coincidence. But then I talked myself out of it. See? Even I do that. I told myself it wasn’t real, that nothing happened and there hadn’t been a flash of light. And what I saw was just that thing where your peripheral vision suddenly increases and you see something that was already there. So it’s nothing. A trick of our anatomy. Our biology. Our eyes. And our brain. But it’s not actually serendipity. But now I think it is.

Now you think it is. Okay.

Who else should be in the Dirty Blond movie?

I don’t know. I don’t know that many blondes and the ones I do know I have no idea how clean or dirty they are.

I hope they’re all dirty. I like to think of women being dirty. It’s more fun.

So a dirty girl is better than a non dirty girl? Is that what you’re saying?

No, not necessarily. Girls who aren’t dirty can be just as much as a girl who is dirty. Maybe even more fun. She might be more well-adjusted. Or less. How nuts and temperamental and sensitive someone is isn’t necessarily related to how dirty they are or aren’t. It can go either way. I’m just saying that the idea that a girl could be or is known to be dirty is more exciting for me. I find it far more titillating.

More titillating? Okay.

Yes, more titillating. It doesn’t mean anything is going to happen. Or that either of us wants it to. Or that we both want it to. Which is what you need if it’s going to happen. You both haff to be into it. You haff to really want each other. You haff to really wanna get it on. But even if you do, it still may not happen.

It still may not happen? Why is that?

Lots of reasons. Usually it’s because of timing.

Timing? Really.

Yeah, timing and circumstances. You know what I mean?

I know absolutely what you mean. People meet and wanna get it on but they can’t because one or both of them is already in a relationship. Or they’re only going to be in town on business a few hours and their schedules are busy and there’s really no practical way that they can physically be together in the same city, maybe even the same state, long enough to be able to find a place where they can meet to go and do that.

Exactly. See, you guys, Robin gets it. That’s what I keep saying. That’s why I like doing this show with you, Robin, because you get it. I don’t always haff to explain stuff to you.

No, you don’t. If anything, I think it may be me explaining stuff to you most of the time.

I think you’re right. I’m a dummy. I’m an idiot.

Speaking of dummies, did you watch Sandbag Dummies last night?

I did. Did you?

I did.

Did you like it? What did you think?

I did like it. I liked it a lot. I thought it was fascinating and very funny. I thought it was a good idea.

So did I. The idea of those 3 on a rollercoaster. Together. Traveling to an amusement park and going on a rollercoaster together. It slays me. It’s hysterical. I love it

And the way Matt and Christian are always impersonating Jack is hilarious.

You think so? I don’t like that part that much.

You don’t like that part? I think it’s hilarious. I always laugh when they do that.

Yeah, I laugh, but I just think there are other parts that are better?

Really? Like what?

Like just the way they talk. And the things they talk about. The crazy shit that comes out of Jack’s mouth.

Yeah, Jack does say a lot of wild stuff. What did you think of Madonna?

She was great, I loved Madonna. She’s so cool and sexy that you almost wouldn’t think of her ever even being on a rollercoaster.

But she loves em.

Yeah. She said she loves em. And even on a rollercoaster she was cool and sexy. She wasn’t scared at all.

No, she definitely wasn’t scared.

Did Jack look scared to you?

No. He looked irritated. He was hungry, he just wanted pizza. He didn’t give 2 shits about the rollercoaster.

Speaking of which, what did you think of Matt and Christian riding in the back, screaming the whole time?

It was fine. They might of hammed it up a little bit but I really think it was just because they were having a good time. They really were. They get along well together, you can tell.

Yeah, they have good chemistry.

Yeah. So they were fine. Madonna was just so cool. She seemed kinda turned on, in fact. If I’m being honest. Can I be honest, Robin? Can I be honest with you guys?

Sure you can. It’s your show.

I know it’s my show but it’s also our show. I always try to be respectful of that. It’s not just me. It’s you and it’s them, our listeners, many of whom have been listening for years and it’s amazing, and it’s everyone here who works on the show and makes this whole thing work. It’s not just me. It’s not just us. It’s a lot of people. So I try to be myself but I also feel like I’m in a group of people speaking. It’s not just me alone in a room like it was 30, 40 years ago. When I was a nothing DJ from nowhere and no one knew who I was. I was just another drivetime guy. Just another guy on their radio. But then I started doing it this way and people seemed to like it and here we are all these years later. And hopefully me being honest is a part of them. I try not to bullshit you guys. Sometimes I don’t always say everything I’m thinking in my head or everything I have on my mind. But I certainly don’t hold back or lie about stuff. If you ask me a question, I’m going to try to give you an honest answer. And in my honest opinion, and I know this is crazy, that you guys are going to think it’s crazy and that I’m nuts and that I’m just regular old perverted Howard seeing something that isn’t actually there as usual. But I’m telling you, this is crazy. And I’m 99% sure I’m right.

What is it?

Madonna came on that ride.

Of course she did, so did Jack and Matt and Christian. That’s their job, that’s the show. They all rode it together. They all came onto the ride, went onto the ride, together.

No, no, no. She came on the ride. She came. She had an orgasm on the ride.

She had an orgasm?

I think she had an orgasm. I also think I saw Jesus in my shower this morning.

You saw Jesus in your shower this morning?

Yeah. I think so. Chuck Palahniuk, too.

Chuck Palahniuk was in your shower with you and with Jesus? Were you showering together naked all wet and soapy?

No, I was the only one who was wet and soapy. I was washing my face and had my eyes closed and I had a vision.

A vision of Jesus and Chuck Palahniuk?

That’s correct, that’s what I’m telling you. I had my eyes closed and I saw a big purple circle like I always do. Then behind that or on top of that I saw a picture of a man in a faded greenish white color. And it made me think of Jesus. And then after a few seconds it morphed and changed and reformed into Chuck Palahniuk.

Why is that?

I don’t know. Point being though that I’m pretty sure Madonna went on that ride and became sexually aroused.

To the point that she had an orgasm?!

That’s what I’m telling you. I think. I don’t know for sure. I don’t know for sure, I can’t know for sure. But I saw her face. I was looking at her and at Jack and when they went over that first drop and she looked down and saw how fuckin high up they actually were and she saw that hill was basically straight down, I think she got scared and aroused at the same time. And once the back of the train cleared the hill and Matt Damon and Christian Slater both started screaming and Jack muttered, Jesus H. Christ, and she lost her stomach as they were falling, when they got to the bottom of the hill and she felt those G’s, that’s when it happened. Who knows, maybe this has never happened to her before, I have no idea. But I’m telling you her mouth opened, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she bit her bottom lip. And she barely moved for the entire ride. She just sat there clenching.

Maybe she had her eyes closed and was clenching because she was terrified. They were going 151 miles per hour.

That’s true. They were. And maybe she was. But I don’t think so. That’s what I’m telling you. I do, I think she had an orgasm. And from the looks of it, it was a good one.

Really? What makes you say that?

Just watch her on the ride. Her eyes are closed most of the time. She’s leaning to one side, eyebrows furrowed. It’s a classic O Face.

Okay, and for anyone who may not know, an O Face is the face you make when you have an orgasm.

That’s right. And I’m telling you Madonna’s O Face was hot.

You thought it was hot.

I did. I thought it was one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen. I jerked off to it.

You jerked off to it?

I did. I jerked off to it.

You did not.

I did, actually.

You did not.

I did.

Did you really?

Swear to God. I did. I couldn’t help myself. I had to. It was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I felt like I was 14 again. I got hard instantly. As hard as I can get at this age, anyway. And I shoved my hand in my boxer shorts and I took care of business.

You really did?

I really did. I couldn’t help myself. So help me God. With my apologies to Madonna and everyone involved. By the time the train pulled into the station 97 seconds later and Madonna finally opened her eyes and started taking deep breaths, I was doing the same thing. I came so hard, I swear to God, I didn’t even know where I was. And I don’t think she did, either. It was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

Let’s get her in here and ask her.

We should. Anyway, who’s gonna play the dirty girl? Are Kristen and Elizabeth dirty enough? I’m not sure they’re dirty enough. Who do you think is the dirtiest girl in Hollywood? Not necessarily blond, either. Even though that’s what we need for this project. A dirty blond.

So then they bring Vodka and OJ into the studio, the Banana Girls. And they have a good laugh trying to figure out which is Vodka and which is OJ. And when asked why they both want to be Vodka so badly, why they don’t want to be OJ, they both simply say, She knows. And neither will budge. Each insists she’s Vodka. Not competitive at all, are they?

So that was the first thing: who will be the dirty blond in Dirty Blond?

Kristen Bell, Elizabeth Banks, Emma Stone?

Sharon Stone?

That would take it in a different direction but it would be interesting. I don’t know how dirty she is, how kinky she actually is. It always seems like she’s acting, though. I just see her acting. I have difficulty suspending my disbelief. It’s like I can’t see past her larger than life personality. Maybe an autoerotic biopic autodoc like the others is what she needs, in order to be herself. I’m not sure who her true self is. Which maybe is evidence of what a great actor she is. Or she’s hiding from something. Like most of us are.

The other thing was that I kinda wish I could be a porn star. I love sex and I’m good at it provided it’s with the right person. And not even a porn star so much. More like a gigolo. Or like a sex therapist. Except a sex therapist you have sex with. Because I’ve always felt a little bit lonely in the world. And I know other people do, too. And by having really great mind-blowing sex, I can help alleviate that loneliness. Even if it’s only for a little while. A few hours, a few months, a few years.

Is that what marriage is? Declaring your love for this one person above all others and promising to be true to them so you guys won’t haff to be lonely ever again?

There’s another actress I’m thinking of for Dirty Blond. I either don’t know her name or I can’t remember it, if in fact I ever knew it.

They should totally do a remake of American Gigolo. These days it could be called American Fuckboy. Or American Fuckboys if we want it to be an ensemble cast.

That would be interesting. Kind of like Magic Mike but a lot more sex. And a lot of insight into what it’s like to be a man when all your life you were told to sit down and be quiet or go outside or go to your room and be quiet while I help your sister with her harp practice and law school prep course we bought online. It cost twelve dollars, so it’s very important.

And one by one the fuckboys commit suicide. And each time it happens, the other fuckboys don’t seem too phazed by it.

Happened again.

I typed phazed and Perry Ferrel of Jane's Addiction sang face. When I was a boy, my big brother held on to my own hands. And he made me slap my own face. I looked up to him then and still do. And he was trying to teach me something. Now I know what it is, now I know what he meant, now I know what it is….

It’s a dog eat dog world. These days the women eat the men. They don’t even eat em. Because they don’t need em. Or want em. They just chew em up and spit em out. And it feels good. For both sides.

Point being – ahhhhhh!!!! — that the fuckboys aren’t actually sad when one of their clan punches his own ticket and jumps off a bridge or off a balcony or finds himself looking down the barrel of a hot metal 45.

Maybe our protagonist spends each night doing that: looking down the barrel of a hot metal 45. Hot because it’s stolen. Hot because it’s been fired before. Maybe it keeps getting handed off to another fuckboy each time one of them offs himself. And it’s a great honor to get the .45. Because the guys look at it as though he’s finally free. He’s gone off to join whatever comes next and is free of this purgatorial fuckboy bullshit. Eating lots of pussy and getting fucked in the ass by 9 chicks with strap-ons while they’re in town for a business convention, and then kicked out of the hotel room naked, having his clothes thrown at him. Along with several hundred-dollar bills. Which he of course scoops up off the ground like the whore that he is. A man’s gotta eat. For man cannot survive on vagina alone.

Remember The Outsiders?

Remember Young Guns?

This will be like that. Except that the guys are all male escort fuckboys. Dressed to the nines. Driving shiny cars. Driving to the best, most posh, most expensive hotels. Enjoying the best room service. Getting bent over the most expensive Italian silk furniture. Spending their days at the gym, the salon, eating salad and egg white omelets and protein bars and protein shakes. Taking lots of Viagra. Watching lots of porn, trying to get hard and stay hard. So their dick is even harder than their abs. And almost as hard as their buns. Because that’s what the ladies seem to really like the most. A great tushy. Hashtag fuckboy is always trending. Usually along with #fuckboysuicide. But everyone laughs at that. That’s what fuckboys are for. They’re like cattle. Or seashells. Pretty. And you’re tempted to keep one. Except that then you realize there’s millions of em. So who cares?

And if you know where to look online, you can find the fuckboy auction sites. These are the ones that cost you the BIIIG bucks. But those fuckboys really are yours to do with as you please.

And then there’s the ones who got out. The fuckboys who decided they’d had enough. So they campaign for #fuckboyrights because #fuckboysarepeopletoo. But everyone just laughs at that, too.

It’s explained away as historical justice. Karma.

#ourturn

#diefuckboydie

#howdoyoulikeit

And as sad as it is and for as much outcry as there is, there isn’t much outcry. Because they’re just fuckboys. And there’s millions of em. So go ahead and have your fun. And when you’re done, there’s always another one to be had. Used for fun. And kicked out into the hall naked.

Perry just sang nudity when I said naked.

Bodda boom bodda bing. #fuckboysunite

It’s a dog eat dog world. And it’s about goddamn time the girl dogs had their seat around the poker table. And the boy dogs are the ones lying on the floor at the feet of their masters, waiting to serve as, when, and however commanded and at the pleasure of their masters until such time as their masters grow tired of them. And then they’re done away with. Some get fitted for cement shoes, depending upon who was bending them over and what sort of pillow talk they’ve overheard. Politics. Big business. International intrigue. Hits being ordered. Military strikes being carried out. Invasions being planned. Backdoor deals being made.

Every fuckboy has been bent over, with one woman in his anus and another down his throat, him trying not to puke while they abuse him, them laughing and talking about a new business venture, what stocks to buy and which ones to short, which deals are going to be signed and which politicians will be called to ask for backing both financial and social.

The fuckboys have secret groups and forums online and in person where they teach each other the basics. Where to shop for clothes. What shoes go with what pants. What belt goes with what shoes. What tie goes with what shirt. What shirt goes with what jacket. What wine goes with fish. What wine goes with beef. What wine goes with pasta. What too big of a dildo can do to your insides and how to disassociate from your physical body until it’s over. And what doctors to see afterwards. The ones who don’t ask too many questions.

The fuckboys also hang out and teach each other how to cook. How to chop, how to dice, how to sautee, flambe, and hopefully not end up like Harambe. They teach other French and Italian so they know how to order in a restaurant when she knows everyone is watching and will therefore not tolerate mistakes. A good performance means she’ll call you a good boy and might even let you finish. A bad performance means she smashes your face through a glass coffee table while she goes 18 inches balls deep and laughs at the very mention of the words internal bleeding. It’s not her rug.

The fuckboys talk about other countries where men are allowed into medical school or law school. Where they can be directors or novelists or playwrights. Airline pilots and surgeons. Not just tight-lipped househusbands and personal trainers and phone answerers and coffee getters. Errand runners and dry cleaning fetchers. Not just eyecandy in the strip clubs. Cream queens captured on the wet sand beaches of videotaped humiliation and extortion, always being replaced by the next wave.

Not just waiters and servers in restaurants and dive bars, diners and truckstops, where they get beaten up by the ladies in from a long stint on the road, the ones hopped up on caffeine pill-fueled rage, suffocating the fuckboy in their sleepercab. Pushing him out the door and driving away when they don’t wake up. Then the lady cops show up and have a look. Scribble a couple of notes on a piece of paper that will go missing an hour from now. And then get back to talking about things that actually matter while they wait for the other fuckboys to come get the body. And maybe they have some fun with them. It’s amazing what a fuckboy will do when you put your .9 millimeter in his mouth. Especially when you do your favorite magic trick: Slap him with one hand while you pull a dimebag of coke out of your pocket and slip it into his pocket and then make him turn out his pockets. The look in their eyes when they pull that dimebag out of their pocket and see you smiling at them. Because you both know how it got there and what it means. It means you own him. And you don’t even haff to pay him his hourly rate. Quite the opposite, in fact. You empty his wallet. And then throw it in the bushes. Along with the keys to the ambulance. Most fuckboys keep a spare. Behind the sun visor or in a magnetic box under the front bumper. You know this. So you find that one, too. And it sails off into the night, sparkling in the headlights of your cruiser before it lands somewhere in the creosote, brambles, thorns, and briars. It’ll probably take an hour for them to find their keys. You’ll be long gone.

Most fuckboys live with their dads. Their brothers. Other fuckboys. Often in parts of town the cops don’t go. Not because they’re afraid but because why bother? Other than to drive through once a week to collect. Turning out fuckboys’ pockets is the easiest money under the sun. Hauling them to the station where they fall down and land on a night stick during booking is pretty much standard procedure. The inmates haff to know who’s in charge of the asylum. Because it certainly is not them. This is not a graphic novel. But the stories told about what happens to fuckboys both worthless and ugly and pretty and sweet are very graphic. And are often the basis of bestselling novels. Women make up more than half of the book-buying public. Tales of fuckboy domination and correction lurk in fat stacks on every self-respecting woman’s nightstand or piled billions of bytes deep on her phone or other ebook device. There’s nothing like drifting off to the sweet sounds of a riding crop cracking on the perfect peachfuzz bubble butt of a juicy fuckboy being reminded of his station. Because tuxedos and Italian dinners and shiny cars and a bleached, hairless anus do not a fuckboy make. A proper fuckboy understands subservience. The rightness of degradation. A proper fuckboy is a student of history. He listened to the stories read to him by his father or caregiver and understands the way it used to be. And why it is the way it is. Why he is who he is. And why he must find pleasure in being choked unconscious. Why he must not scream as 7 drunk women force his naked, presumed-dead body down a 5th floor trash chute along with his clothes and empty wallet. A bloody condom still crimped inside his rectum. The 2 wrongs don't make a right tattoo on the sole of his right foot removed by cigarette lighters.

Everyone knows to do their best to tuck and roll when they come out of the chute and into the Dumpster. But it’s like assuming the crash position on a plane going into a mountainside. Broken arms, vertebrae, and severe head trauma can be expected. Ideally accompanied by the sweet release of death. But sometimes 2 severely broken arms and a smashed face, nose, mouth, and teeth happen instead. The other fuckboys say to try to keep the rats off you until the trash is collected. Then try to make enough noise so you don’t get dumped into a garbage truck, your screams and shrieks lost amongst the sound of rusty hydraulics, only to be crushed between dozens of big bags of uneaten food. They say the worst part about that is the smell. The dead animal offgassing by all the other fuckboy zombies already rotting in there.

American Fuckboys.

But is it to draw attention to it?

Or to revel in it?

If it gets an 11-minute standing o at Cannes, why?

Who’s it for?

Is it for the trailblazing take no prisoners woman who recorded it all on her phone?

Or is it for the boys?

The ones with the tattoo on their foot. The ones who’d rather die than be dressed up in a tux and dragged all over town to restaurants, clubs, and bars, only to be taken upstairs and bent over a cold hard dining chair or maybe forced to perch on a toilet. With nary a drop of lube of in sight.

Of course, a lot of the fuckboys are whiners. It’s not that bad. Most women take good care of their fuckboys. Once they find a good one. A good fuckboy is hard to find. And a hard fuckboy is good to find. Hard between the legs. But especially between the ears. The kind who smiles and says, Yes, mistress, no matter what you ask him to do. You and your high-class friends can reenact The Man From Rio up in your penthouse suite, using his sildenafilled dick instead of his finger. And he’ll grin at you the whole time. He won’t bat an eye when the lighter doesn’t light and you all gasp and look at each other, trying to decide if the cleaver a fuckboy brought from the kitchen downstairs is actually going to drop. Because he knows his purpose. His purpose is your amusement. Your pleasure if you require it. And only — ONLY — when you demand it.

And he’s a good fuckboy. He reminds you of one of your exes. Or one of your sons, you can’t really remember all of them. Too many babydaddy to count. Besides, you like having his penis inside you. It’s nice. Better than the dozen who came before him. Came in their own mouths, usually. Because you love seeing how they like it. So you decide not to cut his dick off. You and the girls run a train on him instead. And you even let him have a hit of your weed, as a reward for his courage during the Man From Rio game that’s all the rage. You’ve never seen the original, only the remake included in that 4 Rooms movie you liked.

#manfromrio

Your fuckboy isn’t from Rio. You have no idea where he’s from. You don’t care. You never even thought to ask. Because it doesn’t matter where they come from. As long as they keep cumming. Which they always do. It’s almost as if they like it. As if they’ve brought this on themselves. All they had to do was be kinder and more loving and more inclusive and forgiving when they had their chance, during all the centuries that they were in power and chose to be heartless dicks bent on conquest and victory.

They had their chance and they blew it. Karma’s not just a cat sleeping in your lap on the weekend.

It’s also a hot metal .45 up his ass at 1:45 a.m. on a Saturday morning in one of a million poorly-insulated apartments, surrounded by strapped women all cheering for you to pull the trigger again — a muffled BANG! and a whumpf inside him, so close yet so far away. And you hear the hot shell casing as it bounces and plinks on the shiny marble floor. And all you can really think about is that the slide just racked his anus. And the hole in his left shoulder wasn’t there a second ago. And the hot blood coming out looks more syrupy in real life than it did in your imagination, all those times you wondered what it would be like to be in this scenario.

#hotmetal45

#hotmetal45challenge

#fuckboytargetpractice

#theyhadtheirchance

#thisisourtimenow

#fuckthem

#pullthetriggeragain. Empty that fuckin clip inside him. Blow his stupid empty good for nothing fuckboy head off. Then call his sad little fuckboy friends to come clean his blood off the walls and ceiling while we go downstairs for Cosmopolitans.

And pretty soon fuckboys aren’t allowed to wear shoes. Because we need to see the bottom of their feet. So we can check for tattoos.

And when they start tattooing the inside of their bottom lip, we cut their bottom lip off. Because their belief that 2 wrongs don't make a right is a cancer. And what do we do with cancer? We excise it. Immediately. And we don’t feel bad at all.

And anytime we see 2 wrongs spray painted on an overpass, a subway wall, the window of a bank, we find the nearest fuckboy and we beat them to a pulp in the middle of the street. Because you haff to make an example out of him. The fact that he had nothing to do with it is irrelevant. The social order must be upheld. Fuckboys are for fucking. Any way you like. And that’s all. The only time you feel bad for getting rid of a fuckboy is when he had an extra long tongue or he actually understood what medium rare meant. He knew what shaken not stirred meant. Because you like it cold. And when you pour everything into the big silver martini shaker can, along with the ice, and you shake it, the liquid gets colder faster than if you simply mix it and pour it into a martini glass with a few ice cubes in it. That’s why shaken is better than stirred.

So we chip away at the patriarchy one martini at a time. Like Sharon Stone with her ice pick.

Up from the catacombs

You run into the angel again

He takes the high road and you take the low road

You both wear dirty faces

Oh, baby, I’m so tired.

What’re you gonna do? Arrest me for smoking?

She had all the power.

That’s the irony.

And one night, lost in postcoital bliss, you ask your favorite fuckboy what kind of music he likes, if he has a favorite song.

But he doesn’t answer. He’s too scared. Too beaten. You see it in his demeanor. His body language. How he won’t look at you. You’re lying in bed together. Silk sheets and blue city moonlight streaming into the gleam in his devastatingly handsome ignorant and dumb eyes. You’re face to face. Inches apart. But when he looks at you, he stares at a spot between your eyebrows. Never into your eyes. And no matter how many times you tell him to look at you, he won’t.

He says, I am looking at you, mistress.

Stop calling me mistress.

Yes, mistress.

Look at me.

Yes, mistress.

Look me in the eye.

Yes, mistress.

But he won’t. He goes on looking at that point between your eyes. And you can’t connect with him. Because he won’t connect with you. It seems he never will. And you dare to wonder what you’ve done.

#fuckboy

#2sidesofthesamecoin

#theyshould’vethoughtofthat

#letsgethotmetal45trendingagain

#manfromrio

It’s then that you realize.

You love your fuckboy.

You’re in love.

He’s perfect. He’s the sweetest, kindest, most considerate, handsomest, kindest, most educated man you’ve ever met. And the way he makes love puts you on another planet.

There’s just 1 problem.

He doesn’t love you back. He’ll die screaming flattened feet-first by a steamroller first. He’s that afraid of you.

When you finally get him to look you in the eye, he trembles like a dog. He looks away. He runs to the bathroom.

When he doesn’t come back, you find him in there with the shower curtain around his neck, blue faced, knees a foot off the floor, still twitching, beautiful brown eyes like jawbreakers in their sockets.

Do you leave him?

Or do you save him?

#showercurtainchallenge

Your brain says to get dressed, grab your purse, go downstairs, and Uber to the nearest strip club to find another one.

But your heart seizes the curtain and pulls hard, snapping the rings. And he falls to the floor in an anatomically incorrect heap. You unwrap the shower curtain and he starts to breathe.

The brown eyes open.

Steven? you call.

You’re not sure if that’s his name.

You shake him.

He sits up, staring off into space. Yes, mistress?

Look at me.

But he won’t.

You grab his jaw and scream LOOK AT ME!

His body shudders as he looks at you. No one’s home.

You take his face in your hands. A caress. A whisper, Stephen…it’s okay…please look at me.

He looks at you.

What you see scares you. You see only rage in there.

You understand now.

You understand why he wouldn’t look at you. He wasn’t afraid of you. He was afraid of himself. Of what he was capable of. Of what would happen to him if you grew tired of him and sent him away. And he lost what little he had. Or if he lost control. A circus elephant gone mad at last. Stomping and goring, beyond feeling, as everyone shrieks and flees in blind panic.

When you played the Man From Rio with your friends, he could’ve grabbed that cleaver and killed any one of you with it. He could’ve killed you. But he didn’t. He went along with your game. He stood there with his penis on a greasy wooden cutting board, surrounded by bits of cheese and leftover grapes. Someone put a piece of parsley in his pubic hair. And the little red thing from a green olive inserted in his urethra, bulging and grotesque like a fat apple in the mouth of a roast pig.

The subhuman shame.

How could he look at you?

At any of you?

When he was wholly overwhelmed by looking at himself.

How can he ever look at you? How can he ever see you as anything other than what you’ve always been to him?

#mistresslovesfuckboy

#mistresssayfuckboydo

#yesmistress

#lookatme

#yesmistress

#void

#rage

#2wrongs

#americanfuckboys

#comingtoatheaternearyou

#streamingnow

#fuckfuckboys

#downwiththepatriarchy

#hotmetal45challenge

#2sidesofthesamecoin

#shoveyourcoinupyourass

#fuckboylover

#cismalesympathizer

#nazibitch

#fuckboysaredogs

#fuckthatdogsarecute

#yourerightmybadfuckboysarentevendogs

#thatsbetter

#lol

#theonlygoodfuckboyisahumiliatedfuckboy

#imademyfuckboydoabookreportonamericanfuckboys

#hilarious

#fire

#wasitanygood?

#itactuallywashetotallynailedit

#lol

#ialmostfeltbadforhim

#almost

#theyhadtheirchance

#2wrongsDOmakearight

#tattoothatonhispunylittledick

#excusememyfuckboyishung

#lolminetoo

#theonlygoodfuckboyisahungfuckboy

#hungbyashowercurtaininthebathroom

#totallylol

#fuckallfuckboys

#umexcusemediditeveroccurtoanyofyouthatonedaytheyllriseupandkillusinoursleep?

#fuckthat

#nevergonnahappen

#iwillcutoffhisdickandmakehimsodomizehimselfwithitfirst

#loltotally

#hellhathnofurylikeawomanscorned

#allfuckboyscangotohell

#butonlyoncewearedonewiththem

#hashtagconvosaresotedious

#totally

#whereismyfuckboy

#betweenyourlegsrightwhereheshouldbe

#lol

#fasterfuckboyfaster

#theonlygoodfuckboyisanobedientfuckboy

#theonlygoodfuckboyisahardfuckboy

#agoodfuckboyishardtofind

#ahardfuckboyisgoodtofind

#fuckboyplatitudes

#fuckboyplatypus

#platypusesarewaybetterthanfuckboys

#forsure

If you’re a keeper of a fuckboy, a lover of fuckboys, perhaps more than one, if you’re a fuckboy aficionado, where and how do you source your little pet? Do you go to an agency? It’s like a prep school for boys. Parents who can’t get their son into such a preparatory environment are forced to do it themselves. To raise them up directly, always with the goal and aspiration of being selected by a good woman, a woman with the means to keep a well-rounded, reliable boy on her staff. So the parents give him what education they can, always in the hopes of giving him a fighting chance, always with the dream that their son will get spotted by a scout and invited to a prep school, where their real education can begin. They go in wearing a Bart Simpson tee shirt and come out joking in French, wearing Italian, knowing the difference between a 458 and a 488, an expert in Tim Ferris’s Clittoral Massage Technique, and always in possession of the perfect 5 o’clock shadow and nuclear bright smile.

If you’re a keeper of a fuckboy, how often do you keep each one around? Do you like one at a time or a pack? Do you prefer the minimal mental and financial expenditure of a lone pup or the on-demand tongue baths possible with a gaggle? Do you treat them like a good pair of shoes? Required wearing for a given situation but always subject to replacement? Do you pop over to the boutique to grab a new one for the big opening? The premiere? A weekend upstate? The annual trip to Monaco? Where it’s sweet to pretend to watch the race while the lads chatter excitedly about the subtleties of aerodynamics, tire composition, and the endlessly fickle carousel of driver rotation that is life in Formula 1. And taking them down to the paddock to mingle with the fuckboy drivers is the best part because you never know who you’ll bump into, an old friend with whom you’d like to catch up and swap fuckboys for a night or 2. Because a good fuckboy is always up for an adventure. Every morning when he wakes up, he thinks about his dad back home, about walking to school with his eyes closed most of the way, hoping that would help him to not get shot, or to not see it coming if he did. So pleasuring a woman in a fancy dress and eating canopes in a hotel suite in any number of bedazzled skyscrapers twinkling in the night in any number of cities on a map is easy. Whether or not she ever tells him her name is irrelevant. He’ll know what she tells him if only and when she tells him. If she wants to tie him up and fellate him to ejaculation, that’s her choice. If she wants to play Hide the Eggplant, that’s her choice. He reverts to the breathing technique he was taught early on, inhale pause push, inhale pause push. It’s the only way to get the eggplant to go in. With as little tearing as possible. Because if you bleed on the sheets, they don’t like that.

A good fuckboy never bleeds is the cocktail party punchline.

Punctuated by, And if he does, he knows how to hide it.

Followed by more laughter and a lot of pinching of bottoms. The fuckboys just smile the well-practiced come hither covergirl smile. That the pinch was too hard remains hidden. That he knows she’s going to be rough later is never revealed. A sexy sip of his martini and a good punchline are what matters. So she can be proud of her little fuckboy. And all the other mistresses go on and on:

Where did you get him? Sylvia’s or the place in Midtown?

Send him up to my place when you’re done.

If he can still walk!

Laughter.

Not much chance of that!

More laughter and another pinch, harder this time, and that look in her eyes. She’s feeling extreme again. What can she put inside him? What’s the biggest salami you can get? Once he stops moving, how long should she wait until she tears a little hole in the plastic bag? Some fuckboys like to fake it. The secret is always to always involve the penis. Sexualize whatever you do to them. Edge him to the brink of ejaculation and lock him in a freezer. A good fuckboy will be hard as a rock when you finally let him out an hour later.

Did you enjoy your trip to Everest?

Yes, Mistress.

What’s my name, fuckboy?

It’s not my place to know Mistress’s name.

That’s right.

And then she gets down on her knees and sucks him off. His cock is a wet rag to be wrung as hard as possible. To get every last drop out of it. He growls and grunts through perfect teeth because she told him she likes that. She takes his semen in her mouth. Then stands and spits it into his, slamming her hand over his lips.

Swallow it!

He gulps it down while he maintains eye contact. Because she told him she likes that.

You like having cum in your mouth, don’t you?

Yes, Mistress.

You need to know what our kind has been forced to endure.

His toes look a little blue. Is an hour in the freezer enough to cause frostbite?

Answer me.

Yes, Mistress.

If he gets gangrene he’ll haff to go. Sylvie won’t take him back, either.

Go take a shower.

Perry just sang shower as I typed shower.

I was standing in the shower thinkin

About what makes a man

Yes, Mistress.

How many women marry their fuckboy?

That’s every fuckboy’s dream. To find a mistress who will spend thousands of dollars on a party special ceremony at which she’ll stand up in front of her friends and family, all the other mistresses surrounded by their fuckboys, and she’ll put a ring on his finger and say she loves him. And she’ll expect him to put a ring on her finger and say something magical back to her.

Secretly, he’ll hope that maybe they truly will be equals now.

Secretly, she knows she’s still going to be in charge.

Perry just sang the crazy bee mad about somebody oh no as I typed be in charge.

Cue Twilight Zone music.

The married fuckboy sleeps more soundly at night knowing that despite the challenges that are certain to come, they will be preferable to being stuffed down a garbage chute somewhere in Newark. He’ll still need to starve himself during the day so they can enjoy a nice family dinner each evening. No mistress-respecting fuckboy allows himself to lose his abs completely. He has to be ready for a selfie at any given moment. The 5 o’clock shadow has to be on point and the shiny belt buckle must be clearly visible with nothing hanging over. The domestic fullness of a well-taken care of fuckboy is a point of pride for every married woman. As long as it’s not excessive. Never sloppy. A weekend in Cancun is always in the cards. Decent pecs and abs are mandatory.

A fuckboy always minds his carbohydrate intake, especially sugar. Carbs and sugar increase insulin. Insulin is the master storage hormone. It increases appetite. Appetites weaken devotion. The appetites of paramount importance are those of the mistress.

A fuckboy always works to near failure, always in the 15 to 20 rep range. A fuckboy is not to put on too much mass. A fuckboy always remembers Repetition for Definition. An adage handed down in private from fathers to sons throughout the ages.

A fuckboy stays on top of his hygiene. Teeth and nails. Navel, pubes, and anus. Huffing shitbreath into a mistress’s face during a session is intolerable.

A fuckboy drives his mistress around. Wherever she wants to go. He lets her choose the restaurant, the coffee beans, color of the car. When she asks him which one he wants.

Perry just sang I only know they WANT me as I typed which one he WANTS.

When Mistress asks him what he wants, he knows to pause for a moment as if thinking and to then answer in a way that seems to be his own yet which is also that which she wants. So she can smile and laugh and throw her arms around his neck and love him for being so similar to her. This helps her push away the thought that she’s just a breeder who married her fuckboy.

A fuckboy ejaculates when and where he’s told. He knows how she likes her coffee. He studies the numbers and cooking times of the toaster so he never burns her toast. She hates the smell of burnt toast, the smoke that hangs in the air, ruining her perfect kitchen. She hates waiting several more minutes while another slice toasts.

A fuckboy always knows how to get there. And knows if they have enough gas to get there and back. Because she hates sitting in the car at the gas station while he gets out to fill up. She wants to hold hands while they drive. But not after he touched the gas pump. One of his fingernails has grease under it now. How will he be able to eat her sister’s finger sandwiches now? Everyone will see it. They’ll all look at each other. But not at her. What else doesn’t he wash?

A fuckboy stays on top of his hygiene. Teeth and nails. Navel, pubes, and anus. Huffing shitbreath into a mistress’s face during a session is intolerable. Holding mistress’s hand with gas station grease on your fingers and embarrassing her in front of her friends and family is intolerable. Keep babywipes in the map pocket of the driver’s side door. Make a show of cleaning your hands once you get back into the car. But do it quickly. A fuckboy never keeps his mistress waiting. Unless he’s bringing her to orgasm. A fuckboy’s sense of sexual timing and understanding of the lay of his mistress’s land is as crucial as the state of his teeth and nails, navel, pubes, and anus.

A fuckboy keeps a full bevy of his mistress’s music on tap. He suggests a little music, appearing to select the songs himself, but they’re actually her favorites. So she can smile and laugh and throw her arms around his neck and love him for being so similar to her. This, again, helps her push away the thought that she’s just a breeder who married her fuckboy.

A fuckboy is able to elucidate popular culture. To distill it down to its meaning, thereby elevating it beyond the reproach of mindless consumeristic addiction. This makes everyone feel good about themselves and their slovenly habits. He can speak clearly and concisely with obvious insight yet without sounding boastful as to the similarities, differences, and generally humorous similarity between Purple Rain and Cold November Rain. Singing in the Rain. Star-crossed lovers on the silver screen savoring a perfect kiss in the rain. He is always on the lookout for an opportunity for he and his mistress wife to accidentally get caught in the rain, perhaps in Cancun or Maui, an exotic setting during a vacation, when caution and expectations alike have been thrown to the wind and when it’s not too cold to be able to laugh about it. And getting soaked to the bone in the rain is sexy and romantic, not the tragedy of God urinating on you. The soaking is followed by a long, steady look deep into her eyes. He is a mirror in which she glimpses her higher self, the daring and sympathetic rebel she’s always wanted to believe herself to be. The long steady look is followed by the ultimate kiss. He takes her face in his hands and kisses her, seizing control. But only for a moment. Only long enough for her to realize her own vulnerability. So that she can submit to it. And revel in it while they find a place to make love. So she can feel him inside her, knowing she made the right decision when she bought the ring and put it on his finger. And so she can see the look on her friends’ faces after she and her man return home and she tells her friends the story of what they did that day they got caught in the rain. And they all study him as he serves them bellinis and lowfat quiche he made from scratch that morning.

On his way back to the kitchen with the now-empty tray, she says, Love you, babe.

He looks back at her, beard, teeth, and hair perfect, a twinkle in his eye and says, Love you more.

And all her friends say Ohhh!

She leaves out the part where they did the guided trip into the jungle to play with bullet ants and drink ayahuasca. The scars the ant bites put on his hands she feared would never fully heal. The way his fingers swelled and looked stupid. The way his wedding ring cut off the circulation and his ring finger turned blue. And even though it was her idea and she gritted her teeth and said Do it. Now. and he did it, she still detested him. She leaves out the part about that night when she poured the ayahuasca into his mouth and made him swallow it. She leaves out the part where he began to vomit violently and loudly 15 minutes later, embarrassing her in front of the other couples who’d booked the trip for that same day. She leaves out the part where he hallucinated things she couldn’t see and he spoke words she couldn’t understand in a language she didn’t know he knew. And he stood on the edge of the mountain, looking down into the jungletreetops, his arms spread wide, his eyes open even wider. And in that moment she lost him. He flew away from her. And nothing she said brought him back. He merely laughed with perfect white teeth and spoke to the things only he could see. And for a moment she considered pushing him. Riding the old, shitty bus back to the hotel. Going to the airport, flying home, shopping for a new fuckboy in the morning. Because no one would put up a fuss over one more fuckboy who tripped and rolled down a junglemountain and got broken into bits. And she’ll remember that time on their way to her sister’s when he got grease on his fingers at the gas station because he’d forgotten to fill up the day before. And how they’d fed each other bites of her sister’s finger sandwiches in a well-planned and executed public display of affection. And how she’d had to conceal her disgust and her rage when he fed her and she could still smell the greasy gasoline stink on his fingers.

But she doesn’t push him. Because it took her so long to find him. Years. Dozens of fuckboys. Probably almost a hundred. If she could be bothered to count. But no one ever counts their fuckboys. The only ones counting fuckboys are the fuckboy proprietors. And only while doing inventory or when your accountant needs it to keep the IRS off your back.

But late at night, when he’s sleeping silently on the edge of the bed because she always sleeps in the middle, she’ll wonder what he saw on that mountain. She’d asked the crazy old man who made the smelly ayahuasca juice what he was saying. But the old man had muttered in Spanish. Something about the Aztec language Nahuatl.

Kineh. Kineh. Kineh.

I am hers. I am hers. I am hers.

Whose? Whose was he? What did she want from him and what did she say to him?

Point being — AHHHHHH! — that the swelling from the bullet ants went down. He was quiet on the bus but by the time they were back in the hotel and she was bending him over the arm of the sofa, pulling his hair and really driving hard, screaming at him to tell her what he saw, all he said was kineh.

Over and over again.

I am hers.

Who?

Who was she?

Was she prettier than me? We’ll just see about that. I’m gonna fuck you until you tell me, you hear me? I’m gonna fuck you like Reese Witherspoon would. Do you hear me?!

Yes, Mistress, yes!

He’d spent much of the night easing out of bed and tiptoeing to the bathroom, just sitting on the toilet. He never got anything on the sheets. Like any good fuckboy would.

He winced in the morning when they sat down to breakfast. But he played it off as a yawn. After which he kissed her cheek and said, What a great night.

Why?

Why was it a great night?

Because she’d given him the full Reese Witherspoon treatment, pig movie and all? Or because he’d seen someone else up on that mountain. A mistress far greater than she? A mistress beyond reproach. A mistress to whom even Reese Witherspoon could never hope to hold a candle.

There was no way to know.

Kineh, kineh, kineh.

I am hers.

Facial hair is makeup for men. A good fuckboy is master of his.

In the morning, after watching him sleep soundly all night with a smile on his face, she sneaks up to the bathroom door and peeks through the crack, watching him perform his morning ablutions. Which is a fancy word for hygiene. He spends a great deal of time on his beard. His teeth. His nails. Waxing his chest, arms, and legs. With nary a whimper, the sure sign of the consummate pro who yanked out the very nerve endings decades ago in their pursuit for physical perfection and the approval of a mistress. He sits on the toilet, wipes, washes his hands twice with steaming water. Once with heavy-duty lemony fresh dish soap guaranteed to remove even the toughest caked on, baked on grease. Because every good fuckboy knows that feces is tenacious. Mere hand soap is insufficient. A mistress likes to be fed. And a fuckboy’s fingers and hands must smell lovely. Masculine and fresh but light, in order to demonstrate that his fingers and the scent they carry are for her and her alone, not to be smelled, licked, sucked, or chopped off by any other mistresses. Unless permission is granted by his one true Mistress.

Once his hands are clean, he applicates an enema. He uses the toilet again. He washes his hands and repeats the process. A fuckboy’s anus and bowel is always clean and ready for the Reese Witherspoon treatment.

All the while, he has electrostimulator patches adhered to his buttocks, stomach, and several on his chest. Long gray wires drape and swag and swoop to a small gray box on the bathroom counter which is plugged into an outlet. The box offers several dials, switches, lights, and knobs.

Every single one is set to max.

That’s a good little fuckboy. Keep that tushy plump and fuckable. Just the way mama likes.

This is all available in the literature, by the way. Which is exhaustive.

The Proper Care and Feeding of Fuckboys

Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Fuckboys But Were Afraid To Ask

The Everyday Mistress’s Guide to Fuckboys

The Complete Fuckboy Buyer’s Guide

Fuckboys From A to Z and Back Again

So Many Fuckboys, So Little Time

The Complete Fuckboy Buyer’s Guide International Version

How to Start, Run, and Grow a Successful Fuckboy Boutique

And of course a bevy of magazines:

Fuckboys! Fuckboys! Fuckboys! – Not to be confused with the band, which calls themselves simply The Fuckboys.

Fuckboys, Inc.

Fuckboy Me Up – A list of drugs, alcohol, and pharmacology to help control a rebellious fuckboy.

International Fuckboy – A Weekly Buyer’s Guide and Mistress Self-pleasure Manual

Cosmopolitan Fuckboy – Fashion, Intrigue, and Inspiring Articles by Fuckboys for Fuckboys.

And of course their sister publication: Me Fuck Good One Day – Everything YOU Need to Know to be a Successful Fuckboy.

Gotta get em while they’re young, right?

Your little one can read it on the plane while you guys travel to Fuckboyland. Together you’ll ride rides, meet all his favorite Fuckboy Entertainment characters he sees every afternoon and Saturday morning on the Fuckboy Channel.

More books:

Bend Me Over, Mistress! Understanding your fuckboy’s point of view, behavior, and language, with tips to help you better communicate your demands to your fuckboy. And what to do when he embarrasses you in front of your family, business associates, gal pals, and fellow mistresses.

I mean…come on; the jacket copy writes itself.

Also:

How to Care for an Aging Fuckboy. All you need to know and practical everyday tips on sex, fitness, nutrition, supplements, care, feeding, and more. And when — and how — to put him out to pasture.

Sublet Your Fuckboy: How to build your fuckboy portfolio and lease them out to others to build stable, reliable passive income with no upfront cost.

Mistress’s Guide to Fuckboy Anatomy. Knowing how his body works and how much pharmaceuticals he can tolerate will help you be the hit at your next orgy.

Understanding Fuckboy Addiction. Why we can’t seem to stop acquiring new fuckboys and what to do about it.

Treating Fuckboys with Eating Disorders, a Clinician’s Guide. Because nobody wants their friends to catch their fuckboy with his fingers down his throat in the bathroom at an awards gala.

How to Speak Fuckboy. A complete guide to understanding your fuckboy’s vernacular so you know what he’s saying, why he’s saying it, and how to make him comply.

And for the fuckboy, neophyte and pro:

Is Mistress Angry? A guide for fuckboys. How to read your mistress, understand her mood, anticipate her needs, and be the fuckboy she deserves.

A Fuckboy in the Rough. A guide to understanding your mistress and never getting thrown down a garbage chute again.

More for you. Because fuck them. Obviously. And literally.

Fuckboy Makeover. How to buy a fuckboy cheap and turn him into a lumberjack 007 porn star poet you can take home to mom.

Carrot and Stick: What to do when your fuckboy is fucking all the other fuckboys and falls asleep while you're banging him like a cheap gong.

And of course, everyone's favorite streaming series:

Fuckboys Gone Wild

Mistresses Gone Wild

Diary of a F**kboy

F**kboy Expose

Meat Market, a Behind the Scenes look at America's Underground F**kboy Market

Are You There, God? It’s Me, F**kboy.

Those last 4 are just your typical bleeding heart antifuckboy propaganda. Which is why they censor the fuck out of the fuckboy. They say it's demeaning, denigrating, derogatory, et cetera.

But nobody cares. Not really. It's easier to say that nothing is perfect, life isn't fair, et cetera. And that at least fuckboys in the United States enjoy some basic protections. You can't just go around murdering fuckboys. They're too expensive anyway.

Nobody on Capitol Hill gives a shit. The President and her cabinet have so many fuckboys that the White House has a nightmare of security clearances. The whole place is crawling with fuckboys. The Oval Office? More like the Fuckboy Office. The West Wing? More like the Fuckboy Wing. The Lincoln Bedroom? They had to rename it The Fuckboy Bedroom. The Washington Monument? Fuck Washington. Now everyone calls it The Fuckboy Monument.

And don't think for a second that the House and Senate aren't enjoying the fruits of their labors. Every freshman Representative and Senator is appointed a brand-new top of the line fuckboy of the highest caliber. All the better to keep her satisfied and in her office working to write more bills for corporate fuckboy loopholes.

And the Federal Reserve? Jesus… There's even talk of an American fuckboy reserve currency. And an international energy currency denominated in American fuckboys. Any country that needs to buy or sell energy — solar, wind, natural gas, oil — must transact in American fuckboys.

Did you really think American hegemony was simply going to get shoved down the garbage chute of history like a drunken New Jersey fuckboy who can't get it up?

Most of the fuckboys going down garbage chutes seem to be in New Jersey, by the way. Several respected studies have been conducted on the matter. The leading hypothesis is that New Jersey simply has the highest number of both garbage chutes and fuckboys per capita. So it's actually kind of a no-brainer that the phenomenon is so virulent there.

But the International Fuckboy Association has been doing all sorts of annoying undercover work and claims the actual reason has nothing to do with trash chutes or fuckboys. It's because of the overabundance of fuckboys. Their increased trips down garbage chutes is part and parcel of the same mindset that led to the normalization of the word fuckboy. People are careful not to say the F word in polite company or a professional setting such as while at the office. But saying fuckboy is as natural as saying butterfly. A fact which has led to an annoying trend of portraying trash chute fuckboys as beautiful butterflies painted clandestinely as gigantic murals on the sides of tall buildings, deifying them as victims. When everyone knows fuckboys are prized possessions as useful as they are expensive. And that the problem isn't fuckboys, trash chutes in New Jersey — or anywhere else — nor is it a cloister of drunken, irate mistresses. But the fact is that capitalism has done to fuckboys what it did for everything else: find the leanest, meanest, most profitable means of production. Owned not by the fuckboys, of course, but by the hyperwealthy super rich. And by the politicians and their donors. Fret not, however, for the CIA has plenty of mistress and fuckboy spies in the burgeoning cadre of eastern European fuckboy separatists.

The best way to deal with them and their ilk is to distract everyone from the problem. Hence an all-new series being launched called the Fuckboy Games. It's more American Ninja Warrior than Hunger Games. So don't worry. Every time a fuckboy retires from competition, he falls into the heavenly embrace of his loving mistress who takes him home, gets him really high on some primo weed, takes a nice long hot shower with him, and then takes him to bed where she makes sweet love to him, focusing solely on his pleasure and bringing him to glorious, soul-searing release. After which he falls asleep under her watchful gaze. And in the morning, she brings him a delicious breakfast which they share together in bed. Fresh eggs and cheese and fruit and warm croissants and plenty of gourmet coffee. After breakfast, she makes love to him again. And then, in the sweet silent waterfall of their post coital bliss, they begin to strategize what they need to do to get better. So that he can compete in next year's games. So that he can win. He can — and will — destroy the competition. Bringing ultimate glory to his mistress. Along with hundreds of millions of easy dollars in endorsement deals.

And that’s proper fuckboy money. That’s a whole private island full of adoring fuckboys money.

The only saving grace, the one ray of hope, is the vesuvian caldera of animosity — and especially litigation — bouncing around any dozen of a hundred kangaroo courts as sparks fly between the International Fuckboy Association and the International Association of Fuckboys. The IFA and the IAF are forever at each other’s throats.

The best part is that they’re all too stupid to realize that the funding for their lawsuits and lobbying comes from the International Mistress Association as well as from the International Association of Mistresses. Both of whom are in complete agreement as to how to proceed. They’re all hanging out, laughing, drinking, partying, playing golf, tennis, yachting, power sliding supercars around private racetracks, or getting horny on the back of a horse playing polo — every fuckboy worth his weight in weed loves and fears a mistress who plays polo because her position is the same with both creatures.

Point being — AHHHH! — that while the IAF and IFA are busy fighting, the IAM and the IMA are busy being friends, channeling their collective bargaining power and not insignificant financial firepower into letting the sad little fuckboy groups have their day in court. Sad because they’re too stupid to realize who’s actually funding them and why.

You really wanna push some buttons? I'm not recommending this, by the way. Wear a tee shirt that says fuckboy lives matter.

Thank you and goodnight. Remember to tip your waitress!