Gib Elbis Keeses

April 25, 2014

If you’ve spent any time with my partner and me inside of our quaint, condemnable home, you have likely heard him command me to kiss Elvis.  Mostly, he makes these demands with a cute voice as if cooing a baby.  “Kees Elbis,” or “Gib Elbis keeses.”  As he expects, I just respond by sneering, rolling my eyes, and walking away.  He knows I will not kiss Elvis.  He only does this to antagonize me after a ghastly incident I experienced last year in our bedroom.You see, Elvis has a nightly routine.  After I climb into my side of the bed, he immediately follows behind me, curling into the corner of the mattress beside my head.  This becomes problematic since I must face the outside of the bed when I sleep.  I’ve tried discouraging his bedding preference by positioning myself as close to the edge of the bed as possible, but my partner fusses and threatens me with tickles if I don’t give the cat room to lie down.  I begrudgingly yield to his demands (mumbling under my breath how much I hate the cat) and thus, with Elvis balled up mere inches from my breathing orifices, spend another night inhaling loose cat hair.

After climbing into bed on the night of “the incident,” Elvis is absent for his nightly ritual.  For a moment, the thought of having my side of the bed to myself fills me with joy; however, once I was comfortably resting on my right side, the tardy cat trampled my happiness, seemingly flustered to have missed his bedtime appointment.  I groan as I make room, but Elvis seemed uninterested in my complaints as he marched in small circles at the usual corner with his bushy tail standing straight in the air.  As I observed this routine with impatience, Elvis suddenly lost his footing and stumbled ass-first onto my mouth.

Let’s be real here.  The anus is the most disgusting part of the body.  Just beyond its puckered gate runs a lengthy track of tubing that incubates a cornucopia of plague batter such as dangerous bacteria, protozoa, and fungi.  Also, it smells.  Really bad.  My reaction upon learning that gay men put their mouths on those things for pleasure was akin to that time my 6-month-old niece vomit-punching me in the mouth after burping her: there was a lot of spitting, dry-heaving, hysterical crying, and commotion (not to mentioned that I lost my appetite for apples and apple-flavored anything for 10 years).

After a familiar frenzy of spitting, dry-heaving, hysterical crying, and commotion, I charged into the bathroom where I scrubbed my lips and mouth with a mixture of toothpaste, peroxide, and bathroom scrubbing cleanser. The bad taste has left my mouth, but my partner still doesn’t let me forget “the incident” by taunting me with a “Gib Elbis Keeses” every once in a while.  I may roll my eyes and walk away, but after I turn away, I try to stifle a smile as I wonder what Elvis looked like in that one brief moment when he thought I was blowing a raspberry in his asshole.

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