Dick Wipes on the Kitchen Counter

“You were raised wrong, that’s all,” Guy informed her as he wiped a giant glob of semen off his dick with a Clorox wipe and placed it on the kitchen counter. They had just fucked on the floor and Fabienne was somewhat appalled to see that he didn’t bother with excusing himself to go to the bathroom to handle his “overflow,” her outrage over this being what had prompted Guy to somewhat unexpectedly make this remark about her parents being the ones responsible for her “exaggerated” reaction to him placing his DNA in the area where she would later prepare a Cobb salad. 

She had been thinking of breaking things off with Guy, whose name sounded increasingly crude–tellingly rudimentary–in light of his dick wipe incident, for the past month or so, but when she had moved into a new apartment near his, it became more difficult to do so, with Guy frequently popping in for some afternoon delight as his workplace was also located in the same area. As for Fabienne, she was still “figuring it out,” as they say. In the interim, she had been living off an inheritance she received from her grandmother three years ago, a sizable one that allowed her to evade the dreaded prospect of moving back in with her parents, the ones Guy seemed to insist had raised her wrong for instilling within her the basic sense that putting splooge near an area where foods were prepared was unhygienic. But silly her, according to Guy she was being a prim bitch about the whole thing, and she might not be such an uptight twat (though he seemed to like that when he was banging her) if her parents hadn’t been so high-strung themselves. What a fucking crock of shit. For him to try to tell her that his base, unrefined ways were the norm. That she was the freak for being disgusted by him. 

Well, that was it, she resolved. She was not going to indulge him any longer. “You know what Guy, in the words of Mariah Carey, ‘How ‘bout you get the fuck out?’” And so he did, fathoming that maybe he had said too much to Fabienne, ruining his chances of continuing to have sex with her, never mind the so-called “relationship” aspect of things. He was thirty-two years old, and knew that he ought to start thinking more seriously about the future. About what he wanted. And if that included “settling down” with someone…like Fabienne. Sure, she could seem overly priggish, and he shuddered at the thought of ever having to meet her progenitors, but, at the same time, he knew she was the best girl he had ever known, the best girl he would ever get. Maybe that sounded like resignation, but it was, in Guy’s mind, something more like realism. So it was that he despised himself all the more for having offended Fabienne, for ruining his chances with her one too many times for her to take him back inside her vag. Would it have really killed him to have used the bathroom to clean himself up? To have not been so crass? No. Then again, would it have killed her not to be such a hen-pecking cunt? 

At his therapist the following day, Guy showed up looking particularly disheveled, and reeking of body odor. His personal maintenance was always dubious at best, but today it was of marked concern to Dr. Elsinore. Looking Guy up and down with that appraising stare of his, Dr. Elsinore began with, “Is everything okay?” 

Guy chortled. “If it was, I wouldn’t need to be here, now would I?” 

“That’s not necessarily true. It’s a very healthy thing to tend to one’s mental well-being, don’t you think?” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

Dr. Elsinore could feel himself hitting a wall with Guy, yet didn’t want to press him to the point of a complete shutdown, as he was known for engaging when he felt pushed too far. So instead he gently prodded, “Did you adhere to the shower schedule this week?”

“Is that supposed to be a fucking hint, Dr. Elsinore? Can you smell me?”

Dr. Elsinore shifted in his seat, assuring, “I’m asking because it’s important for your treatment to do it. Taking care of yourself is part of the steps needed on the road to self-love. We established from the beginning you have some deep-seated issues with worthiness. This is why you hate yourself, why you don’t bother with basic care like regular washing.”

“Yeah, ‘cause of my fuckin’ parents. It’s always the fuckin’ parents isn’t it? That’s what I tried to tell Fabienne yesterday.” 

“How do you mean?” 

 Guy looked up with a devilish gleam in his eye and grinned, “Civility is but the thin veneer humans put up to separate themselves from the animals.” 

If Dr. Elsinore was a psychic, he might have seen a black aura hovering around Guy in that moment. Luckily, he wasn’t, or he might also have fled out of fear, thereby provoking Guy all the more in his rage. 

“Be that as it may, Guy, ‘civility’ is important, don’t you think?” 

Guy snarled, “No. I fucking don’t! And I’m fucking sick and tired of Fabienne getting on my fucking dick all the time about cleanliness. Nothing is clean. And it never will be!” With that, he stormed out of the session, leaving Dr. Elsinore to ruminate on whether or not he should call in reinforcements, lest Guy do something to harm himself or another. Quelling the suspicion, Dr. Elsinore took the extra free time as an opportunity to go downstairs and buy himself a chili hot dog from the Sabrett vendor outside his building. He was going to need his strength and energy for his next patient anyway, a schizophrenic whose multiple personalities all seemed to have Borderline. 

***

Walking down the street with no destination in particular, Guy found himself inevitably angling toward the direction of Fabienne’s apartment. The only thing that would make him feel better right now–in feeling nothing–was to fuck the pain away. He needed to get back inside of her, at any cost. He would apologize, he would say anything. Yet he underestimated just how absolutely done she was with his bullshit. And his horrendous odeur. She told him as much as she stared at him through the peephole, but he kept imploring so desperately that she couldn’t resist letting him in, so long as he promised to leave after she made him a coffee. 

As she placed a pod in her Nespresso machine, it became clear that something was quite off about Guy, and it was more than just his stench, which she commented on as she replenished the water supply in the coffee maker’s tank. While she was berating him once again for his general foulness as a human being, she could sense his sinister presence coming up behind her as he ripped her skirt off and put his hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming. He had his way with her as the sound of the loud Nespresso-churning ephemerally drowned out the sounds of her struggle. As he came, he reached for a knife in the chopping block and stabbed her in the back mid-orgasm. Letting her fall to the ground when he was finished with her, the blood oozed from her wound as she gasped for air. He reached for the Clorox wipes and, once again, polished his dick free of the cum resin. He was maniacal, grabbing wipe after wipe and letting them fall on Fabienne’s face (not to mention the kitchen counter) after using them. 

Staring up at him with her left eye, for her other was pressed against the floor, she found the last shred of strength within herself to ask, “And how did your parents raise you?” 

He sneered. “To hate myself, therefore everyone else.”

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