Red Meat & Satan


by J.C.

ROSALEE loved the way I would say, ''Hi,'' instead of ''Hello,'' when answering the telephone. She once told me, ''Your enzymes are cute.'' But in her I'd always admired the way she cropped things. Her ability to emboss life's better moments while diluting the crappy ones with laughter was a gift I never got. Yeah, this gal had her act together. Physically, she was the hottest person I had ever been with. Her dark features, long, black hair, and sexy Puerto Rican accent kept me lost in her, completely, wherever we went.

Rosalee was a blatant vegetarian. Without knowing this, I had her over for a barbecue, just the two of us. She made me bury the steaks in the yard. Then we ate carrots and walnuts and drank home-brewed beer. Her unusual devotion to the vegetarian lifestyle sparked my interest. She said that red meat was basically Satan's feces. ''Therefore,'' she said, ''eating it is no less than committing a perverse sexual act with the devil.''

At this stage in our relationship, it became evident to me that Rosalee was insane. And this turned me on incredibly. First it was infatuation, then romance, love, devotion, jealousy, lying, cheating, and, finally, bondage. And eventually it was the bondage that destroyed our relationship. It was my own fault. The leather whips, nipples clamps, and eletric prongs were one thing. But the day I came at her with the garden sheers in one hand and rat poison in the other, well, she had a BIG problem with that. And I don't blame her. I always take it one step too far, you know?

I later fell in love with her younger brother, Sanchez. I'd never felt anything on an intimate level for guys, but Sanchez was different. He'd had a sex change operation around the time my relationship with Rosalee was heating up. As weird as it struck me, it also made some sense. The guy looked extremely feminine to begin with, and actually ended up looking better as a girl than a guy. The thing I didn't understand was that he still wanted to be with women. I mean, this guy gets a sex change operation so he can become a lesbian? I could just imagine him (her?) on a date, fumbling around with an extra-thick, ribbed, nine-inch plastic strap-on special, when he once had the real thing? It was pathetic!

Anyway, about a month or so after Rosalee left me, I started hanging out with Sanchez. We took mambo lessons, flew kites, and went skeet shooting. Two pastimes for him, one for me. That was the deal. I really enjoyed his company, and he slowly started to realize the potential of being with a guy. On a Saturday afternoon I liberated him of his homosexuality. Or had he been a heterosexual and was now a homo? For that matter, had I gone homo as well? The whole thing was too difficult to analyze. As long as we weren't hurting each other, who cares? As Sanchez would say, ''All kinds of people hurt themselves every day—with cigarettes, alcohol, TV news, you name it.'' The guy had a point. All I knew was that I never felt more fulfilled with anybody, including his sister.

Rosalee, however, did have a lasting influence on me. I have learned to fill my diet with more veggies, fruits, and grains than you can shake a stick at. I tend now to hone in on the more positive things in life, like Sanchez, and my new job as a transit cop. But as far as sex is concerned, I'm completely content to hear Sanchez's screams of passion from the grips of my electric prongs.

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