EZ Lover Fan Fiction
Check this EZ Lover inspired short by Kyara Panula entitled "June".
I watch a morning dove balance on the lightning rod whilst he fucks another woman in our bedroom. It’s the annual tropical storm, but winds aren’t as high today. The bird stretches its wing up for long periods of time and I’m initially struck that the poor creature only has one wing and he’s pondering why it can’t just get up and go. I hate him—the man, not the bird.
The dove stretches aforementioned wing wholly unto the sky, preening, breaking cartilage, deluged by rainfall. It’s truly a beautiful picture, you should see it. One of the two scream out from my room…can’t tell who it is.
Do I go in there, make my presence known? It would be perfect comic timing to strike my newest vajrayana yogic pose, Dove Reaches in Water’s Sky, while the other unit momentarily forgets their names, my existence. I decide against it; they wouldn’t even see me anyway.
Heading downstairs to make breakfast, a late meal, a brunch for one, miserably not in a fashionably urbanized bistro. Surprisingly my appetite is ferocious, considering my personal lack of, well, personal activity.
The phone rings. Caller ID mutters it is important. Is mom dead? Has the cat been hit? Did I win something? Mere-Cum-Bucket of the Year Award. I win a stainless steel pail engraved with my favorite phrase of climax, “oh fuck, oh fuck, f….fff…..ffff.” Point is, if I answer it, he knows I’m home, and quite frankly if he’s going to screw me over by fucking someone else, then they should at least finish the deed. Maybe it’ll make him feel more guilty—“Well I did cum twice…there’s no turning back now.”
I answer the call. The bird still sits. Picking up with the intention of a vibrant hello, in hopes they’d hear me. Up there. I fall silent, caught, the bird breaks through brick and is giving me a massive noogie in my voice box with his beak. I reckon I’m depressed.
“Hey you, it’s me. Don’t say anything. I’ll be over in 10 minutes. Can’t wait!” The last part is so perfectly, sexily, drawn out; my lack of exuberance would kill a rendering of the moment.
I have no idea who just called.
Wet dove is perched. Its feathers now completely drenched, still picking and itching away at its body. Don’t birds hide when it rains? Birdhouses, trees, municipal buildings, Florida? We’re both at our most vulnerable, frozen in static electricity. Wet synapses don’t fire.
They come down the steps. As I pour a cup of tea I realize how much he sounds like his father.
