A fairytale for adults.

Since the dawn of time, man has pitted himself against beast in any number of arenas.  Generally, we humans emerge victorious.  However, the animals occasionally put one on the board.  In this instance, I challenged three animals for the affections of a lady, and lost.  Badly.

Her name was Candy*.  On our first date she picked out one of the best sushi places I’ve ever eaten at.  She dressed better than I did, made more money than I did, and was proportionately better looking than I was.  I was smitten.  Things progressed nicely, save for one small matter: I had yet to successfully initiate physical intimacy.  This was fast becoming critical.  Without making a successful move, I was risking permanent relegation to the friend zone, that undesirable social zone into which many a chap is cast and precious few emerge from.

By our third date, this had become a serious problem.  To solve it, I went all out on our next sojourn.  We went to the restaurant with the cloth napkins.  I was in rare form- cracking jokes, instigating light physical affectations, reading body language- and it paid off.  I was invited back to her lair.

Candy was half-Belgian, and I had ostensibly gained entrance with the promise that I would get to try one of her favorite Belgian lambic beers.  Anytime I can get into a woman’s apartment and drinking is to occur, success is all but guaranteed.  Conditions were favorable: negative for roommates with a strong front of flirtation rolling in over dessert.

The first inkling that something was wrong occurred outside the hall to her apartment.  As she fished through her purse for her keys, I heard something inside the apartment that sounded like someone hammering a nail into the wall.  “I thought you lived alone?” I asked.  “I do,” she replied.  “That’s just Cosette.”

Cosette turned out to be half Pit Bull, half German Shepherd.  She was lying by the door, waiting for her master to return.  She wasn’t waiting patiently though; the sound of hammering was actually her tail pummeling the hardwood floors.  Cosette was excited to see Candy.  When she saw me, a new and strange-smelling person, she was elevated to a new fit of doggy glee.  She charged me, visibly quivering with excitement.

Normally, I’m pretty good with animals.  In this situation, the dog was welcome.  I knew Candy was a veterinarian.  Build rapport with the animal, build rapport with the owner.  So I was ready to indulge Cosette a bit, and as she zipped in I’d stuck out a hand to pet her.

My welcoming sentiment was interrupted.  Hell-bent on getting to know me, Cosette shot past my hand and skidded forward, overshooting her stopping point and coming to a halt between my legs, head directly below my crotch.  From there, Cosette decided she needed to jump on me and launched her fifty-pound frame headfirst into my crotch.

As any man knows, taking a shot to the jimmy is no small matter.  I was caught- literally- flat-footed for this one.  “Well now, who’s this little-oofff!“ was all I could get out before my testicles were elevated into my intestines.  Candy, who had missed the crotch shot, turned around to see me grimacing at her capering puppy.  Bad start.

Cosette subdued enough for me to fend her off.  Crotch throbbing, I shuffled from the foyer into the living room.  Taking stock of the room, I noticed another of her pets, a portly domestic shorthair that was perched on the couch, watching me impassively.  “What’s his name?” I yelled after Candy, who had moved on to the kitchen to prepare our drinks.  “Oh, that’s Bob,” she replied.  An angry chittering from the hall closet interrupted her.  “And that would be Tango,” she continued, chuckling slightly.

“What did Tango do to piss you off into locking him in the closet?” I asked.

“He’s not being punished,” Candy replied.  “He likes being in there during the day.  He’s a sugar glider.  They’re nocturnal.”

Unbidden, I slid open the door to the closet.  A dingy white bird’s cage occupied the lion’s share of the space.  Inside it was an animal I could only assume was Tango the sugar glider.  I’d never before seen such a creature.  Tango was about the size of a small squirrel, with black and tan striped fur and giant eyes.  I would later learn that sugar gliders raise their young in pouches, just like kangaroos, and that they got their name from their ability to glide through the air from perch to perch.  As I peered at Tango, Candy rounded the corner to investigate why I had lapsed into silence.  Seeing my curiosity, she undid the latch to the cage.  Tango scurried forth, dashing up her arm to her shoulder, where he perched happily as she bustled about her renewed preparations.  I was about to ask a few more questions about sugar gliders when the object of my curiosity launched himself from Candy’s shoulder towards me, covering the fifteen feet separating us in less than a second.  Tango did glide very well, but the distance was too great and the laws of gravity immutable.  He failed to make my shoulder, instead crash-landing on my abused Johnson like a warm-blooded missile.  A missile with claws, I discovered, as I looked down to see him clinging impossibly to the front of my jeans.  Another unhappy grunt forced its way from me as a fresh ache settled into my already-battered twig and berries as news reached my thalamus.  “Get off my package!” I yelled at the sugar glider.

If the yelling perturbed him, Tango didn’t show it.  Instead, he scaled my torso, stopping briefly on my shoulder to size me up, then descended my back, where he perched on my ass.  From behind me I heard a little satisfied grunt.  I turned on myself like a dog chasing its own tail, trying to see what Tango was up to.  Candy saw first.  “Oh, Tango,” she said with disappointment.

After taking a second shot at my gonads, the sugar glider had peed on me, probably to show me who was boss.  This did not bode well for the evening- I didn’t know a single person who had ever hooked up while covered with animal urine.

Candy, though, seemed more apologetic than repulsed.  She ushered me into the kitchen and cleaned me up as best we could.  As she tidied up, I wandered out to the living room, careful to give Tango and Cosette a wide berth, and sat down next to her cat, who eyed me impassively.

Bob.  Bob the cat.  He didn’t look like he shared the other pet’s antipathy toward me.  Perhaps if I could win over the cat, all would not be lost.  I extended a hand to stroke his head, which quivered at my approach.  That was to be expected, I had learned at dinner; Candy had told me Bob had been stepped on as a kitten, before she had adopted him, rendering him permanently neurologic.  No matter, I would comfort him.

For a retarded cat, Bob moved surprisingly well as he sank his teeth into the meaty part of my hand between the thumb and index finger.  I must have tasted good, as Bob released me only after giving my hand a good shake.  Only now, after his assault, did Bob made a low growl that sounded like a gassy old man.  It was news I could have used slightly earlier. 

I returned to the kitchen and asked Candy for something to staunch the bleeding with.  “I see you met Bob,” she said simply.  Three ibuprofen, a bag of ice, and several bandages later, we returned to the couch, where Bob and I eyed each other suspiciously over a buffering Candy, who had brought out two bottles of expensive-looking beer.  I offered to open them, refusing to show weakness (to her or the cat) over my still-oozing left hand.  Using my remaining strong hand, I pried at the bottle’s cap with the opener.

I don’t believe in fate, but was sorely tempted to do so when the beer bottle shattered, sending slivers of glass into my right hand and opening a long gash along my index finger.  Before heading back to the bathroom for more medical treatment, I thought I caught Bob looking smug.  

Once again patched up, we settled into the couch.  “Do you still want a drink?” Candy asked.

I weighed my options.  “Candy, I don’t have a good hand left to make a move with.  Even if I could, I’m not sure my penis would function after the beating it just took.  Still, even if everything somehow functioned, your room would just smell like animal pee the next morning.  It’s a no win this time.”

Candy seemed to understand this as I got up to leave.  At the door, I tipped an imaginary hat to all 3 animals, each of whom was watching my departure with interest.  “You win this round,” I said, “but not the war.  I’ll be back.”

And I was.  I’ll let you know how this turns out- we’re still together more than a year later.

*Obviously an alias.  I would not date a woman named Candy on principle.