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So I’m making-love to Rose and I says;

“Ooh baby baby, blah blah blah..,”

And she says;

“I’m thinking about getting my asshole bleached and waxed.”

So I’m fucking Rose and I says;


“Or waxed and bleached. I forget.”


Reflex reactions triggered - I lit a cigarette and thought about what she had said - and I says,

“I need a beer.”

I quit drinking so now I just drink beer; always before and never till after; cause every story needs a drunk.

As I make my way to the kitchen Rose is still going on., and on; exhibiting an enthusiasm not demonstrated for decades; she was like twenty years younger - pimpled-face fresh out of college with grand plans for her future - now arguing beyond a fad craze, the urgent need and demand to sexify the sphincter, championing her case with zest and zing; except I’m not listening, I’m thinking.., 

A waxed and bleached asshole - sounds interesting, provocative for sure, but before I could fully appreciate the kink in kinky and accompanying novel thrill I wonder what prompted this. I never said anything so wonder if someone else did. I worry cause Rose, dancing on the other side of gravity’s rainbow, desperate to avoid the signs of time, can be found easy.., to manipulate.., to be taken advantage.

With my head in the fridge Rose has faded into background noise; so I shout..,

“You want one?”

“Too early for me.” I’m sure she said.

It was just a bluff; only one left anyway.

I’ll admit Rose being a stripper was something I occasionally had to wrestle with. Jealousy finding fertile ground but I had done well keeping it under control. We met during my drinking days – and nights - at Club ParaDice an off-off Sunset Drive dive - two-drink minimum and backroom craps 24/7 - where she dances under the name Sister Rosita.

With Rose being an imported re-born from the mid-west now lost behind the shine of Disney’s Hollywood; stuck with popular prayers ignored by paparazzi priests; could be willing to compromise - to settle; so it was my understanding or misplaced trust that this relationship had become exclusive. Cause every story needs conflicting clichés and a tempting forbidden-fruit love interest.

But that’s how forbidden fruits play on the head; an instant of doubt – a spark founded in fear answered by jealousy. A biased slide-show of specific scenarios hi-jack and monopolize the mind all leading to the same scandalous conclusion screaming;

She’s fucking around!

“So what ya think?” asks Rose, as she concludes her presentation; all perky and smiling like everything is alright; unaware of the behind the scene schemes.

As I slide back between the sheets, choking from jealousy’s stranglehold, anger is summoned easily opening doors that are harder to close; I slam the beer and swallow the rage; temporarily sealing the door..,

“A waxed and bleached asshole, huh? How’d you come up with that?”

“Well, truth is I didn’t come to this on my own.”

Anger just busted down the door sensing an unauthorized intervention and I just know it was that freak Z-Mat, one of the DJ’s at the club with needle-ink’d sleeves and Guinness-gauged earlobes. I frantically search through my bed stand drawer popping any orphaned pill for perspective as Rose continues;

“It came to me in a vision; something I saw on T.V.”

“Something on T.V.?” Just a program-interrupting divine intervention - sweet.

Engulfed by a wave of relief that can’t be explained by a pharma-fix timeline leaving me to worry about what I just swallowed. With hazy hindsight figuring it was either a dilaudid or stool-softener - time will tell.

“Couple of nights ago I couldn’t sleep so I was up praying for career guidance in front of late-nite T.V.”

“Nick at Nite?”

“No, I forget what channel, it was after the 700 Club. It was in a half-hour infomercial that came on. The one before that other one, you know.,”

Creflo Dollar?”

“The Brazilian Butt-Lift Challenge.”

Rose is such a sucker for broadcast bullshit.

“An infomercial told you to get your asshole bleached and waxed?”

“Waxed and bleached. And it was a vision.”

“O.K. a sponsored vision told you to get your asshole waxed and bleached?”

“No. That’d be stupid. It was a vision co-sponsored by Teach For America (TFA) about a school that will teach me about the waxing and bleaching of assholes that could launch me a career. You know, why pay for a wax and bleach job if you can pay for a wax and bleach education – that could get you a wax and bleach., job. And isn’t it better to give than to receive?”

This is when unconditional comes around to bite you on the ass. “That’s not what.., I don’t think.., You see it’s like.., Well I guess..,”


“.., more about intent really..,”

Any-way., right now they have to import ladyboy labor to take these jobs because we don’t have enough people qualified to do the work.”


“Yes qualified. We have to train in the proper and approved procedures in ethics and hygiene. And then have to take tests to achieve the correct cosmetology license to get work in the field.”

“So the imported labor is qualified? They’ve already taken the tests, they’re licensed.., they’re ethical ass-groomers?”

“No they’re exempt because of some trade thingy and, you know, they’re trannies. Cindy explained it better.,”


“Cindy’s a Gemini from Goleta suffering stress-related genetic gingivitis ever since she lost her Silicon Valley programming job to an intern programmer that programs programs to program themselves, dick-head, and now represents Assthetics Online.”

“Who., Dick-head?”

“No babe, Cindy, and she says it’s our patriotic duty to wax and bleach assholes. Without more Americans coming into this market we will fall behind Indonesia and the rest of the third-world and as Cindy says – we don’t want that. We’ve already lost shoes and apparel to them.”

“So this is where you draw the line in the sand.”

“Somebody’s got to take a stand.”

“How much?”

“Ten Grand.”

“Ten grand?!”

“It’s the patriotic thing to do – and includes the license, a free wax and bleach job and assisted job placement. And it will help to cut the national debt and curb obesity.”

“Curb obesity?”

“You’re not going to get your asshole waxed and bleached without going on a diet.”


“Did you want me to strip the rest of my life? I thought you didn’t like it.”

Busted, “Well, you know.,”

“I did it for you.”

Well, shit, she wants to go ten grand in the hole for me and the flag, including a waxed and bleached asshole and though it seemed it should be; something is telling me – this can’t be good. 
I feel conflicted but not constipated as the mystery pill is kicking in and it ain’t dilaudid.


I’m sitting on the toilet with so many thoughts that won’t shut up and decide to feel happy about and be supportive of Rose and her new career aspirations – a second chance - at least she won’t be stripping anymore. But there are more important things to consider, at the moment, like the rent and how I’m going to pay it. And what?.,

No more toilet paper!

Fucking economy.

I feel powerless; but then saved as I spot a copy of Vanity Fair within reach.

Since the factory had been bought and sold and moved to an obscure zip code in tomorrow land - leaving my curriculum vitae stuck in whatever happened to, condemning my marketed soul to unemployment purgatory and targeted community college courses; and while my series of web-exclusive exposés on corporate corruption had yet to attract any serious sponsors; I’ve been living with the help of Rose’s stripper money. Finding myself reluctantly dependent on a much appreciated co-dependent condition though it’s making me feel like a pimp; one of the lowest forms of existence on level with loan sharks, hedge fund hustlers, predatory bangsters.., idol-worshipping parasites exciting and exploiting decadent desire and deepening desperation for profit.

It is true digging through garbage for recyclable commodity would be, although less attractive, more honorable but I can’t be homeless – I got a bad back, poor front and no sense of direction; and the competition is heating up. The numbering meek - inheriting the earth through trickled-down frozen aluminum and heated crow meat futures - ridding the streets of unsightly refuse are seen as refuse themselves, their contributions compromised; would be a good thing if they’d just leave after they’re finished sweeping up the crumbs; but that’s what’s wrong with the homeless - they never go home.

Rose has left out to work and I’m thinking I might have to start dealing again but don’t want to be that guy in the story, such a boring premise; and I don’t do drugs - just say no - only doctor dealing kick-back sponsored pharmaceuticals; so instead decide to go back to bed, double-up on the prescribed and escape the mundane.

I’m beginning to drift off and dream I’m a resurrected guitar playing gigolo in San Lobos, New Mexico - when the phone rings and I awake with a jones for jalapenos and beer. I see it’s Rose’s brother Jack and I don’t want to answer – don’t want to talk - don’t want to think - but the 5% chance it’s something important; their aunt had grown ill from over-priced and insufficient insurance as perched scavengers sing die bitch, die and she just might – and not that I care and not that I don’t but Rose will, so that possibility will keep me awake tripping too long and I’m running low on solutions,


“Hey Steve, it’s Jack.”

Jack had time on his hands as he and his union were striking telecom tyrant Vexicon. He called to talk to Rose but anyone would do, as I became anyone – Jack liked to talk. He’d come up with a great new idea – best one since his last one - for a non-profit start-up.

It was clear to Jack, from other union losses spreading-out from the heartland, he’d come out the loser on this one as the union itself sold-out to investment protecting concessions including an unsustainable multi-tier system that would lose out to an ever-corrupted chain of dubious non-union sub-contractors. He knew his worth, his twenty year electronics experience had fallen in the market replaced with cheap Chinese discard and disposable plug-n-play handymen; so now delivers part-time for Papa Papa Pizza, an Insane Capital (IC) company which had been expanding like a hungry contagion since the fixed release of their new Award-Winning secret-sauce that never won an award which couldn’t be bought fronted by a pre-mature Papa because every story needs an asshole.





© 2015 by Stephen Ian McNaught