Jay, the Vapid Manslut was dead. That much was sure.

Saddad, was not. They had been partners for two years. Jay was dead. Unfortunately for Saddad, nights like this were for Jay.

On this, the night before the night before Christmas, Saddad was…well… sad. Having been recently crushed by the latest rare somebody he found quite special. She liked him too, or so he thought, until she didn’t. Which left him feeling solitary as an oyster and miserly with his affections.

Now his Telegram was more frigid than the late December air. An old friend followed up, “on read”. A new connection checked in “on read”. He was surrounded by his screaming children (who are actually awesome and well loved 🤫)

As he sat alone in the sanctity of the bathroom, having cooked and eaten dinner but lacking the strength to clean up, he drifted off to sleep posed like an IBS “Thinker”. Abrupty awoken by a FaceTime…. from Jay!

Jay looked deader than he was. His eyes were sunken and red. Hair long and unkept. His skin pale. His chest was bare and pale with patchy and he was wearing some awful pajama pants of fleece breakfast food print.

“Saddaaaaaad” Jay croaked “waaaasssuuuup….. this is what became of me…. “

‘Ick’ Saddad thought.

“I’m cursed to browse online affairs forever. And post nothing but cliches about ‘rodeos,’ ‘situations,’ and ‘sparks’ until I can lock down a woman who looks like Cheryl Scott and is into dead bodies.”

“Oh man,” said Saddad, a look of pain and disgust on his face, “Sucks to suck!” And he clicked end. Or, rather, tried to.

“Oh no,” the Manslut corrected, “you won’t get out of this “shit” that easily. YOU WILL BE VISITED BY THREE GHOSTS!”

Which would have been a stylish closer but, instead, his ghostly fingers remained for a second awkwardly probing screen to end the call. “Dont be like meeeeeeeeeeeee” and he was gone.

‘Fuck that shit’ Saddad thought to himself, ‘of course I won’t be like him I can hang up a fucking phone.’ He placed his phone face down near the sink. Then he flushed the empty toilet for posterity and washed his hands.

He stood at the doorway and took one last centering breath. His anxiety visualized the remaining chores; the sticky mess of peanut butter on hardwood, the dishes piled in the sink, (including the mystery milk bottle found buried in the toybox), and getting the kids to bed. Then he could take care of himself, right?

He stepped out into- a bathroom… He recognized the shitty short tub with peeling paint instantly. This was his old condo from two years ago. He saw himself standing in front of the mirror leaning close and examining big painful red splotches extending across his forehead.

His phone lay face up on the edge of the sink. A picture of woman’s face smiled brightly. It was K. She had the sweetest southern accent and the face of an angelic Pam from the office.

Her voice sounded quietly in the air. The only other sound the droning vent fan. In the mirror his expression melted from concern to sadness as she spoke,

“I know you’re having a hard time, Hon, but I can’t be patient forever. It’s been two weeks…. You’ll feel better soon. Don’t worry... I really liked you. I don’t care what you look like now… Your first time can be a lot but I need someone who’s going to be there for me too… and you’re not… you haven’t been…”

The voice trailed off like millennial’s ellipses and the scene changed. The Saddad at the sink disappeared.

He had almost forgot K. How she opened the floodgates of emotion. How she let him feel so many things he pushed away and buried in a box labeled “not for me”. And how, opening that box again erupted his face in stress eczema so strong that he went into a mental crisis.

Jay appeared, fully alive, this time in the shitty little tub, spread eagle, feet up on the wall. His phone in his left hand for ‘reasons’ you could imagine.

‘At least that shithead looks like me’ Saddad thought

As Jay soaked in the shallow water, furiously “typing” away, the wall on the other side of the tub lifted like a theater curtain before a stage. Behind it was all black and infinite.

On the stage appeared the silhouette of a woman. Lying seductively on blackness as if resting on a bed. Her outline was mostly orange with touches of yellow and red that rippled thru her like flames. The light growing more bright and intense. Matching the pace of their communication. Her position changing. Becoming more intimate. Working up to an illuminating frenzy of pulsing energy.

Then the bathtub and man inside dropped down into the floor suddenly leaving an empty space in front of the stage. Her light pulsed still, for a moment, flashed briefly, shuddered and then dimmed.

Messages were sent. But the man in the bath was gone. No replies came. The asshole. Her colors cooled down to blue and faded to black. She sends one more message. A brief return to yellow. Then her posture softens. Back to blue. Then fading away.

“Look” a familiar voice said beside him, “look at all of them.” And as if by magic a row of more ghostly shilouettes formed, in very compromising poses, dozens in number continuing into the distance for what looked like forever.

“This is the Void you’ve created” said the voice, and it was Jay, the alive one, his erection fading, and dripping wet from the bath.

“Nothing lasting happens here. It is a wasted space. Everything you’ve created has less substance than Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines and is dirtier than the feeling you get watching him and Miley perform it.

Before Saddad, in the empty void, the lights burned and faded and ceased. Dozens of them. Some longer or brighter than others. But they all dimmed. Until all that was left was blackness. It was very unsexy.

He awoke in the bathroom. His legs asleep from the toilet seat. A deep pink mark on his bare thigh from the elbow that supported his head.

‘What the hell kind of dream was that? How long have I been asleep?’

“Daaaaaaaaad” interrupted a young voice from downstairs. “Dad…. DAD DAD DAD DAD!”

‘Not long enough,’ he concluded.

He checked his phone again. This time looking for the familiar blue Telegram logo that contained his secret world. But it wasn’t there. Nor was his spicy Reddit account. No notifications or anything.

A pit formed in his stomach. Who could he reach out to..? Who wanted to hear about his day or to appreciate the funny TikTok he saw? He found no one on his phone to make him feel sexy or worthy of affection.

A wave of sadness washed over his senses. One last breath and headed downstairs to be the hero of whatever minor crisis was occurring. It was nice, and he was happy. Savoring the little hands and their little gripping arms around him as they laughed and tussled.

When that was done he excused himself to the basement laundry room and found the washer filled with the load from this morning. Time to be washed again. There was no end. Just more clothes every day. Promethean. A sigh escaped his lips as the lid dropped with a soft clang and the cycle starts again.

And so the evening went for Saddad. Mindlessly running scripts to get thru the familiar chores and minor challenges. Solving sibling violence reflexively. Intuitively keeping tabs on who is needs a bath, had too much sugar, and should be sleepy. A walking repository of care.

The night was coming to a close. Bedtime was long, and sometimes a chore, but eventually the last rambunctious boy succumbed to sleep in their bed. Downstairs he heard laughter and voices strategizing about monsters and killers in some virtual realm.

Saddad started his “bedtime routine”. It involved a glass pipe, grinder, and little blue lighter.

Stepping outside into the cold unfriendly air he sparks a bright orange cherry. The combustion coarsly rips down his throat looking like the Ben Afleck with a cigarette meme.

He checks his phone reflexively and hears the back door open again. A man walks out looking just like him, only a little fatter, grayer and more slumped. He, too lights up the familiar cherry. Then a third, even fatter, grayer and more slumped Saddad walks out.

“This is all you do for yourself” said a female voice behind him. He turned by she wasn’t there. He turned back and the sad Aflecks were gone. Replaced by one glowing square with a blue circle surrounding a paper airplane, which flapped as she spoke.

“You need to have hope” the voice continued, “it… might get better.” She offered.

“But what about-“ Saddad stopped, choosing to gesture broadly instead.

“All things take time.” The voice replied. “It took you years to get here. Lasting change takes years too”

“But how can I keep doing this..? How can I find the strength? I’m so burnt out… I love my family and I have so much I’m grateful for but each day I give all I have and it’s never enough…” Saddad mumbled softly trailing off.

“It will be,” she said. There was a calm confidence in her tone, “in time. One way or another.”

“But what can I do..?” He pleaded, “It’s like I’m speaking Dutch at home. I get spread so thin I’m on edge and irritable. Set off at the slightest trigger. Some days I’m overstimulated before lunch… but I can’t seem to get help. It’s just so lonely. So unfulfilled…. How could I start..?”

“It starts with hope,” she offered. “It starts with the idea that your days don’t have to be so absent of your self. You must find a way to enjoy your days. Little victories. Small steps in the right direction. Maybe finding someone new to lift your spirits might help…”

“But it’s so hard…” he whined, “I have such impossible standards! It’s pointless. There isn’t anyone for me. I keep getting crushed by the ones I like and the ones that like me keep getting crushed when I don’t like them…”

“In time… Saddad. No one can fix you here. You know this. You have to fix yourself. You have to find strength and courage. You have to try. To not try is to give up and to give up…. Makes you a real insufferable ass”

And in that moment light emanated from behind the logo. Consuming the night and washing his sense.

When his vision returned Saddad found himself, again, in the bathroom.

He grabbed his phone off the sink. With Reddit already open, and a F4M post ready to be posted as some lame plea for new paramour…

I hope you’ve all enjoyed my story. And if you’re an intelligent, funny, kind, and scathingly attractive woman I’d appreciate your attention.