Blaise looked at his pip-squeak of a boyfriend Dana, the ash blond twinkette he’d tried to dump six or seven times before. Why’d he keep going back to him, when every time he flaked out on him and slept with his old boyfriend Kent? No one to blame but himself, Blaise told himself over and over, no one to blame but himself.
“Get out of the apartment,” he said, so loud that the neighbors must’ve heard. At least, he hoped they’d heard. “You lying son-of-a-bitch queen, I never want to see you again, you limp-wristed prancing fairy poor excuse for a man.”
Blaise looked across the room to Dana’s mouse trap sculpture perched on a faux marble stand. “And take that stupid mouse trap with you. I never liked having it and if it’s here another second, I’ll toss it out the window onto Second Avenue.”
“Well,” Dana said, tossing his head to the side. “I never!”
“Oh, don’t go all Joan Crawford on me, you idiot. I’ve had enough of your theatrics. No Academy Award for you. Just a golden turd.”
“To think I gave you the best years of my life. To think –“
“You little slut, you gave the best years of your life to that piece of swamp pussy called Kent. I repeat, get out and take that damned mouse trap with you.”
“Talk like this, you’re sure as hell not getting any sex out of me for a while.”
Blaise gasped and then looked down at Dana’s crotch, concave as always. “Huh? You think I want it? You think I ever wanted it, Miss Princess Teeny-Weeny?”
Dana’s eyes narrowed. “How dare you!”
“How dare you!” And with this, Blaise strolled over to the mouse trap, picked it up, and took it over to the window. “See what I’m going to do!”
Dana ran over and grabbed for the mouse trap, but missed – and fell out the window himself.
“Oh, no!” Blaise said. “Dana, love of my life, please don’t die!”
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