Irma La Douce

my friend jimmy calls me at one

in the morning. he sounds depressed,

almost to the point of tears.

dude, dude, what's up? are you

okay. where's the new bride, lulabelle?

she's in the other room, sleeping

with the door locked.

i'm banished to the couch

in the living room.

she's mad at me again.

but you've only been married for

three months now. yeah, i know. i know.

i think i made a big mistake.

dang, i tell him. walk me through it.

why is she so mad?

she won't tell me, but i think it's

because i had my feet up 

on the coffee table,

or maybe i was watching netflix

which she has banned from the house.

he's whispering now, almost sobbing.

but the worst thing is that

she doesn't want to have sex anymore

and her mother is coming

to spend the summer with us.

both of them are vegetarians.

i'm up to here in kale and avocados. 

she was insatiable up until she moved

into my house and the ink on

the marriage certificate dried.

she used to be an animal in bed,

i couldn't keep up. i was taking zinc

like a madman.

and now she has a headache nearly

every night. 

maybe she has a brain tumor, or something, 

i tell him.

i wish it was that simple, he says.

she goes to bed now in her volleyball

t-shirt that's never been washed.

she doesn't even brush her teeth anymore

and has been eating a lot of onions

and garlic lately.

i feel for you brother. i went through 

the same exact thing a few times.

it makes me understand why prostitution

has been around for so long.

if i could get back all the money

i spent on stupid internet dates, feeding

half of the single women in the metro

area, i'd be a rich man right now.

getting to first base with them is harder

than breaking into fort knox with

a water pistol. i've seen it all my friend,

not to mention, being wiped out financially,

by half in the divorces.

at least with an escort service, you select

the one you want, have your date

and then you're done. easy peasy.

no listening to a boat load of 

psychiatric problems.

no one yelling at you for leaving

the seat up, no one nagging you

about the laundry or cutting the grass.

no visiting their parents, or meeting

their troubled twitching kids. 

when it's over, it's over

and you leave, or she leaves.

it sounds like a dream to me now,

jimmy says. why didn't we have this

talk three months ago?

because you wouldn't have listened.

just like how i wouldn't have 

listened, we're basically idiots

with a sex drive and that's how

they sucker us in. they're no better

than drug dealers. it's all cheap

and easy for the first few hits

and then, they got you.

as the song says, goddamn

the pusher man, or the woman 

as is in this case.