Monkey Business

It’s kind of weird. When you first meet him and people tell you he’s the hottest guy on campus, you’re, like, “for real? That guy? You look at the way he dresses in those baggy pants, how he walks all kind of bowlegged and slouched down, he’s kind of funny-looking, like his face was baked a little too long after molding and got cracked.

But seriously, once you get to know him, there’s this, like, bizarre animal magnetism that he, like, exudes or something.

I first met him when he started dating my roommate. I woke up from my nap–I take naps in the middle of the day a lot, don’t judge me I’m in college–and they were fooling around on the top bunk, so I told them to shut up and so, they were surprised, because, like, I guess they hadn’t noticed I was there?

Anyway, so he peeks his sub-human-looking face down with a grin like a chimp whose poo just hit the mark and then does this acrobatic somersault off the bed, before exiting the room in a hurry to let Olivia apologize to me (Olivia’s my roommate).

So, like, on the way watching him I noticed how hairy his chest was, because I, like, love hairy chests a lot more than I probably should, but what I didn’t really notice at the time until Olivia started complaining about it was the fact he was wearing pants.

Turns out, he sleeps with all these girls, right? But he never takes off his pants. Or shoes.

Which wouldn’t really bother me, because, like, whatever, I never take off my shirts ‘cause my boobs are all, whatever, but Olivia has this thing about, like, skin, so she was all disappointed and kept whining about it.

Anyway, so that was my first exposure to this boy, but it was not the last. Like I said, I like my chests hairy (well, not mine, of course) and everyone–everyone–kept talking about how epic he is in the sack, so I thought, hey, why not? Get to know him a little.

So yeah, so I fell in love and, like, whatever. You know this story. You really like him, so you don’t want to sleep with him, because then he has all the power? And it worked, of course, ‘cause, like, he’s a guy, hello! Putty in my hands. But then, like, once we’re together, I start thinking, like…

Well, OK, it’s like this–the whole breasts thing? He’s a breast man and, like, I’ve always been, like, you know. But he kept, like, saying all the right things, making all the right noises, and so, in the end, I got over it.

That was when the pants thing started bothering me. “That’s different,” he kept saying. And it wasn’t just the pants, it was his shoes, too, he wouldn’t take his shoes off, he’d just dangle them over the bed. “That’s different,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with your boobs.”

“So what’s wrong with your legs? Are they, like, robotic? Are they covered in, like, scars? ‘Cause that’s actually kinda hot.” But, like, he didn’t even like me touching his ass, and it was freaking me out.

So finally, he’s like, “Do you really wanna know?”

And I’m, like, “Yeah, asshole, I really want to fucking know what my boyfriend looks like with no pants on!”

Yeah, that might have been a mistake. I mean, sure, yeah, it’s better knowing, but…

So he starts pulling his pants down and his legs are, like, really hairy and I remember thinking, like, having a flash of, like, oh my God, is he a dog? So he gets them all the way down and finally, he takes off his shoes.

OK, so you know when you’re looking at a naked foot how you know that it’s a naked foot you’re looking at? Well… not with him.

His foot, I swear to God, has an opposable fucking thumb on it. Like, not completely, but, like, he could grab onto stuff, that was long enough.

And I’m, like, going, holy shit, no wonder he’s embarrassed, he’s, like, deformed or something.

And then I felt something long and hairy crawling up my back and I saw that it was coming from, like, under his ass, where he was sitting. And it tapped me on the shoulder and, like, rubbed me a little there–rubbed me so totally the wrong way.

Not that there’s a right way for your boyfriend’s tail–actual tail!–to rub you.

Well, I mean, honestly, what would you do? What would you do if you found out you’d been fucking a monkey?

I ran. I ran clear out the room, into the hall, running down the stairs. Running for my life, right? Running for my sanity! Who is this guy? What is this guy? Is he even a guy? He’s a Monkey! OH MY GOD I’M DATING A FUCKING MONKEY!

And then down two of the three flights of stairs, I hear him calling after me, and then hear a weird whooshing and clanging. He’s not running down the stairs, he’s not even leaping over every flight, he is actually using his hands–the ones on his arms and the ones on his *shudder* feet–to swing and flip from one railing to the other, just skipping right over the stairs part.

So I get to the door and he’s caught up to me–’cause not all of us can fucking brachiate–and just as I’m reaching for the door, that creepy fucking tail comes out of nowhere and slams it back shut and then he’s dangling from the pipes on the ceiling by his arms and his feet–those feet! The ones with the thumbs!–are on my face, covering my mouth.

“Shh! Shhh!” he tells me, “Shhhh!”

And fuck if I don’t calm right down when he says it. It’s those cute fucking puppy-dog eyes. It’s that beautiful hairy chest, that charm, and… I don’t know, it’s like I just know this… guy. This boy. My boyfriend.

“Shhhh,” he says. “It’s me,” he says. “It’s still me.”

And fuck if I don’t believe him. And fuck if I don’t fall right back in love with him.

Fucking monkey.

About Polypsyches

I write, regardless of medium or genre, but mostly I manage a complex combined Science-Fiction/Fantasy Universe--in other words, I'm building Geek Heaven. With some other stuff on the side. View all posts by Polypsyches

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