“Were you wanting to take him to buy a shoe?” A lady with dreadlocks and the prettiest shade of red lipstick I’ve ever seen chimes in.
“Just one?” Bubba asks.
“It rhymes. I don’t know why you’d only need one shoe. Maybe he lost one?”
“This isn’t a poetry workshop,” I growl, because even if the poem is questionable, Bubba’s poured his whole heart into it, and these assholes with their helpful ways are just making it harder on him.
“We’re artists. We help each other. It’s what we do.” the first man says, pulling a joint out from behind his ear and lighting it, despite the flashing No Smoking sign above the stage.
“Are the gentlemen in the poem on vacation?” the lady asks.
Bubba shrugs. “I’m not really sure. Why?”
“Because if they're in England, maybe he wanted to take him to the loo.”
“For fuck’s, sake,” I groan, banging my head on the table over and over.
“I think y’all are pissing off my boy, so I’m just going to keep going.” He looks at me, and must see the concern in my eyes, because he gives me the softest, sweetest smile. “Daddy’s okay, baby. You ain’t got to worry about me. Just sit back and listen.”
And that’s exactly what I do. I lean against Johnny and listen to Bubba list the endless reasons why he likes us. More than likes, if I’m being honest. A mutual feeling, if I’m being brutally honest.
Is his poem any good? No, but who cares, because it’s Bubba. Everything he touches is perfect, and that’s that. He goes on and on for the next ten minutes, until ending with, “Cause when the cat’s away, Daddy’s little mice will play.” He rolls his hips as the lady with the drum continues banging. “Skibbidy-doo-wop, skibbidy-doo.”
I turn to Johnny, horrified. “Dear God. Is he scatting?”
Johnny cringes. “That’s the thing where they shit on each other’s mouth, right?”
“I want to fucking puke.” I’m not normally one to kink shame, but fucking eww. “Never speak those words again.”
“I ain’t trying to make you feel bad, if that’s something you’re into.”
I gape at him. “You think I want a grown man to shit in my mouth?”
And of course, Bubba would choose this moment to dramatically pause his stupidly adorable poem. And of course, every ear in the coffee shop heard me. And of course, everyone is staring at me with nothing but disdain. My blood runs cold, because I’ve never been so mortified in all my life. As soon as the hushed voices of the crowd spread like wildfire, Johnny stares at me, and then at the other patrons.
“The fuck is their problem?”
“You’ve essentially outed me as a poop-kinkster. They think I like to eat shit, Jonathan,” I growl. His entire body shudders when I usehis full name, and a soft whimper escapes him. I don’t know what the fuck that’s about, but I make a mental note to use the name again and see if I get similar results, because the sight of him like this is fucking divine.
Johnny launches out of his chair, glaring at the crowd. “The fuck are you freaks looking at?”
“Johnny?” Bubba says into the microphone, but Johnny just shakes his head.
“No, Bubba. I love the pretty poem you were just telling us, but I ain’t going to sit here and let them shame him. It ain’t his fault he likes to eat shit. I ain’t fuckin’ into it, but y’all ain’t going to hurt his feelings like this. He’s a good fuckin’ boy!”
“Ah, hell,” Bubba says, flinging his hands in the air, sending the microphone flying.
“I ate shit once,” A butch lesbian at a nearby table tells her girlfriend.
“Not now, Congresswoman G*****,” the alleged girlfriend says.
“What?” Johnny asks, his face a picture of confusion. “What did I do wrong now? I was just trying to be supportive.”
“You announced I enjoy eating poop. In a hotbed of hipsters with bad hair and tacky, hideous, chunky jewelry. I don’t care if you tell them I jacked off in your lap the other day, or that I throw cum-filled balloons at you as you sleep—”
“He does what?” the alleged girlfriend asks.
“They call that a Swedish Snowglobe,” says the butch lesbian who resembles Congresswoman M******* T***** G*****, but for legal purposes absolutely is not Congresswoman M******* T***** G*****. “The cum balloon thing. It’s a fun prank, but I prefer to hit them with the ‘ol German Gusher.”
