Sex & Calamari

It’s 9:00 PM on a slow Wednesday night. The only customers in the restaurant are a stuck-up looking couple who’ve made it clear they “don’t want to be rushed.” As they chatter and slowly munch their grilled calamari, their entrées are desiccating under a heat lamp in the kitchen. Too bad. So sad.

“God,” Chimo, one of the Machiavelli’s part time waiters says, “Can you believe this shit?”

“I believe it,” I reply.

“I could be home getting loving from my baby momma,” Chimo says. “But no, I’ve got to wait here until these assholes finish eating.”

“Baby momma?” I ask.

“That’s the girlfriend who has my babies,” Chimo explains.

“How many kids you got?”

“Two tiny ones.”

“How many girlfriends do you have again?”

“Three.”

“Man.”

“Yep. The momma, the puta, and the stash.”

“And they all know you’re sleeping with each of them?”

“Pretty much.”

“What are you – some sort of Mexican Mormon Fundamentalist?”

“No dude,” Chimo says. “I’m into that old school Spanish shit. In old Mexico any guy who was worth anything had three women.”

“No wonder you guys take siestas. You need them.”

Chimo laughs. “You’re pretty funny for a gringo”

“Si.”

“So check this out,” Chimo says. “I think I’m gonna have to replace one of them.”

“One of your girlfriends?”

“Yeah.”

“Which one? The baby momma?”

“No,” Chimo says. “She’s the mother of my kids. I think I’ve got to dump the stash.”

“Why?”

“She can’t keep up with me.”

“I’m afraid to ask what that means.”

“You know,” Chimo says, lowering his voice to a whisper. “She can’t keep up with the love I give her.”

“What?”

“I can go for two hours, man,”

“Two hours?”

“Yeah, “Chimo says proudly. “Like a fucking machine, yo.”

“Intercourse for two hours?” I ask, incredulously.

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“You’re not related to Sting by any chance?”

“Huh?” Chimo says, looking befuddled. That’s the problem with working with younger people. They don’t always get your cultural references.

“Forget it,” I say. “Two hours? Don’t you take a break or something? An intermission?”

“No man,” Chimo says. “That’s the way I bring it.”

“Man, I’d want to stop at some point and have a sandwich.”

“What you saying?” Chimo asks me, full of baiting machismo. “You can’t go for two hours?”

“I don’t know about ‘can’t’,” I reply “But even sex gets old after a while.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Chimo scoffs.

“Look at the couple out there,” I say. “They’re taking half an hour to eat their calamari. You know what it must taste like by now?”

“Like cold rubber bands,” Chimo says.

“That’s right,” I reply. “Calamari needs to be eaten when it’s hot and fresh or it goes bad.”

“So?”

“Sometimes sex is like that too.”

“Like calamari?”

“Sometimes you have to enjoy it right away – in the moment.”

“You’re loco,” Chimo says.

“Whatever,” I reply. “But give your poor girlfriends a break.”


Comments

Sex & Calamari — 10 Comments

  1. wow. i’m latino, and i always thought that was normal. i could never understand how my white friends would tell me they would poke the girl for 10 minutes and then roll over and go to sleep after they had their “moment”. boring.

  2. Pingback: The Athenian Arts

  3. haha I too am Mormon (not of the fundamentalist sect). I’m very happy that you got the fundamentalist part right. I’s one of the most annoying things to have someone you respect very much diminish to nothing when they confidently state that they know everything about your religion. Rant aside, I love your work. I bought Waiter Rant and fell in love with your honesty and philosophical views. You were definitely doing what you are best at- bringing life to a world most would rather keep dead.

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