“Where is the sauce?!” I wonder as the dry, texture-less crust of your McNugget hits my lips. Sauce eases the entry, keeps both your chicken and my lips smooth, relaxed, and just a little tangy. I mean let’s be real: Sauce is key when trying to get any man’s fried chicken sludge into another man’s body.
And oh, don’t think I didn’t notice that you’ve been eating them dry — I’ve been watching you this whole time. Perched on your bed. Groaning with poultry pleasure. But how? Doesn’t it irritate your tender lips? Won’t it take you forever to reach that factory-farmed ecstasy without a thick slathering of BBQ or Honey Mustard?
But more importantly: What kind of host doesn’t at least offer sauce? Don’t you know most of the men you bring here expect it? Or are you not concerned with our pleasure? Is this all about power? Your McNugget hovering above me, making me submit to its saturated fats, making me long to scream “SWEET AND SOUR! FOR GOD SAKES MAKE IT SWEET AND SOUR!”
I would even settle for the cheap stuff at this point, for leftovers. Maybe you have a little Dijon in the fridge? Or some crusty old ketchup? I’d settle take an ancient bottle of Trader Joe’s BBQ, slick with its own smokey slime. But alas, it is too late for me. Too late for my lips, which now reek of the sticky sweat somehow coating your surprisingly firm McNugget.
“Why do I do this to myself?” I think as the chicken slides deep into me — and that’s when I see your smile, a wry little smirk, like this was your plan all along. Because of course it was. The McNuggets aren’t for you to enjoy (at least not the way Ronald McDonald intended). This congealed chicken byproduct is all about power, isn’t it? I mean, you live in the Financial District after all. And do you know who else lived in Financial District? The guy from American Pyscho. But this is even darker than that. You’re going to tie me up, aren’t you? Force feed me these McNuggets for the rest of my life. You’re going to be the fast food Cathy Bates to my hobbled James Caan (hobbled by indigestion and malnutrition, of course).
Is this really happening? Am I really letting this stranger’s McNugget inside me? After months of playing it safe? Where is my protection? Where are my emergency snacks? Why didn’t I Yelp another place to eat? Better yet: Why didn’t I turn and flee the moment the words “McDonalds” left your lips? Have my standards really sunk this low? Is there a single meaty object I won’t let slide into my body? No amount of kombucha or kale can make up for this, and yet I tell myself “tomorrow you’ll go to Sweet Greens. Tomorrow you’ll shop at Whole Foods.” I close my eyes and make a mental list of organic, fair-trade groceries, but before I can finish it’s all over. “That was fast” I think, instantly forgetting the eternity your crusty McNugget sat on my lips.
Relief washes over me. Your smile almost looks charming again, like it did before these golden arches came between us. I think maybe this is what a relationship is: Sacrifice, compromise, and room-temperature meat products. Maybe together we can change. Maybe together we can —
Wait, after all that you don’t want to hook up? Oh my god.
WHAT KIND OF MONSTER ARE YOU?