If I could be any animal, I would be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, or a trapdoor spider. No, let’s go with the wolf. Wolves are cool.
The truth is I am nothing but an animal. I don’t care much for people. Most are boring cookie cutter versions of what they see on T.V. I’m a heterosexual white male. I would be one of those boring masses, but I identify more with women. Not to say that women aren’t boring, too. But that have something men lack, and that’s boobs and vaginas. Everything women do is sexy and exciting, so I don’t see the point in hanging around men.
Women don’t see me as threatening, and I give them no reason to. I am meek as a lamb, even if I don’t feel like one. I run errands for them, listen when they get upset over their stupid relationships. I’m practically one of those gay punching bag friends women always have. But I’m a punching bag with a thirst and a hunger, and I know how to bide my time.
But sometimes patience doesn’t always win out. My good friend, Nicole, and I went out clubbing and she hadn’t scored any guys. I was way too drunk to drive home, so I stuck around. We ate Cheez-its and I massaged a kink in her neck. She tossed her long hair to one side and exposed the side of her neck with the small birthmark, which looked to me like at target. I wanted to bite down on that slender length of flesh, run my hands straight down to her cleavage. I wanted wear her like an extension of myself. Spend too much time as a sheep and you start to think you are one. So, from time to time, I need to be a wolf for a while, take a break and change my coat into a new one. And that’s what I did that night: I found myself a new coat.