[Lights come up on the NARRATOR. He looks out over the audience, his hands clasped behind his back.]

NARRATOR: How many of you have been in love? Come on, raise your hands. [He gazes wistfully out over the audience.] It's a wonderful feeling, isn't it? Yet somehow, something always goes wrong. You see this enchanting creature across a room; your eyes meet, your heart skips a beat...They smile, and at that moment, you know [clasping hands in a Rimmerian gesture of blissful triumph] that you're not going to die a virgin after all. You pop a couple of Altoids, swagger over--all suave-like [suavely spreads arms, taking a mock-disco stance]--and the two of you talk, laugh, share that first kiss. Soon you're falling passionately in love, planning to spend the rest of your lives together. You couldn't be happier; you're off in a Bob Ross sort of a world, [bouncing in place] where everything is happy and bright, and fluffy little bunnies cavort in every leafy glade.

[Lights dim dramatically. The NARRATOR strikes an ominous pose.]

For a while, at least.

[Lights return to normal brightness.]

Then a few minor problems start to crop up. Not fights--heavens no!--you couldn't be happier together; hardly even problems, really. Annoyances, perhaps. It's bound to happen, though, isn't it? Maybe they drink straight from the milk carton [pauses slightly] at dinner parties, or pop their contact lenses out in front of you and wash them in their mouth. Nothing [hideously overstressing the next word] serious, nothing to get upset over. There are probably things you do that bother them too. You've just got to adjust to their little [another pause, continuing artificially lightly] quirks, that's all.

And then some night you're cuddling in bed, when [shifts slightly, embarassed] they playfully start biting your cheeks, spanking you and calling you [fidgets painfully] "uncle". But [confidently again] that's the sort of thing that makes them unique and special, right? That's why you love them, and so you play along. Then, one night at dinner, they cough up a half-rotted tooth onto the lasagna you spent so long preparing. [He half-smiles, half-grimaces in confusion.] You ask them about it, and they tell you not to worry, it's just that they were hooked on crank for a year or so, and this is a little side-effect. But [squashes the idea sweepingly] they're done with all that, perfectly clean and sober, all because of the love you share. You think to yourself, [sappily] so they've done some stupid things in the past. Who hasn't? The important thing is, they love you...right? And you keep telling yourself that when they borrow $40 to buy some pot, because it's to keep them from going back to the hard stuff, and besides, they're going to stop any day now, just for you.

One day, you suddenly realize that you haven't had sex in two weeks; you ask your sweetheart about it, and find them masturbating compulsively in the shower. It's not that they don't find you attractive anymore, they explain, but the fire goes out of every relationship after a while. Besides, isn't there more to this than just sex, or do you only want them for their body? Of course not, you insist, and, chastised, slink off to fantasize while watching Dawson's Creek. Eventually, when you go to pay your annual dues to the James van der Beek Fan Club, you can't help but notice that your credit cards seem to have disappeared, along with most of the other contents of your wallet. As your sweetheart is the only other person with access to your pants, though they don't seem to be taking advantage of that recently, you go over to their place to find out if they've seen them anywhere. You note the strange proliferation of luxury goods since you last visited: a closet full of Ralph Lauren clothing, a television set taller than you are, a brand-new top of the line computer being used for nothing but America Online and porn (not that there's much difference between the two). When you find your beloved, relaxing in their own personal home sauna, they tell you the credit cards are just fine, don't worry, they'll give them back as soon as they find a job, but if you don't start making payments now, a very large Sicilian named Guido will be fracturing your kneecaps. Before you can enquire further they're forcing a hideously expensive digital camera into your hands and asking you to take nude photos of them, to send to their AOL buddies. It's nothing personal, they tell you, but they need to get some excitement while they still can. They're too young to get totally tied down yet. Now hold that camera steady, and keep your hands to yourself! [Pauses briefly, rather like a kicked puppy.] It hurts, but you respect their honesty, knowing that it's just a phase, and your relationship will come out of it stronger than ever.

So when they tell you that they want to try a threesome and, oh yeah, you're not invited, it doesn't come as a total surprise. But you know their heart still belongs to you, even if their other organs are otherwise engaged. After all, it's you they always come back to...when they're broke, and need money to get some amyl nitrate.

And then it happens. The unforgivable sin. [Mildly, waving hands dismissively.] You've gotten used to them forgetting your name, and posting bail when they're arrested for soliciting prostitutes; the drug busts, auto theft, blackmail attempts, are all just youthful high spirits. But this...[voice hardens]. You're visiting them one afternoon, idly looking over their shelves while they're 'powdering their nose' in the bathroom [snorts twice], when you notice something cleverly hidden between the scat porn and the volume of love poetry you gave them for Christmas (which they're using as an ashtray). [Radiating disgust] It's a Britney Spears CD. In that moment, you realize that they are [pulls a Fenric face] pure evil. The love is dead. At last you confront them [turns to imaginary lover, arms crossed defiantly]: I've had enough, you tell them. You know what? I don't need you. I'm smart, I'm talented, I'm not too goofy-looking. I deserve so much better. So get lost, scram, beat it; crawl back into your sewer. I'm a free man again; I'll find love-- [jabs with an index finger for emphasis] true love, this time--out there somewhere, and you're not going to stop me anymore. Goodbye.

[Lights dim as NARRATOR turns to walk away, then come back up as he returns.]

And, by the way, I thought you should know: I faked all my orgasms.

[Lights off.]

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

©1999 Luke Gutzwiller. I really mean it.