“…along with the cat suit.”
—Margaret Atwood

 

Naturally, he proceeds to high-five his flat-brimmed buddy
then soaps his large hands clean in the stainless steel sink.
High on the urinal-caked fog, hypnotized by such ugly
green tile, I am suddenly numbed by the echo of their clap.
Such music in his diction! The fescue of his big dick!

Bestiality is halfway normal, when you think about it.
Did he realize this halfway in, or halfway out?
How unique, too, this cat raised by dogs, a channel of discovery
all its own. Rhetorical sex must be pretty lousy, a general rule of
dewclaw. They must be terrible fucks, right? I flush.

There’s always a silver lining, though the actual color
depends on the breed. Male or female certainly doesn’t matter.
With feline intercourse you don’t fret over being gay.
You’re beyond this type of crude self-questioning.
That would’ve been nice at 15.

No need dillydallying with foreplay—tabbies do not possess
a fully developed sense of romance, or a goddamn thought
in their ochre heads. The benefits begin to fatten up
like pink, stark-skinned kittens suckling their mama.

Coming home to Mittens, her annoying mew now
proves something of a comfort. She begs, she grovels.
I peer into her yellow slits when Staind’s “It’s Been Awhile”
comes on the radio. Alternative rock n roll is left on
for company—studies prove it makes pets less lonely.
It has been awhile since I’ve seen the way the candles
light your furry face, hasn’t it? Not that you need it,
with your magic to glimpse in near-total darkness.
She knocks over the candles, rushes me into the hot wax bit.

Mittens’ skillful tendency to hunt vermin
unnerves me the first few times. Many birds
have been dropped at my feet, primal offerings.
Admittedly, I have a somewhat mousy penis,
but this just adds to the thrill, eventually.

On the upside, being a virgin, she has no idea
what’s small and what’s not. Plus, my manhood
is smooth as a baby’s bottom compared to a tomcat’s
junk, its barbwire yowl. Lucky she’s fixed: no need
for condoms making the whole room smell funny.
It’s bad enough with her litter box—yet, this is a symptom
of my favorite part: her asshole, which is super tight.
I am aware of my lewdness, but it is true.
As human beings, we should be after the truth.

Mittens is a kinky little fucker—urine spraying
being very new to me, my nose and my mouth,
her stink is concentrated like bleach or sulfur
or her face when she grooms her fly-ass pimp coat.
I took two weeks off work, enduring her goofy heat.
It’s not a sprint; it’s a marathon cooking with gas.

Before I know it, we’re roleplaying, dressing up in games
of cat and mouse. She demands I call her Simba as I scamper
on all fours in daisy yellow pumps, a red polka dot sundress,
a big cute bow to match—Minnie Mouse-style. Hakuna Matata
makes for a great life philosophy and even better safe word.

True, we can’t actually speak each other’s language,
though the old adage of the universal comes to mind.
Maybe this really is love—who knows? We have plenty
in common: whiskers on our lips, noses, balls of hair.
My family seems to like her, even though she hides
in the bathroom the whole time they visit.

But sometimes it’s like thank God this pussy
cat doesn’t have opposable thumbs, so she’s not texting
me petty shit the next day, like, “Hey, grab me Taco Bell?”
or “I’m thinking of transitioning from indoor to outdoor…”

That really hurt. She scratches me regularly now,
but all relationships have their emotional gashes.
Sometimes my sadness comes in the form
of fourteen stitches across my left wrist.
Dr. Meredith—more therapist than veterinarian—
didn’t think twice when I got her declawed.
She agreed it’s best. Mittens walked out the next day, suicidal.
Cat Stevens’ Wild World played on repeat for a week.

Hey! Plenty of fish bits in the Meow Mix, right?
It occurs to me that a bass could give a fine blowjob.
Maybe I’ll find me a side-chick, teach her
how to cluck right. Am I taking the easy way out?

Craigslist makes you pay a rehoming fee
until you get out to Slidell or Lake Charles.
Life hack: SPCA gives pieces of tail away—for free.
Ok Cupid is $14.99 a month. I save money
on sex toys after realizing cat toys are the same thing, too.
Or: all it takes to seduce my upstairs neighbor’s
Persian is Fancy Feast and a booty call that goes
here kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty-kitty.

My first rebound—immediately my luck changes.
If a black cat crosses my path, that’s just the start
of a wild Saturday night. Catcalling is now acceptable
because you’re calling a cat a cat
and not dehumanizing half the human species.
That’s called the high road. When two mistresses catch
each other, they growl, scuffle, throw a hissy fit.
Call this a catfight and you still sleep great at night.

The make-up sex with Daisy, my 150-pound, balding St. Bernard,
is now that much hotter. It’s satisfying forcing the turtles to watch
and not speaking to them for a month, those fucking assholes.

Okay, so I took things too far.
I literally slaughtered that pussy, dominance surging
in my two-and-some-change pound brain.
Gatophobia is the new misogyny.
Ow and meow are what you’d call a hard rhyme.
Chopped her up and all she got was this lousy poster
that I ripped off all the telephone poles on my block.

A tiger skin on the coffee table makes for a great conversation
piece, like a trophy. No danger of dander, after a while anyway,
for guests who might be allergic. It reminds me of the first time
Mittens told me, “You’rrrrre great! You’re really, really great.”

She was really great, too. Honestly, I’m lonely, radio aside.
I’ve no bro to high-five, no Tigger, no Smokey,
no Oliver or Mr. Pickles—just a fur ball in my stupid heart
and all of my dark clothing covered in irritating memories.
Take it from me, brother: It’s best to never let that cat out of the bag.

 

 

Henry Goldkamp has lived in major cities along the Mississippi River his entire life. Recent work appears in Mudfish, Hoot, Blood Orange Review, b(OINK), Sierra Nevada Review, Pretty Owl, Permafrost, and others. His public art projects have been covered by Time and NPR. Interested in contemporarily stalking him? Google “henry goldkamp” or instagram @wthstl—he doesn’t mind.