Love is Gross

Love Is Gross

Sara Watkins | Nonfiction | 2022 Story Award Winner

He’s been naked for two days. I cannot stop wearing jeans. I’ve been up since 6:00 a.m., and now it’s 5:00 a.m. the next morning. I haven’t even unbuttoned them, because my body ’s pulsating and throbbing; what’s one more uncomfortable thing?

He’s keeping me company through the worst of my autoimmune disorder’s vengeance. I’m pretending I’m alone, because I don’t need help.

Kellen the cat enters and curls up close to his daddy, his rump backed into hairy chest, his snoot rubbing wiry beard. Kellen always smells like poop, and now his daddy smells like poop, so we look at each other with our mouths sinking toward our chins.

“You smell that, right?” the daddy asks. “Did Kellen shit on me?”

“He got his shit on you. It’s different. We need to take him to get his jellybeans squeezed again. ”

Last time we took him, Kellen cried. They called in two orderlies to express his anal glands—plopped this 12.7 pound quivering mess of a boy on his side like jello, ripped open his legs, gripped their fingers tight around the tiny glandules below his ass, and pressed and pressed. Daddy waited in the car, because he can't stand to see Kellen hurt; I waited with Kellen, because I can’t stand to see him hurt alone. The vet said, “I’ ve never seen anal glands this impacted, ” and Kellen said, “MeOWWW, ” and I said, “You know what, it’s fine. I think I should just take him home, ” and then the vet said, “MeOWWW, ” because Kellen got her good. His scent glands projectile vomited shit and fart seven feet across the room, right into the eyes of the vet tech. I was so proud. We took him home and fed him salmon.

We spent hundreds of dollars on special food; they ran diagnostic tests; they stuck a needle in through his side and pulled out a fresh syringe of pee just to tell us that they had to do it again; they had to take blood; they had to intubate him. Give us your credit card again, and maybe we ’ll tell you what’ s wrong. For an additional three easy payments, we might even tell you how to treat it. Just like my treatments: painful and inconclusive.

“On second thought, let’s not get his jellybeans squeezed, ” I say.

Instead, let’s do the thing where we buy the Extra Sensitive Paw and Bum wipes, then chase the cat around the house trying to wipe his ass; let’s take showers before the sun comes up to wash the stink off us; let’s complain about how the cat is a poopy boy who should live his best pain-free and happy life.

“Go wash that shit off your chest so I can lay on you, babe, ” I say to the daddy.

In the morning, he hennas my hair in the kitchen. We cut up trash bags as makeshift tarps, and he piles pungent mud onto my head.

“It looks like poop, ” the daddy says.

I am Poophead for the next three hours while it sets. We trade positions so I can shave his head. Every light in the house is on, illuminating the cracks in the dirty kitchen floor, the splatters of henna, the crumbs from brunch. I run a razor from his neck to his shoulders, seizing the opportunity to tame his hairy back.

“You ’re shaving my back, ” the daddy notes. “We are WAY too married. ”

“I am shaving your back, ” I confirm. “I’m the one who has to look at it. ” While I’m there, I pop a particularly juicy pimple. Razor forgotten on the counter, I am neck-deep in sebaceous fluid, squeezing the jellybeans.

Later that day, I am in bed, still in jeans. My body has given out again. I’m out of commission. I crawl to the bathroom. The daddy tries to help, but I push him off me. I take over the only bathroom in the house, illness expunging itself from both ends. I’m holding the trash can so I can throw up while I shit. Flushing the shame, my penance is karma—the plumbing has given out. Everything is overflowing. I am in a ball on the floor. The daddy enters with every towel in the house, scooping and scrubbing, clearing and cleaning. He hands me a bag so I can continue hurling my guts. MeOWWW.

I am sobbing my sorries. He rubs my back and unbuttons my jeans. I close my eyes and let him remove them, my body limp and clammy. He leaves with the dirty laundry. Kellen boops me with his snoot. His brother Milo has entered, too, trilling his concerns.

“I brought you comfy pants, ” the daddy says. I cannot move, so he lays them on me like a blanket, “For when you ’re ready. ”

More time passes before he comes to carry me back to bed. I am still pantless; he is still naked. He tucks me in, whispering something about burritos as he pushes the comforter under my hips, my knees, and in between my toes. Then, he grabs a blanket and walks to the window. I watch him stand on the blue fabric chair, tucking the blanket into the blinds to blot out the sunlight so that I can rest in darkness. His butt is big and round, and his balls ooze out from between the backs of his thighs. Even sick, I let out a low whistle. I cannot whistle, so it mostly sounds like an eerie wind passing between us, but he picks up what I’m putting down and smacks his own ass before crawling into bed beside me. The boys are not far behind, and they settle in by our feet.

“I probably won’t come out for days, ” I tell him.

“You never have to come out at all. ”

And no one meOWWWs at all.

art credit: "little gods" (2021) by Dora Rollins