When You Find a Butthole in Your Pepperoni, You Tell No One

A story that has nothing to do with sex.

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Photo by Charles Deluvio on Unsplash

However, Googling “Pictures of Meat Sphincters” goes against my better judgment.

Either way, something like a butthole has formed at the end of the tube due to the puckering from the enclosed casing over the cylinder’s stump. I am utterly floored.

Five years ago, Jamie and I were drinking beer on our front stoop with our new neighbour, Tim.

We were joking about the colour of our houses. On Hallgren Drive, there were sparkling white and cream-coloured homes; cool, sleek-looking houses of greys and blacks; and then two light pink atrocities. Not even salmon, but instead pastel rose-coloured abominations.

I don’t know about Jamie, but at that moment, I had buttholes on the brain.

A hodgepodge of rectal images began to float through my mind, and as though the clouds had parted and I saw King Mufasa himself in all of his liony glory, I knew Tim was onto something big.

I look down at my meat sphincter nestled on a prep table in a little sandwich shop and think about creating new lore, new memories.

I notice Jamie watching me gaze at the wrinkled end of this pepperoni log, and he smiles kindly at me.

Finally, you could buy that dancing pole and Batman costume you’ve had your eye on.

It is that secret place you lock away those desires that you cannot voice to the world. The area where we hide our worries. The obsessive wondering over whether our dreams will ever become a reality. That small corner of fear that tells us we aren’t smart enough. Funny enough. Good enough to get what we so desperately feel might essentially complete us.

I tell Jamie that I’m not thinking about much.

I slice up the end of the pepperoni while hoping to God that I have a tumour growing in my brain. Otherwise, I have blacked out while thinking about buttholes attached to meat tubes for the last ten consecutive minutes.

Written by

Mother, writer, user of too many hastags.

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