Last Sunday I Slept With a Fr~nch Wh0re

Val hesitates to reveal her latest secret. It’s a tale that’s a bit off-color. Or at least off-odor. Don’t think Val is just shining you on. This one can definitely pass the smell test.

I slept with a Fr~nch Wh0re last Sunday.

Well…truthfully, I did not exactly SLEEP with a Fr~nch Wh0re. There wasn’t much sleep involved. And technically, my bedmate was not from France. Perhaps the wh0re part is exaggerated as well. No money actually changed hands. I’m pretty sure a proper wh0re would not give away the milk for free. She would at least expect the recipient of her professional charms to rent the cow in order to get the milk of human passion.

So I kind of figuratively, though not literally, slept with a Fr~nch Wh0re last Sunday. But that doesn’t make for a catchy title. Kind of clunky.

Before you go jumping to any conclusions, let the record show that Hick was the Fr~nch Wh0re. He’s the one who taught me that expression, so it is fitting that he is now the designated Fr~nch Wh0re himself.

Last Sunday evening, Hick had his Christmas dinner at work. I knew he was going, so I did not bother to prepare him food, nor hang around waiting to send him off. I heard him return, and then go to bed early. So I had no warning. No inkling of the fate that awaited me when I climbed the stairs from my dark basement lair.

I first noticed halfway up. Stair number seven. The faint smell of cologne. With each successive step, it grew stronger. Until, by the time I reached the top, that smell was like the Arnold Schwarzenegger of smells. I daresay it could have ripped a NYC phone book in half. Bent a piece of rebar with its bare hands. Hoisted an elephant onto its shoulder.

Let the record show that this miasma of Hick’s cologne was more potent than the parking valet BO that sullied Elaine’s hair and caused Jerry to give his car to a bum.

Each step towards the bedroom caused my throat to constrict a little more. My nose clogged. Which one would think would cut down on the perception of the stench. But it did not. I could hardly draw breath, laying in that bed beside Hick, that stinker!

Hick has always gone a little overboard with the cologne. I rue the day he received a large economy size bottle of Chaps as a Christmas gift. It must have been a re-gift, because I don’t remember my mom asking what fragrance Hick preferred, or my sister the ex-mayor’s wife ever using this method of tormenting me.

I woke up with a headache Monday morning. The scent survived the night. I could smell it wash off of my hair (I hoped) in the shower. I settled down in the La-Z-Boy in an effort to recoup a few of the 40 winks I was lacking from my night sleeping with the Fr~nch Wh0re. The acrid odor had permeated the afghan that I use to warm myself during my chair nap.

It still stinks.

I’m thinking of driving it to town and draping it over the bridge. For the people who live below. Unfortunately, I am afraid one would show up on my doorstep like Rebecca DeMornay with her muffin stumps…to castigate me for assuming homeless people would be grateful to have smelly afghans donated to them.