John had a great ass. No, John had an amazing ass. John's ass was the only meaningful standard of aesthetic perfection. John's ass should be carved into Mount Rushmore, if only there were a sculptor who could do it justice.
So Sarah slurred drunkenly to me, anyway, during a Girls' Night In of take-out Chinese and bad action movies and bourbon. (I had never known Sarah to drink bourbon before - or anything harder than a wine cooler; while my frivolous youth had been spent cultivating a hard-drinking tomboy exterior, Sarah was a recovering sorority girl who'd learned to cultivate a girlish helplessness to win the boys' favor.)
"Sweetie, when was the last time you got laid?"
"I don't even remember anymore," she slurred back. "I've been so goddamn busy at work that these nights are the only social life I have anymore."
"That's the problem. There's no reason to go around with some gigantic crush on some new guy at your office. Either ask him out or don't, but try to get some before your ovaries explode."
That's how I first learned about John, but I had no idea yet as to the significance of it.
I got a late night phone call from Sarah a few weeks later.
"Jill," she said, "I have to tell you this. I was going to do what you said - I thought I just needed something else to distract me. You know Tom, my friend from work? You met him at the bar with all the artists in it that one time. He's been trying to get a date with me for two years. So I thought I'd just sleep with him to get over John.
"Jill, he told me he was gay. He's suddenly decided he's gay after two years of pestering me."
"Look, Sarah, it happens. He was just trying to pretend he was straight. It's not that weird."
"No, you don't understand. He told me that he figured it out because of John. He saw John getting on an elevator one day and it just clicked - he says that he realized suddenly that this was what was missing from his life."
"Look, I'm sorry you got rejected, Sarah, I seriously am. But just go out to the bar with me on Friday and we'll find you someone."
"It's not gonna work, Jill. You don't understand what's going on. Our whole office's productivity is shot, and the executives are starting to fire managers. All anyone talks about anymore is John's ass."
"You know, babe, I told you not to work for an ad agency. Remember what I said? I told you it would fuck you up. Seriously, listen to yourself. I have no idea what's wrong with your office, but I know what's wrong with you. You haven't gone out to have some fun in months. All you need to do is see something besides your co-workers' faces and you'll be fine.
"No arguing. You're going out with me Friday. I'm coming to your office and getting you, and we'll go to the bar, and you'll get laid, and you'll stop talking about John's ass."
That Friday at 4:55 I walked to her cubicle at the ad agency where she wrote copy, determined that she wouldn't stay a moment past quitting time. I made my way to her cubicle, and tried to usher her out, but she made some excuse to go talk to some co-worker, conveniently taking us past John's cubicle. She decided to introduce me to him, and he stood up to shake my hand. He looked friendly; he was reasonably good-looking and had a nice smile. "Nice to meet you," I was saying, as Sarah dropped her sunglasses.
"Oh, no, could you pick those up, John? I hurt my back at the gym the other day," she said. Oh, real subtle, Sarah, I thought, rolling my eyes at her. But then he turned - he turned - he turned around and bent over to pick them up.
I heard a fat middle-aged man behind me gasp, and I think I heard faint sobs coming from a young, blonde intern.
To Sarah's credit, I have to admit. It was a beautiful, beautiful ass. It was probably the best ass I had ever seen. But still, it was just an ass. I started to really worry for Sarah at this point - it was obvious that there was something seriously wrong about her officemates. I started to entertain thoughts that perhaps it was that sick building syndrome or something. I hustled Sarah out of the building as quickly as I could.
"What did you think?" she asked, sounding breathless in her excitement. "Isn't it amazing, Jill?"
"Yeah, Sarah, it's the goddamn Sistine Chapel. Look, we're going out to the bar. You need to get away from the people in your office. There's something wrong with your co-workers." Okay, it was an amazing ass as asses go. But it's nothing but a bit of anatomy that one sits on.
"Look, I don't know why you have to be such a bitch about this, Jill. It's the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my life, and you don't give a shit about it."
"Jesus, Sarah, I'm sorry, I'm just worried about you in that office all the time. Come on, let's go drown our sorrows and get laid, you need to do something that doesn't involve coming up with catchphrases for tennis shoes." I was suddenly really worried about her. John had an amazing ass - really, you'd have to see it to understand - but there was no reason for Sarah to be obsessed with it. It's just an ass, right?
"Fine, fine. I just . . . I just don't know what to do, Jill. I don't know."
We fell into silence after Sarah's cheerful thought, and we barely talked again until we got to the bar. I realized as we approached it that I had been thinking about John's ass the entire subway ride, and I started to wonder if there really was something special about it, something that evoked obsession in the people who saw it.
"You're thinking about it, aren't you, Jill? You're thinking about it, I can tell. I've seen the way people in the office start to look once they've seen it."
"Okay, Sarah, it was nice. I admit it, he's got a very nice ass. Why don't we find some other anatomically gifted men and we'll fix whatever hormonal problems we're having?"
We drank some, and we even began to talk and laugh once the alcohol kicked in (Sarah was drinking bourbon again.) She told me about her office, which was steadily falling apart, since no one was doing their jobs and the managers just didn't give a shit. "You should see the copy room, Jill. There's been toner spilled on the floor for three weeks now. And you know what? The hall next to John's cubicle is spotless. The janitors haven't cleaned another damn thing in the office in a month. They spend the whole day there - today one of them was polishing the doorknobs on every door in the room just to have an excuse to be doing something in there."
Even if we were still talking about John's ass, at least Sarah was beginning to loosen up a little. We got up and played a little pool - I kicked Sarah's ass, of course - and a couple guys came up and started to make small-talk.
"So, baby, what's your sign?" asked a dark haired guy with a small mole on his cheek. He saw my skeptical look and laughed. "I'm just kidding. What's your name?"
I introduced myself, and learned that he was Steve. He had a friend with him - Andrew - and the four of us sat at a table to talk. Steve made jokes every few minutes, but Andrew was quieter. It was pretty obvious that they had come to the bar for the same reason we had: just to have fun and hook up. So a few drinks later we left - Sarah and Andrew, me and Steve.
I invited Steve to my apartment, and we each had a beer, and pretty quickly we were kissing, and clothes were coming off. When he was naked, I told him to stand up and turn around so I could get a look at his ass. He grinned and complied.
And it just didn't compare. Even though it was covered in pants, John's ass that afternoon had been so shapely, so beautiful, that Steve's just didn't even approach it. It's hard to describe an ass, but John's was so shapely, and Steve's was probably okay - I might have really liked it another day - but this time it just seemed flabby and misshapen and just plain ugly.
Every bit of desire I had suddenly left my body. I just felt naked and cold. The thought of having sex with Steve seemed suddenly disgusting.
"Oh, God, I just can't do this. I'm so sorry. I think I had too much to drink. I feel sick." I looked at him, and he smiled weakly back at me. His erection hung in the air, and it began to drift downward as the long, awkward pause stretched out. "Shit, I'm sorry. I can't do this. I think I need to go to sleep."
To his credit, Steve was decent about it. "Look, it's okay. I'm just gonna head home, okay? Maybe I'll give you a call."
I nodded, and after he left the apartment I thought about calling Sarah but I hoped she had been a little more successful than I was. I drifted off to sleep there on the couch and didn't wake up until the phone rang around noon the next day.
Sunlight was streaming in the windows, glinting off bits of dust in the air. I still felt profoundly humiliated from the night before, and I answered the phone to hear Sarah's voice.
"I couldn't do it, Jill. I saw him naked, and all I could think of was John's ass. I suddenly couldn't have sex with him. I couldn't stand to even see him there."
I think she started to cry then - I heard little gasps and I explained to her that I hadn't done anything either. She ended up coming over to my apartment, and I realized suddenly that there was something seriously wrong. John's ass was affecting us in a completely abnormal way.
"Sarah, you were right. There's something about John - something's wrong. I don't know what it is. But I only saw his ass once, and I can't think about anything else. I'm sorry I laughed at you. I don't know what we should do."
"Yeah, I know it sounded ridiculous. Jill, I think it's something - I don't know, supernatural or something. No one is that good-looking. It affects men too - it's got to be something magical. I'm scared, Jill. John's ass destroyed my office. What is it gonna do to the rest of the city?"
"Sarah, has anyone asked John about it? Has anyone actually said anything to him? Do you think it's something he did?"
She furrowed her brows. "You know, I don't think anyone's actually said anything. I mean, I've seen women in the office ask him out, but I don't think anyone just went up to him and said, 'Hey, John, you've got one hot ass on you! You wanna get a drink after work?'"
We giggled at the thought of it. And then Sarah suggested we go talk to him. "I know where his apartment is. We could just go and try asking some questions. See whether he'll admit to anything. Maybe if we just see the inside of his apartment, we'll find a clue or something."
"So wait - you're just gonna go knock on your co-worker's door and say, 'Hey, John, can my friend and me ask some questions about your ass?'" I asked.
"Fuck it, Jill, what else can we do? Besides, what do I care? If we don't figure out what's going on, he won't be my co-worker much longer. Not once the whole company goes under because our office hasn't gotten anything done in two months."
I couldn't really argue with her logic. Perhaps it should be said that I didn't want to. If we went to see him, maybe I'd get another look at John's ass. Maybe he'd be lounging in bed on a Saturday morning, and he'd answer the door in boxers, and I'd get a better look. I felt my heart start to race. Sarah had a wistful look on her face - I bet she was thinking along the same lines as me.
Instead of quickly leaving, though, we ended up spending half an hour in the bathroom. I brushed my hair, while she borrowed some eyeliner and lipstick. I did my makeup next, and then looked in the mirror, cursed, and started over again. Sarah smoothed the wrinkles out of her outfit - still the backless shirt and leather skirt from barhopping the night before. I grabbed a clingy little dress out of my closet. By the time we left, we probably looked like we were out for a night on the town. Or maybe like streetwalkers. I guess we both wanted to impress John.
We took the subway a few blocks uptown and walked out to his apartment building. It wasn't in a seedy part of town but the entrance seemed to have a lot of people outside, just sitting on benches, and I assumed they were homeless. I realized with a start that one of them was the fat man who had gasped at John's ass when I picked Sarah up from her office. His suit was wrinkled and I wondered if he'd slept on the bench he was sitting on.
"Jesus Christ, Sarah, isn't that guy from your office?"
"This whole situation is just getting so fucked up, Jill. We have to go in and see him. I really fucking hope he knows what's going on."
We walked up and buzzed his apartment on the intercom. His voice responded and he sounded exhausted. "Stop fucking ringing me. I don't care who it is. I don't want to talk to anyone."
"John, wait, it's me, Sarah. I just wanted to talk to you about the, uh, Hawkins account. I wanted to know about your opinion on this idea I have for their campaign."
"Oh, Christ, thank God it's something normal. I'm sorry - things are really weird lately. Come on up."
He buzzed us in and we walked up the four flights of stairs to his apartment. When we knocked on his door he pulled us inside and chained it shut again quickly.
"Who are you? What's going on? What are you doing here?"
"Relax, John. You met Jill yesterday, remember? She came to pick me up at the office. We just stopped by on our way to get lunch."
"I'm sorry. I'm just really edgy lately. I think people are following me when I leave the apartment. I keep getting people asking to come in. I had to unplug the phone because I'm getting weird calls. I can't sleep because people keep ringing my doorbell."
I believed it from looking at him. His hair was a mess and he was wearing a pair of sweatpants that I suspected he'd slept in.
"It's been going on for days. I don't know what it is. People at the office, too. Sarah, have you noticed that everyone is hanging out by my cubicle? Either people are stalking me or I'm going crazy. Maybe I'm just paranoid. I'm about the right age for schizophrenia to set in."
"Look, John, you're not crazy. That's what we're here about. I'm sorry I lied to you. I just wanted to see if you knew what was going on. I guess you've noticed it. You don't know why, though, do you?"
"What? Do you know what it is?" He suddenly looked extremely alert. I think he was wondering if we were behind what was happening to him.
I couldn't help but noticing - speaking of behinds - that the sweatpants clung very alluringly to his ass.
"John, look, I'll be honest. It's your ass, John. Did you do something? It's - it's having an effect on people. No one at the office said anything to you about it, but that's what we've been talking about when you're not there. It's affecting other people. Did you know that Phil from accounting is hanging outside the building now? Your ass - it's so fucking beautiful, John." Her voice seemed to be breaking. "No one who sees it can forget about it."
"What the fuck is this?" he demanded. "Are you screwing around with me? What the fuck kind of stupid joke are you making? I've got a real fucking problem here, Sarah! Look, just get the fuck out of my apartment. I don't want to talk about this."
He shoved us out the door, and we wandered back down to the street.
"Did you see it? In those sweatpants? It was beautiful, Sarah," I said, as we walked out into the sunlight.
"Jill, shut up about that. He's going nuts over this. It's not just me. It's not even just our office - look at these people just sitting here. Most of them aren't from our office. I don't know who they are, but it's beginning to affect a lot of people. We need to find out what this is. I don't even know where to start. Where do we go now?"
We ended up wandering around town, into a seedy section with a lot of neon lights and stores proffering porn and sex toys. Sarah grabbed my arm and pointed at a tiny little storefront with a hand-lettered sign proclaiming, "Gypsy fortuneteller. Answers questions about love, money, health. $30, one hour."
"Jill, let's go in there. It's only thirty bucks. Maybe she can tell us something."
"Yeah, maybe she'll tell us that we're going to marry tall dark strangers or that someone put a curse on us, but she can remove it for another fifty bucks."
"It's fucking worth a try, Jill. We don't have any other ideas right now, do we?"
So we wandered in, and I smelled incense and looked around at a room filled with candles and bizarre trinkets and surrounded by tapestries. I felt like I'd wandered onto the set of a cheesy movie. The feeling intensified when I saw the old woman sitting at a small, round table looking up at us in the flickering light.
She seemed to be enveloped in a hundred different swaths of cloth, all of them covered with embroidery. She even had large hoop earrings in her ears. I wondered if the place was some kind of joke, as the woman waved us to sit down and started making gestures at a crystal ball sitting on the table.
"You have thirty dollars, yes?" she asked, speaking slowly in heavily-accented words. Sarah pulled out her wallet and paid in advance.
"Okay, we get started. I sense - your question. It does not concern the two of you - not directly. Right?"
Sarah nodded excitedly. I wondered if I had stumbled into some stupid reality show.
"Okay, I see it has to do with a man. There is a man in your life - but you can't have him. He is not interested in you. In fact, many are competing for his attention. But you're not here to see if he'll fall in love with you, right?"
Sarah nodded again, eager for more insight. I tried to decide if her accent was fake or not.
"The ball is becoming clouded. Tell me what you're worried about, very specific. Maybe I can tell you more after."
"It's just - this man you saw. There's something magical - I think maybe there's a curse on him. I don't know what else it could be." Sarah paused and bit her lip. "He - it's his ass. You probably won't even believe me when I say this, but it's the most amazing thing I've ever seen. And it's not just me. He works with me, and our whole office - no one can do anything at work because we spend all of our time talking about his ass. I can't think about anything else. I know it's ridiculous, but I think his ass is something unholy."
The gypsy woman frowned and looked very interested. "Ahh, yes, I know what this is. It is of the most ancient magic in the world."
"What is it? Is there something we can do? Can you do a spell or something?"
"No, no, no. There's nothing to be done. You don't understand the power of this man's ass. You must understand that there has always been a man who had that ass. When one man dies, another man's ass takes its place. Throughout history, there has always been one man with that ass.
"I have only heard stories. All of the most wonderful and terrible acts of humanity were inspired by that ass. Michelangelo became an artist because he wanted to capture that ass in stone. And Genghis Khan - why do you think his soldiers followed him? Why were they willing to give their lives for him? It is because he had the most beautiful ass in the world.
"It has made men leave the priesthood, and it has inspired others to join it because they knew they could never be happy with another person. People have killed themselves and others because of that ass. And he will have it forever. That man will have that ass until he dies, and it passes to someone else."
My own skepticism had given away to numb acceptance. How could I doubt anything anymore? I had seen John's ass, and I'd seen the effect it had on other people. Lives were being destroyed because of it. Why shouldn't I believe anything this gypsy woman had to say?
Sarah and I were silent, and we each went home to ponder John and his amazing ass. A terror grew inside me, as I started to realize that its effects could destroy the city. Who knows what people would do because of it?
I called in sick Monday, and I spent it the same way I'd spent the previous day - curled up on my sofa, watching infomercials and soap operas, and thinking about John's ass and what it was going to do to the world. Sarah called me in the evening. "Jill, I've been thinking. There's only one thing we can do."
"What do you mean? What can we do? That woman said that he couldn't get rid of his ass."
"No she didn't. She said that he would have the ass until he died. Jill, there's only one thing we can do. We have to kill him."
"What? Sarah, listen to yourself! That's insane! You can't fucking kill him because of something a gypsy woman said! Besides, when he dies someone else will have it."
"But Jill, think about it. This is New York City! It's the economic capital of the world! How long do you think it's gonna be before someone notices what's going on? I just heard a traffic report - there's a traffic jam on that end of town. Why do you think there's so many cars there? People are flocking to see his ass. Someone with a camera is going to notice this sooner or later. And then what happens?
"How long do you think it'll be before someone puts a picture of his ass on a magazine cover? It's not even just New York. If the whole city grinds to a halt, the fucking country is going to fall apart. And if this ends up on a magazine or on TV, everyone will see it! What you've seen in my office - imagine the whole country like that. Everyone in America is going to be obsessed with John's ass. Jill, what do you think would happen? There are people camped outside his apartment building now. Once word gets out, people across the country will be trying to find John."
"So just say we killed him. Then someone else has the ass. What happens then?"
"We can only hope it'll be somewhere in Ethiopia or something. As long as it's in some far corner of the world, it doesn't really matter. But if his ass stays in New York, it's not just the city. It's not just America. The whole world is going to shut down because of it. We have to kill him, Jill."
I sat down and let the implication of what she said sink in. I realized she was right. He had to die. At that very moment, someone could decide to take a photo of it and put it on the internet. Or a news crew could investigate the traffic jam and find him. The whole city was starting to be affected.
"Look, Sarah, let's talk about this tomorrow morning. We'll see what happens. Maybe we'll get some other idea."
I didn't sleep that night, though. I just stared at the ceiling and thought about what it would mean to kill someone - someone completely innocent. Maybe he had to die to save humanity. But how the fuck could Sarah and I kill him?
I got up around six and turned on the TV. Manhattan was one big traffic jam. People were parked outside his apartment. Cops were being called in to try to get people out of the area. And in the national news, the Dow Jones was down fifty points because hundreds of companies had inexplicable productivity declines. The city was falling apart. Sarah was right. We should have done it the night before. It was going to be impossible to get there now. I called her up, and she answered immediately. "Jill, hi. I knew you wouldn't be sleeping either. We have to do it. We have to go now. I don't care what happens. We have to go do it."
"You're right, Sarah. But I can't kill someone. I just - I can't do it."
"Look, that's fine. I'll do it myself. You help me hold him down, and I'll do it. I'm just going to cut his throat if I can. There's no hiding it. We just have to do our best not to leave any fingerprints or anything. But if I have to go to jail for it, I don't really care. I just need you there for support."
We talked, and made plans. We figured the subways were probably impassible too. We'd have to walk there. It was a couple miles away. Sarah would bring a knife, and we'd each bring gloves and put hats on so we didn't leave fingerprints or hair. We'd just get John to let us in, if we could, and we'd kill him.
I walked there, alone, and the city seemed seemed strangely normal. Even if thousands of people were converging on John's apartment, most people had no idea what was going on. I passed cafés and restaurants and stores, and saw early risers heading off to work. It was still only half light, around six-thirty, a little chilly for a September morning. I couldn't believe that I was just walking through the city, about to kill someone to save it, and no one knew.
I sat on a bench a few blocks from John's apartment, at the spot Sarah and I had decided to meet. From here it was beginning to be apparent that something was unusual - there was a lot of foot traffic headed towards John's apartment, and cars were bumper to bumper on the roads. I could see a cop directing cars away; barriers were being put up at street corners to stop cars from entering. Sarah walked up within a few minutes, her breath curling in wisps in the icy air.
"Let's go, Jill. They might close off the sidewalks or something. We have to hurry."
I nodded, not really feeling up to talking. We walked as quickly as we could in the direction of the apartment. There weren't any cops on the sidewalks yet, and we managed to make our way up to the building itself. It was surrounded by a crowd of people, apparently all waiting in hopes to catch a glimpse of John as he left for work; we tried politeness but eventually started shoving our way through it. We made our way to his door, with difficulty, and I worked on clearing some space around the door as Sarah called John on the intercom. She convinced him to let us in, somehow, but all I could hear anymore was my heart pounding in my ears.
Each step seemed to be agonizingly slow as I saw over and over Sarah slashing John's throat, saw him look confused and terrified, saw blood rush over the floor. Somehow, though, we were at the top in what seemed like a moment. Time does strange things when you're dreading something, and I was dreading what was to come more than anything in my life.
We knocked on his door, and he let us in. We were both still in hats and gloves. "John, do you know what's going on outside? Do you know why those people are here?" Sarah asked.
He just looked at her, plainly terrified. He must have realized that the city was in an uproar because of him. "John, what we told you - that wasn't a joke. There are thousands of people out there, all of them waiting to see your ass. There's a traffic jam because of all the people trying to get here. People are becoming obsessed with you, John. Everyone who sees you becomes obsessed. There's nothing you can do about it."
"Then what are you doing here, Sarah?"
She took a deep breath. "John, we're going to kill you. I'm sorry - I'm so sorry. But it's the only way. If you leave your apartment, the crowd will tear you apart. You're destroying the city. If you're allowed to live, it's going to destroy the whole world."
He looked at her, gaping, shocked. Then it was my turn to be shocked, as he slumped against the wall and slid down to the floor, leaning against it, his knees curled up to his chest.
"I know. I know, Sarah. I can't live like this anyway. There's thousands of people outside obsessed with me. I couldn't get out to go to work yesterday. I can't talk to anyone or go anywhere. I don't know what I'll do when my food runs out. I don't know how this happened. But I don't want to go on like this."
I looked at his face more closely, and I realized that his eyes were puffy and his face was blotchy. He'd been sobbing all night.
"I was going to kill myself, Sarah. But I don't think I have the courage. I won't try to stop you. Just do what you have to and leave. It's fine."
Time stretched out as Sarah pulled the knife - a chef's knife, about eight inches long - out of her purse. "I'm so sorry, John," she said. Each syllable seemed to take hours. I could only watch helplessly as she did it. She slid the blade up to his throat and pressed hard into it, leaning, putting all her weight into it as he gasped in pain. She cut, from his right to left, and finally hit an artery, jumping back as blood spurted out.
"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry." He slid onto the floor; I think he was already unconscious. We left, still wearing gloves and hats, and amazingly, without a splash of blood on us. Somehow we crept down to the street and back to my apartment. I expected every person we passed to somehow know what we had done - that John was dead, that we were murderers. But no one gave us a second look. We wandered back into my apartment and drank shot after shot of bourbon.
We were mostly quiet. "Do you think the cops are coming for us?" Sarah asked me. I didn't know. I think we were both expecting it, so we sat and waited in my apartment. I knew we were heroes, but I didn't feel heroic. I didn't know what I felt.
We stayed there the rest of the day. We fell asleep on the sofa, and she stayed with me a couple more days. Her office was in such chaos that when she tried to call in sick no one answered the phone. By Friday we started to think that we were safe, and she ended up going back to her place.
Somehow, after that, life got back to normal. We both started going back to work. A lot of Sarah's co-workers ended up quitting in the wake of John's mysterious murder, but as she explained it at least, gradually the place began to seem like an ad agency again. The city looked normal again in a few days, too. The crowd gathered around John's apartment was shocked when the news got around that he'd been found dead, but pretty soon the onlookers dispersed.
I don't know how we managed to do it without getting caught. I was sure we'd leave some piece of evidence or something. But I think the city was in so much disarray because of John that there just wasn't attention to spare to investigating a murder, even if it was John's murder.
As for me, the dreams about seeing John die didn't last all that long. Somehow, I didn't feel all that guilty. Sarah had killed him because she had to: Sarah had saved New York, and I had helped her. There was nothing to feel guilty about. It wasn't long before I could stop seeing his blood when I closed my eyes. I still had dreams about his ass, though. In fact, I do to this day. I haven't gone out on a date since the day I met John, except the one abortive hook-up with Steve (who, incidentally, didn't bother to call me again.) I just can't stop comparing every man I see with John. I only saw him three times, but his ass - it's like it's burned into my eyes. I can still summon the image of him bending over to pick up Sarah's sunglasses in photographic detail. I doubt I'll ever forget it.
It helps my memory, though, that Sarah took a picture of it. A few weeks after the death, she sent me an email. She had taken a photo with her cell phone one day in her office, and she sent it to me. It was a small photo, somewhat grainy, but it somehow seemed to capture the magic of his ass. I look at it every day. I have it printed out, and I keep in in my bedroom. Sometimes I masturbate to it; I somehow doubt that I'll ever have a relationship with anyone else. Sometimes Sarah comes over and we just look at it in silence. Neither of us has ever suggested that we get rid of it. Even if we had to kill John to save the world, we can't stand to erase the only record of his amazing ass. | 
