This is a short story I wrote for a writing contest back in 2020. Although it is technically “finished,” I know what happens next and haven’t written it, yet—which makes this also very, very unfinished. Or maybe possibly a Part One?
Warning: Rated “R”
My Monster Wingman
"It's safe, now," I whisper, leaning over the bed.
My monster sticks his head out. "Really? You mean it? I don't have to go back?"
"Never again," I reassure him. "It's popsicles and strippers from here on out."
He growls with displeasure. "You know that doesn't do anything for me, right? Too few arms, not enough eyes."
"...Gross."
"You're gross."
I pat my bed. "Come on, hop up. Be my wingman." I hold out my phone and show him the violently pink heart bubbles floating on the screen. "She keeps sending me 'likes,' but ignoring my messages."
My monster jumps up on the bed, settling in next to me, and snatches my phone out of my hand. "Have you mentioned that you're an emotionally stunted man-child who still talks with the monster under his bed and recently rescued this astonishingly-dashing creature and his entire bloodline from a bloody despot that only exists in the realm in-between our imaginations and reality, crawling into our subconsciouses and riding on the backs of our nightmares until all that's left is a pervasive sense that the world is crumbling around you and the fear that you left the stove on, as history and time slowly dissolve into nothingness outside your window?" He raises a furry semblance of an eyebrow. "I hear that human girls are into that kind of thing."
I playfully smack him. "Be serious. What if this is my future wife and I have one opportunity to get her attention, but I also have to not freak her out? What would you do? How did you meet your wife?"
"I had a rug made out of her ex-boyfriend and my main romantic rival." He grins and his fangs lift up his lips, making him look bloodthirsty. "We put it in the bathroom. His cold, dead eyes stare at my ass every day."
I shudder. "That's…one of the first times I've ever realized I may actually be good at dating. Hard never mind." I make a lunge for my phone, and my monster pulls it out of my reach, holding it above my head. "Gimme!"
He bats my hands away like he's swatting at a fly. "Sit down. Shut up. Calm down. I've got this." Holding my head in place with one enormous, hairy paw, he uses his other hand to type. Whoosh. Chirp. My stomach drops.
He tosses my phone back. "You're welcome."
I raised the phone up to my face and blink in slow horror at the novel on the screen.
Dear Sally,
I would like to cordially invite you to my bedroom. I have Star War bed sheets and crusty socks under the bed, and a monster dong that will make you see God.
I have been told that my negligence in nipple play is made-up for in my cunnilingus skills, the enthusiasm level of which I would compare to a dog discovering peanut butter for the first time.
I have a master’s degree in philosophy and am very willing to roleplay as your favorite ancient Greek thinker and/or condescending male professor who overuses the phrase 'well, actually,' and implies that you could make up your grade with extra credit.
I can also heal would-be wounds (cannot help with actual wounds) and have it on good authority that I can fart the alphabet.
Please send your RSVP to my bedroom post-haste, with your preferred meal beforehand listed below, along with the movie you would like me to buy tickets to, and please, remember to always tip your waiter.
I slowly turn my head towards my monster. "I'm going to be single for life."
He shrugs. "Maybe you'll be single for so long that your kinks will come to life and terrorize the neighborhood surrounding your house, singing about your predilection for Disney villainesses and letting your mom's friend know that you still remember seeing her nipples in the shower when you were three years old." He rolls over and shows me his belly. "You know, again."
I rub my hands over my face. "I still can't believe that happened."
"Don't fuck with evil sorcerers from the monsters-under-the-bed realm, Bro."
"You wouldn't still be here if I hadn't," I remind him, reaching over and scratching his belly. A deep, content rumble comes out of his throat.
"Mmmm. And you wouldn't still be single."
"Maybe." I flop down on the bed. "But you’re worth it."
He beams.