The Man who Played with Forks

Ostrich meat isn’t common, but it is delicious.

Anyways, what I was saying. Oh yeah, forks. See, I play with my fork at the dinner table. I always have. I pick it up, twirl it in the air three times, tap the tines twice to the beat of “In the Air Tonight,” and set it back down. Random, I know. My mother hated it, even dedicated a portion of her after-death wishlist to requesting I stop. And my father...he almost didn’t invite me to dinner after the funeral. Didn’t want the relatives seeing, or maybe he just didn’t think it appropriate. In the end, he invited me. Sat me next to the children. That way the cousins and aunts and uncles thought I was just doing a bit, trying to entertain on that mournful morning. But that bit is a part of me. It is me. I can’t help it.

How many lovers have I lost because of it? That’s a good question. First there was Shauna. (This was when I still dated women.) So, anyways, Shauna. We’d been dating two months; this was near the end of the high school. It was my initial meeting with her parents. Her mom made well-seasoned pork chops with mustard greens and mashed sweet potatoes. A bit more Southern than I’m used to, but still a meal I’ll never forget. If not for the meal itself but what happened next. See, she was serving me, Mrs. Wallace that is, and naturally I picked up my fork. Three twirls, the Phil Collins drum solo. By the time I set my fork down I was Jazzy Jeff being tossed out the Bel-Air mansion. Apparently her father didn’t much like the song. Something about an old war buddy, PTSD. Like a scene out of Silver Linings.

Next there was Judy. Still straight, but college now. Well, I went away to school. Northeast to the Midwest, you see. And those Minnesotan women sure lived up to their nice reputation. Date number three and I was already invited for dinner. And nice they were. Didn’t think nothing of my fork playing. At least they didn’t say anything. Not in the beginning. Two months in, though (it was always two months in) they said something all right. Her brother was the first. The mother tried to intervene, calm the intensity of his language, the outburst. Then Judy jumped in. Ruthless. Unfeeling, uncaring. Anything but nice. She was something to behold. I never felt so demeaned, yet so impressed. Well, to spare you the dirty details, let’s just say there never was a month number three.

Don’t let me forget Chandara. She was, really, great. Intelligent. Charming. Charismatic. Irish and Vietnamese. Good beer, better cuisine. We dated for a whole week before we decided to share a meal in the dining hall. I went through my routine and she sat there as if nothing was wrong. I was relieved. Until that night, of course. That night she slept with my roommate. I caught them. As she left, hardly clothed, she winked. She asked: “Can you feel it in the air tonight?” Both her and my roommate laughed.

So it goes sometimes. For a while there were no interests, no infatuations. I was riding the pine. Single. Just me and my habits. Anyways, one day, this woman comes along. Her name was (probably still is) Anna Pavlovna. What are the odds? And her from St. Petersburg too! Well, St. Petersburg, Florida. But still. War and Peace. Tolstoy. My, my. We went to karaoke our first date. She sang Beyoncé, and the N-word too. I was put off, but I thought I’d see the night through. I was with Russian high society, after all. Dinner came. Some cheap, new American eatery. I twirled my fork, drummed the tines. She laughed. Raucously, rudely. Again, she said, in her thick Floridian accent. Again, again. So I did it again and again and again. She filmed it. I was elated: someone finally enjoyed my fork habit. But no, little did I know she was sending my stupidity to her family back in Russia. Rumor has it I wound up on some television show there.

Well, sometime after Anna, it clicked. Penis. That’s the ticket. (The dick-it?) That’s what I like. Some people know right away. Others aren’t so keen to admit it. Well, I was a wait-and-see type. And, well, when you know, you know. So, I thought, maybe these men will understand me. But no, never. Every single one shared one meal with me. One! After that, they’d insist we skip dinner or lunch. They suggested we fuck instead. Such appetite! Well, I was new to the game, so I went along. Until it sank in: I was to play with their forks, not my own.

So I stopped seeing men too. Altogether. No men. No women. But in their absence, I’ve replaced them with my forks. No, don’t worry Doc, never the sharp side. The smooth end. Buttered. Slides right in the anus. Smaller than a penis too. Not so much deep breathing. Still smacks that G-spot. Oh yeah, that’s right. Men have one too. Up there somewhere. Prostate orgasm, they call it. Well, my fork and I do it quite regularly. No testing, so that parts nice. Always STD-free. Just fun. Sort of one-way though. I’ve been pitching designs to patent lawyers. Fork-like sex toys. Big fluffy things with big fluffy tines. Well-spaced. Sort of like a pocket pussy. Sorry, fleshlight. Something like that. Just so, you know, my fork can feel it too. No one’s taken the bait so far. All look at me like I’m luny.

But I’m not, am I Doc? I just play with my forks. Twirl three times, drum the tines, orgasm every time. Nothing wrong with that. Everyone has to get by. Or at least get off. No? Everyone wants to kink shame me. It’s not as if I’m smelling the fork once it’s left my you-know-where. But if I was would it be wrong? Even James Joyce liked poop, the smell of farts. A real scatological fiend! Everyone has their thing, their fetish. Right?

What’s that? The time? Oh, oh dear, you’re right. We’ve gone over again, haven’t we? Well, next week then. Thanks again, Doc. It really helps having someone who will listen. Even if they’re being paid to. Never bothered me. Therapy, psychiatry. Someone has to do it. Other people’s problems. OPP, you know? Can’t do something like that for free. Not worth it. Too much trauma. Real hero you are Doc. What was that? The time? Oh yes, yes, I’ll be right on my way. Now, Doc. Next customer. Yup, yup. You have a good day now. And you listen well, you hear? People need active listeners in their life. Someone to keep them steady. That’s you, Doc. You’re the bridge between our world and the carnal world. Imagine that! A liaison. Sorry, time? Oh, of course, yes, right away, Doc. I’ll just be going. Out that door. One, two, three steps. And a turn of the handle. And, voila, adios, adieu, farewell, sayonara , until next time, tam biet (that’s Vietnamese, thanks Dara!), see ya, good day, next week it is, too-da-loo, bye-bye now....

Harlow Covington, Esquire (they, them) is a lawyer-turned-writer. A proud member of the LGBTQIA community, they enjoy cooking and painting and writing. Whenever possible, they like to travel, whether at home or abroad.