The Erotic Adventures of Batman

Relationshits: Part One

Dear Doom,

Relationships, man. Sometimes it’s like, where do I start, you know?

These days, it seems like it’s impossible for people to tell for sure whether or not they’re even in one.

It’s always like:

“Yeah, we’ve been seeing each other a lot but I’m not sure what our official status is.”

Or:

“Yeah, we’ve been living together off and on for a few months but we’re not interested in labeling ourselves just to fit some bourgie corporate mold and blah, blah, blah.”

My response to all this is usually to ask a simple question:

“Hey, nutstrap—who in the shit do you think you’re fooling?”

All this pretend sophistication and new age insight is a plain old case of beating off around the bush. You may have dressed your insecurities up in drag, but you’re so worried about looking authentic that you forgot to have fun. Can I just ask, when did relationships become such a big deal that you have to make it seem like they’re no big deal?

Can we please just cut the shit loaf and move on to the main course?

Relationships. More like Relationshits if you ask me.

Ballpark estimate, I’d say I’ve been in a thousand relationships. If I actually took the time to count (which I’m not going to do, because I actually don’t have the time and don’t care about this crap as much as everybody else does) it’d probably end up being way more. What is a relationship, literally? Let’s break down the word. Relation—a connection between two or more people. Ship—a hulled vessel used to carry people where they want to go. Put them together and “boing”—there you go. Is it really any more complicated than that? Seems like a whole generation has been wasting their time overthinking the concept, trying to justify their overpriced educations by trying to reinvent the most basic and fundamental building block of human society. A part of me kind of wants to pity them, but then I remember that while this whole thing may be their fault, they’re also making it my problem. As if I didn’t have enough to worry about in the first place with a business to run and a long-ass list my libido wants crossing-off on a daily basis. It’s times like these that I’m glad the only chapters to which I ever pledged were from the Book of The Dead and Budokai-do.

Normally, I’m able to isolate my anger and mainline it back into constructive channels like sexual mastery or business acumen, but this whole relationshit mindfuck has had me so thrown the last few days that half the time I don’t know if I’m signing checks with “little” Wayne or my fountain penis. See? There I go again!

I guess it all started on Wednesday. Normally the fulcrum of any average week, I had no reason to expect the fucked up see-saw that was about to ensue as I went through my typical morning routine of a hastily pounded breakfast shake followed by a forty-five minute groin stretch while zenning out with some Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood on the local PBS station. I like to watch Sesame Street because it’s the only authentically Luciferian show on television in that it promotes the worship of numbers and letters—two things which are obviously really important to me and the absolute basis for the life of Promethean man. Mr. Rogers’ I watch for the killer songs, soothing tone, and because—let’s face it—he’s a babe, though I tend to skip the puppety parts if I ripped the bong such as I had that morning.

I was just finishing up and about to start reading the tea leaves from the overnight markets over a strong cup of my own signature blend of smoky houqua when my pager started whistling its own unmistakable tune.

“What the?”

It could only be one person.

DA was one of the few guys I knew who still owned a pager and the only one who actually used it, convinced that it was safer and less traceable than cell phones or electronic mail servers. I always joked with him that if he wanted to run a modern drug empire he should toss the old alphanumeric and try burners like in The Wire, but I guess he just prefers to do things the old-fashioned way. Also, he would never sling junk.

DA and I had known each other since the early nineteen-eighties when I brought him on to do some consulting for Batcorp on the recommendation of a mutual friend at the Phoenix Foundation, a big Washington think tank that also had straws in some clandestine international punch bowls that, at the time, I was interested in sipping from.

I had been immediately impressed by his positive attitude, genius for problem-solving, and rugged, Plains State good looks including a blonde mullet haircut. Our professional relationship quickly developed into a strong male friendship, as vital and platonic today as it was when it first began, which I honestly do believe is for the best, even though I can’t help but feel a little devastated whenever his denim-clad form strides strappingly back into my life. Yeah, he’s fucking cute.

Although we saw each other less recently ever since he had gone into semi-retirement in Ojai while I continued to expand the old enterprise from the renovated basement of my palatial, hereditary East Coast manor, I could always count on DA for fresh and funny takes on everything from insider industry gossip to where to cruise for the best new burgers.

That day’s page fell into the latter category, concerning burgers of a very particular variety. Fur-burgers to be exact.

“BTMN—” the page began, in DA’s trademark, truncated pager patois, “CHK OUT HLNG RTS HNDS ON RKE MSSG AND BODY BLISS SALON—SRSLY!”

“Healing Roots Hands on Reiki Massage and Body Bliss Salon, eh?”

I clicked into my web browser and input the name into the search portal, then hit the carriage return key and waited for my results.

I didn’t have to wait long. There was indeed a business of that name listed in Gotham, though it didn’t have a page of its own or any reviews posted. Maybe it was new.

I scribbled down the address and picked up the pager to thank DA for the tip, marveling at how he could be three thousand miles away and still be more keyed in to what was going on in my own neighborhood than me.

“Thanks, DA!” I typed. “You’re a good guy. If you ever consider switch hitting, I’d love to have you on the team again.”

“HAHA,” he replied, “GET FCKD.”

I chuckled to myself and grabbed the keys from their place on the hook and arranged with Alfred to have my calls forwarded to my financial advisors at Sizemore Associates.

Get fucked. It was a good idea. I had been working too hard lately and needed to blow off a little steam. This Body Bliss Salon thing sounded like a good place to start and DA had never steered me wrong before.

Get Fucked… Little did I know just how fucked I was about to get.

To be continued in “Relationshits: Part Two”

Seth Blake is a writer from New Hampshire.