copyright © 2002 Jeff Goode

Fucking Satan (working title)
by Jeff Goode
copyright 2002

(She doesn't really want to talk about it, but fine...)

So I'm fucking Satan, right?

And, of course, all my girlfriends are like:

"Oh my God! You're fucking Satan?! So gross!"

Except Leslie. She's like:

"Oh my God! You're fucking Satan?! What's he like? What's he like?!"

And Karen. She's like that, too.
And Melanie and Beth.
And Pam.

And then Heather is all:

"Oh my God! Satan?! The Satan? The Lord of Lies? The King of Kings? The Wrath-of-God Satan? Hellfire and Brimstone Satan? That Satan?

No, Heather, the other one.

"Well, what's he like? What's he like?! Is he big? Is he hot? Is he big and hot? Is he rough? Is he big and hot and rough and satanic?"

But it's really not like that at all.

Everyone thinks just because I'm fucking Satan, that it's me bent over a hot stove getting ass-fucked with this enormous thorny prick. While a bunch of miniature demons run around pinching my nipples.

But that's not how it is with us.

In fact, most of the time, it's him bent over the stove, and me fisting him with a hockey mitt. And if I'm lucky, demons are pinching my nipples.

It's not even every day. It's like once or twice a month, tops.

And never during my period, because he's got this thing.

(She rolls her eyes.)

So, yes, he's hot. But not flesh-searingly hot.
More like 140 degrees.
140 - 160. Somewhere in there.

And yes, it's rough. But so is the commute.

And honestly, it's just not as kinky as it sounds. Most of the time, I just feel like I'm punching the clock.

And I'm not saying he hasn't asked me to suck his thorny prick.
But that's where I draw the line.

I'll put up with a lot of shit, but getting my lips lacerated so you can have an orgasm is not on the docket.

Like he'd lift a finger to give me an orgasm.

In fact, the only time I ever had an orgasm with him was the first time I met him. And all he did was walk in the room.

I tell ya, I was on my knees that time. Because my legs just gave out. He was that powerful. His presence. I wanted it to be like that forever.

And then he spoke.

"That fucking God! Always fucking with me!
Always trying to keep me down!
I could be BIG if it wasn't for God! I'd be HUGE.
If it wasn't for God, I'd fucking BE fucking God."

There's nothing more pathetic than a man who desperately wants to be his own worst enemy.

So I reached out and stuck my hand in his loincloth and wrapped my fist around his steamy testicles and he shut the fuck up real quick. Thank God.

What a jerk.

And my girlfriends are all like:

"So why do you put up with it, girl? You don't need him. You can do better. What are you getting out of the relationship anyway?"

I'll tell you, girl...


Because you don't know the meaning of "power" until you've had your fist in up to the elbow on a man. And you can hear his voice jump a couple octaves, and he's got tears streaming down his cheeks, and he's still trying to call you "baby".

Yeah, I'm your baby, buddy.

When's the last time a 3-month old grabbed you by the prostate and gave it a good yank?

I'm thinking: Not yesterday.

But the thing, ladies, the real thing, is not just having that kind of power over a man. It's having power over this man. Over Satan. The devil himself, in case I forgot to mention.

Because you know how every time a bill rings, an angel gets its wings?

Well, every time Satan's bell rings...

One of my ex-boyfriends steps in front of a bus.

Or he has trouble getting that damn cock ring off and has to waddle into the emergency room with his tighty-whiteys down around his ankles, turning all black and purple and whimpering: "I think I need bolt-cutters."

Or maybe he just reads about us in the tabloids and gets all suicidal because now I'm with Satan, and he's so sorry he let me go because now he knows that we could have worked out whatever it was that "we" had a problem with.

But he's too much of a pussy to call and tell me that, so I get to read about it the next day in the obituaries. Or the same day if I'm the one they call in to identify the body.

And in that case I get to have a good laugh with the coroners when they tell me what kind of pills he swallowed, and how many.

Because I'm sure it was supposed to be just enough to get my attention, but not enough to actually kill him, but - WHOOPS! - Guess who never finished med school? So maybe those dosages were a little off, huh, sweetie?

Which doesn't really change anything except that it means he was probably conscious when his lungs collapsed, and his bladder emptied into those nice white sweatpants I got him for Christmas.

And for that, I'm willing to put up with a little shit.

(She pulls on a hockey mitt. She's ready to go.)


This is the first of a series of monologues developed at No Shame Los Angeles which became part of the play Anger Box. The text above is the original, unrevised version of the script as performed at No Shame.

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