Ring ring ring, the phone rang. I put on the voice of a man who didn't hate his job.

"Bryon Clerke speaking. Welcome to Royal Accounting Firms. How may I –"

My signature catchphrase was interrupted by a "Yoooooo, dude!" something between an exclamation and a whine.

"God damn it, Neil! Didn't I tell you to stop calling me at work?"

"Awwwww. Always so uptight, Bryon."

"And where the fuck'd you get this number? I just changed extensions!"

I could already imagine that coy fucker's grin.

"Ho ho… I've got my ways."

And that's how I found myself hurrying home on a Friday night, an hour before the end of my shift. Told the boss I was feeling queasy, needed to rest my head. In front of my apartment door, Neil stood waiting, like a fucking stalker.

"Neil, what the fuck?"

"Like I said, it's a fetish RP."

"What's that even stand for? R-P?"

"Roleplay. You play Lucario, I play Gardevoir."

"I don't understand a single thing you're saying, Neil."

"Pokémon, Bryon! It's all about the Pokémon!"

Meanwhile, the T.V. is on and some kid's cartoon is playing. It's the one that Muhammad's daughter used to watch. There it is, that violent yellow rodent. Trying to electrocute everything.

Apparently, this is Neil's fetish.

"So what were you saying, about that Garde-stuff…?"

Neil steps out from the bathroom, completely decked. Contents of his trekking bag strewn around on the linoleum.

He's got on this white-and-green dress thing, all flowy and wrinkled. At second glance, it's just two pieces of crepe paper held together with tape. A lime green bob wig covers his buzz cut, white face paint smeared across his cheeks. Neil hands me a hunk of something. Said thing turns out to be a blue-and-black mask, fashioned from corrugated cardboard and papier mâché. It's got two ears, and a projection in the center looking like something of a snout. Round orange blobs for eyes.

"Put it on!" he exclaims with glee. "I got it off Etsy!"

All of a sudden he's behind me, and my belt and pants fly open. He reaches out, tying this thick blue ribbon around my waist. Something hard, cardboard-textured slaps between my buttocks.

"Now repeat after me! 'Lu-caaaaaa-ri-ohhhhh…'"

I'm tying Neil up. To the bedpost, with these black faux leather straps. Actually, he's the one doing the tying, because I've got no idea how. At least this time, he hasn't asked me to pee on him. Yet.

"Uh… Neil? Are you sure that's safe?"

"Yup! Speaking of safe, 'I CHOOSE YOU' is the safeword."

"Well, take it easy with those straps. If you catch gangrene, it's not my fault." Reaching down, I relieve the itch between my balls with a long, firm scratch. Eye contact is maintained through the slits in the mask. "Breaking News! Man in Pokémon Suit Ties Self to Death by Gangrene."

Neil slips one last loop through the knot, securing his wrists to the bedpost. His eyes search mine, expression gone gentle. The white crepe paper makes a firm tent over his erection. "Would that turn you on?"

I reach down, my own organ still yet to be roused.

"As a matter of fact… no."

"Why the hell'd you do that?!"

"Whaaat?"

"Shave your genitals. Last time I checked, you didn't go around getting bikini waxes left and right."

"Gardevoir aren't supposed to have pubic hair. That'd be totally out of character."

"Oh."

"Now c'mere, Lucario sempai-chan~!"

Muhammad and I only ever did missionary. At 9PM every night, we'd put his kid daughter to bed. After that, if I was lucky, we'd fuck. Always had to cum in a rubber. Simply suffocating.

We never talked much. When we did, his daughter had to translate.

"What papa really means," she'd pout, "is that he likes you."

When Muhammad didn't talk, he'd just sit down on the couch and stare at me. His left eye didn't line up with the right. So first he'd stare with the left, and when he got tired of that, he'd stare with the right. It freaked me out, especially when all I was trying to do was watch TV. He like, had schizophrenia or something.

I found out because his daughter wrote an essay. It was all about living with a schizophrenic daddy, plus some self-indulgent trash about broken childhoods. In there, she mentioned how annoying it was to live with a step-dad who only spoke English.

"I'm submitting this to Yale," she quipped. "Could you please look it over, dad? Means a lot…"

Well I'll tell you what I did. Sure, I read that essay. Then I tore it in half, laughed, and threw the pieces in her face.

"I'm not your daddy."

I open up the dress, where the crêpe paper parts in the front. Neil squeals with glee as I enter him.

"Ga-ga-ga," he gargles.

"You fucker," I groan next to his ear. Mashing the paper snout into his face, for good measure. The elastic digs above my ear, into my scalp. Neil always gets me doing these weird ass things.

It happens like this every time. I gotta be a cowboy or a Pokémon or a horse with tits. He takes my load, comes on my face, whatever. As soon as I get used to it, as soon the old warm comfort starts settling in, he's gone.

Under the mask, my pores are sweating. Papier maché digging into my face. Through paper slits, Neil's eyes lock into mine.

I grunt and tear off the mask.

Neil pushes himself off from me, rolls away. White face paint caked and smudged. Disappointment evident in his eyes. The bob wig falls to the floor.

"Bryon!"

Still heavily breathing, I clamber his way. Neil backs up, crawling in reverse. His shoulders only stopping when they hit the wall.

"Put it on!"

These aren't Neil's eyes, but Gardevoir's. Bryon is not in the picture. None of this is about Bryon.

My dick goes soft, limp, useless.

Muhammad never talked back. Granted, things weren't all good, and I'd often get mad. But we didn't ever fight, not once. He just listened and stared. His daughter was something else, though.

"Don't treat papa like that," she'd glance up from a book to yell.

I just shrugged it off. What did kids know, anyway.

But one night I got off the elevator, walked the steps up to the apartment, put the key into the knob. And they were gone. Muhammad, his kid daughter, and all their stuff. Gone. No note, no nothing.

At first, I found it kind of funny. What was this, some practical joke? So I laughed it off. Ha, ha, ha! My voice echoed around the apartment, bouncing off the walls. The sound rang loud, dense, and fuzzy on the edges. As though coming through a speaker.

Then I lit one up, and turned on the TV.

"That's it, Neil. I've had enough."

"The safeword! Remember the safeword!"

"Fuck you."

"It's I choose you! I. CHOOSE. YOU."

Flick off the screen, where the little yellow rodent had just been seen scurrying around, crying tears for a bottle of ketchup. Tear off the string around my crotch, throw down the tail.

"Get the fuck out my flat."

Wordlessly, Neil picks himself up. The poké-dress falls to the floor. He walks over to the bathroom, taking slow, soft steps. Fluid trickles, splashing onto fluid. Then, a flush.

He emerges with fresh shirt and pants, his trekking bag slung over one shoulder. Cheeks glisteningly moist, all traces of face paint gone.

The knob turns. Brass hinges creak. A slam. Neil's firm, steady footfalls grow distant.

With Muhammad and his daughter, Sundays were easy. The three of us sat huddled on the sofa, watching the latest propaganda or football, whatever. Then all of a sudden Muhammad kind of just scooted over, put his head on my shoulder. His kid daughter between us. But I didn't notice the moment, see it for what it really was.

I was too busy staring at the screen.

The apartment was a mess. Hunks of tissue paper, green and white, lay ripped across the floor. Strewn here and there, slivers of torn cardboard and deformed papier mâché. Amidst it all, a neon green bob wig occupied space like an insult.

Outside, it had gotten kinda dark. Between the slats of the blinds, the sky was an even black mass. Figured I should head to the fridge, heat up some dinner. But I couldn't budge. It was as though the mattress was one of those Venus flytraps, and I was the bug.

Last time I heard, Muhammad's kid daughter was all grown up. She studies law now, at Yale. I know because she sent me a letter, which I received a couple years back. There was a return address on the envelope.

None of this matters, now. I threw out the letter.

Maybe she's not a student anymore, but a graduate. I can just see her working at this big law firm, living the life, supporting her papa. If I bumped into her again, I'm not even sure if I'd recognize her. Funny, how memories get warped when you don't use them.

But let's say I kept the letter. Let's say I sent out a letter of my own, and the envelope didn't get stuck in the mailbox, swept up in a storm, or dropped by a cargo handler. Would Muhammad and his daughter write back?

If they didn't, I'd get it. I really would.