Monkey Business

I ask him, have you ever had sex with a monkey? Poor man, nearly dropped his glasses on the freshly mopped floor. He stammers. Why ask such a thing? How could you even think such a horrible thing? Easy, I said, I’m human. I scan the wall of cages filled with diapered monkeys. Hairy babies that look more beautiful than some newborns I’ve been forced to coo over.

I ask him if it’s true, are we only 1% different than our little siblings? If so, it seems like such a small difference to fixate on. Though men often fixate on small differences. Then again, if 1% of humanity, about seventy million, suddenly got locked in tiny little cages or just dropped dead in the streets, it might leave a large tear in the fabric of society. There I go again. Such dark thoughts. You think me strange, I say, I see it in your eyes. Yet if I presented myself to you as an ape to her lover, you would throw your glasses aside, not even bother to rip the lab coat from your body and mount me with abandon.

I wonder aloud, is it that you don’t want to have sex with a monkey, or are you just afraid of the diseases you’ll catch? The ones you gave them. If that’s all, I’ve got something for you in my purse. No? Oh, I’ve seen that lip curl before. On Little Sister here, when you walked into the room. Disgust was written all over her face. Made me wonder, just what did you do to this poor little thing? No, I’m no activist. I’m not here to free these wretched creatures. My curiosity does not extend to actionable empathy. You know all about that. I feel sorry for the homeless, but I don’t even bother to throw loose change in their cup. I’m just kind enough not to kick it.

So you’ve never really thought about it? Perhaps that’s why you’re just an assistant and not in charge. Lack of imagination. I’d rather curl my own lips at the pile of trash being mixed around in my brain than be satisfied with nothing more than going with the flow. Though maybe we need men like you. Too much trash can be toxic, after all. I think I’ll imagine it for both of us. A long day in the lab surrounded by women who’d rather touch a test tube than you. A kind look from Little Sister. Hmmm. Sorry, Little Sister, but he cares little for your pleasure. I would offer a shot of sympathetic vodka, but I don’t know how that would interact with your daily cocktail.

What, oh, you’d like me to leave? And if I just stand here, eye to eye, slowly pulling down the strap of my dress? There. I can feel your pulse quicken from here. The switch flipped. Just another animal. A monkey in a suit, and I’ve slept with god knows how many of them. You see him, Little Sister, ready to lose his shit? Maybe that’s the real difference between us, the 1%. We gave up throwing real shit for the emotional. I’m not sure who got the better end of that deal. No worries, I know the way out. After I say goodbye. Little Sister, please don’t think ill of me. That I won’t risk myself to save you. We’re not of the same troop after all. My kind is barely willing to take care of our own.

Goodbye, Little Sister. May you feel the sun at least a day before you’re dead and be grateful you don’t have to account for your actions in the afterlife. Because unlike the reluctant lover over here, I can imagine the list, and it will be long.