The Sex Pest

Emily McPhillips

Nobody has sex in my house.
I have hired the services of a sex pest.
He will live in the small cupboard under the stairs.
He will wear Armani suits, because our sex pest will have flair,
He will have the clarity of a stock broker as he shouts at us his next move.
The sex pest has a fetish for sex in small places.
He will fuck us in the cupboard.
When he works, he will hang on a sign on the door that reads, "Do Not Disturb. Sex Pest On Duty."
 
The stairs shake and creak from the hours of five until nine.
We eat dinner with the sex pest.
He likes to blend his food. 
He has tried to blend a fillet steak with Irish soda bread.
The sex pest has a block, like a knife block, of sex toys.
He likes to have a wank whilst watching The Good Life.
He sets us homework. 
Last week I had to write a five hundred word essay on what I found most inspiring about his penis.
He made, Sandra, (my housemate) braid his pubic hair.
He took a photo of this.  He framed the photo.
 
He likes to listen to The Cardigans whilst he's fucking.
He thinks of Scandinavian girls.
He has never been to Scandinavia.
He calls me Olga.
The sex pest has made me come every night for the past seven and a half months.
 
I have written the sex pest credentials.
I have nominated him for an award.
I have clipped his toe nails.
And I have mailed his parents birthday cards.
 
I am married to my sex pest.
He lives under my stairs.
I pay him £6.20 an hour, standard rate.
I am thinking about giving him a raise.
 
 
© Emily McPhillips 2007

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emily McPhillips was born in 1985. She lives in Manchester where she studies Journalism at Salford University. Her short stories have appeared in various zines.