The diary of a bedbug

sleeping model

Diary: Spent the night with a supermodel. Pfaf! She acted like I wasn’t even there. We hooked-up in a club and she took me back to her hotel without asking my name. She’s taller than she looks in photos and I’ve always been small. The girl was a restless sleeper and tossed and turned. I bit her on the ankle but it had no effect. I bit her behind the knee and that got a response. Gleep! She tried her best to slap me, but I was too fast.

She kept trying to pinch me. It was annoying. I got very little sleep, but I had my way with her in the early hours. Pfaf! She tasted of Thai food and green tea. The next morning, she left without a word. Typical. I pictured her at a snooty photo shoot for some upscale product, having to scratch her ankles every few seconds. It makes life worthwhile.

I hitched a ride on her luggage and went to the airport. There I met two sisters from Panama. A blonde and a brunette. Gleep! They had come to New York for fun and I was right there with them the whole time. They slept in one bed as they had since childhood. Only now, oo la la. The brunette tasted better but I got seriously high from the blonde. She had a thing for Polish vodka. Great, apart from the pierogi aftertaste.

They spent a lot of time discussing men in my presence. Tacky, I suppose. They had no interest in my views on the subject. I couldn’t complain. Being able to jump from one of them to the other all night long was an experience I won’t soon forget. By morning, my head was spinning and my jaw was sore and tired. How do I gleep love thee, let me count the bites. To paraphrase the immortal Browning.

Spent the night with a dude in the East Village. Different, sure. All that hair on the legs was a challenge—and not just aesthetically. Being with that guy was a real workout. And he was rough, too. Kept slapping at me and shouting, “Bitch…!” I bit him on his gleeping ass for good measure.

I know he’ll remember me, but I can’t say the same. Maybe I’m frivolous, but having a lot of partners has always been my way. I may be in your pfaf bed tonight, but tomorrow, who knows?

Diary: I finally met the right girl—in Times Square, of all places. She’s a beauty. Petite, round as a full stop, tanned; her shell was shiny and had a slight brownish tint. She was heartbreak beautiful. For once I was in bed with someone who really cared about me, who welcomed and desired me. She said she wanted children. Two or three million.

What we had together was amazing and I hated to see it end. But, inexplicably, after our nurk honeymoon, she took up with a jazz musician. I think they got high together. Something about the resonance of the saxophone, she said, that made her vibrate all over. I tried to be big about it. It’s been hard living without her, but I carry on.

Spent the night with some Japanese tourists. Do the women ever stop giggling? They tasted of fish and it was a welcome change from the typical New Yorker diet of pushcart food and hard liquor. The women were practically hairless; it was divine. They carried me from room to room as the party grew. We sang songs and made gestures in unison. Something a bit creepy about it, but when they retired to their beds, I was there to provide a frisson for their dreams. They left me, ironically, at the Statue of Liberty, tempest tossed and exhausted.

I found the warm sunlight on the grass very appealing and I passed several days there, fasting and coming to grips with myself. We age quickly, you know, and I had been jumping from bed to bed for some time now, not thinking much about the future, just about who I’m, gleep, doing tonight.

A family of African-Americans took me home to Brooklyn and I spent the summer with them, snug as a you-know-what. I found them charming and gracious hosts, although they certainly ate a lot of spicy food. I don’t mind, you understand. Heartburn is my middle name. After a while, I had had enough of salty greens and I longed for some variety.

The daughter of the family went back to NYU after summer break and she introduced me to life on campus. The dorm was a large building filled with beds, beds, beds. Everyone had an iPhone. Personally, I never had a problem with the antenna. And I could make some strange things happen by skittering across the screen. Once I think I called Bangkok, or maybe it was Singapore. I have relatives everywhere but we don’t get together as a family very often.

After a few weeks, I grew tired of dorm life—the endless making-out, the deluge of watery beer, the stink of pfaf acne medication, the all-nighters. No one was in their bed, sleeping. It was just too much. I must say, however, that the sweet and tender flesh of those co-eds was a heady dish I won’t soon forget. If that makes me a pervert, then so be it.

Diary: Someone is trying to gleeping kill me! I know it may sound paranoid and crazy, but judge for yourself. I was in bed in a good hotel with a Republican member of Congress when suddenly I hear gruff voices, the covers are thrown off and a brilliant light comes on. Someone says, “Aha”, and the next thing I know, pfaf, a cloud of toxic vapor is swirling all around me. I coughed and coughed. My little lungs burned and stung. It was awful. Chemical warfare! What am I, a gleeping criminal, a terrorist? Would you do this to your grandmother?

I survived, but just barely. I couldn’t eat for days and itched madly. Fortunately, I was saved by an older man of Italian descent who had a bed of rough, wool blankets and tasted of fresh basil and tarragon. If it wasn’t for him, I might have perished. He was kind enough to share his bed with me and out of respect I only bit him on the toes.

Diary: I’m tired of all that trash about me in the Manhattan media. I’m longing for someplace where the weather suits my clothes. Maybe Barcelona. Maybe Rio. I might go to Benares and see if I can make my thorax vibrate. In some parts of the world, people think of me more as a pet than a pest. I’ll miss the Big Ankle, but I fear I won’t be missed. Without me, most of you would go to bed alone. And who will, nurk, bite you then?

 

By Gregory Von Dare

 

Books for writers                                       FAQ