Here’s Halle Berry arriving at her new boyfriend Olivier Martinez’s home in Paris and receiving a warm welcome from his dog friend. A dog friend that looks a little shifty in the eyes to me. A dog friend I don’t really trust. A dog friend that takes me back…
So, when I first moved to NYC (cue smoke and a rippling screen effect), I met some dude online late one night. We agreed to meet at some bar, and eventually, we ended up back at his apartment. As soon as he started to put his key in, I heard this bad omen of a bark coming from the other side of the door. The bark was so deep and angry that I knew what the princess felt like in Clash of the Titans when the Kraken was coming at her. Right before we go in, the dude says, “Oh, I have a dog.” DUH! Either he has a dog, or his mean grandmother should really quit the cigs.
When we finally get inside, this gigantic beast of an animal immediately jumps on the dude, and the two sort of slobber on each other while moving around a bit. Like they’re in fucking Dancing with the Stars! Then the dog looks at me, and I’m thinking to myself, “Fuck the internet,” because I know I’m about to touch crotches with a dog. This is not how the game is supposed to play out.
If you haven’t already figured it out by now, this dog was huge. Like “if Marmaduke was a Hogan” huge. Enormous. My main goal was just to get it done and get out of there. We get to business and quickly ended up on the bed. Well, guess who showed up and made himself comfortable without an invitation? THAT DAMN DOG! As soon as the buzz-killing dog hit the sheets, the dude goes, “Oh, he has to get on the bed with me, or he’ll start whining.” The hell? Here’s the condom; I’ll hit the mood music while I’m making my way out so you two can be alone!
But since I’m the kind of slut who doesn’t like to quit a gig until it’s done, no matter what the conditions are, I stayed.
Things are starting to get a little wet and heavy, so the dude starts to moan a bit (yeah, he’s one of those). This made me even more nervous, because what if the dog thought I was attacking his owner and bit my asshole off! That would be the worst. Imagine laying on your stomach in the ER and telling the doctors around you, “Um. A dog sort of bit my asshole off. It was unprovoked!” A dozen “Yeah, suuuure” looks would fill their faces as they search whatever is left of my asshole for peanut butter or dog gravy. Again, this is not how the game is supposed to play out.
Just when I begin to forget about the spoiled dog, I hear him licking at his bits, and it’s loud! It sounded like my abuelita mopping the kitchen linoleum. That dog isn’t only made of evil but also of saliva. It’s like he was joining in. You know, because we were licking each other’s parts, and there’s the dog licking his right next to us. Menage a NO! NO! NO! That pretty much killed what was left of the moment, which wasn’t much.
I finally get through it, and just as I’m starting to put on my clothes, the dude says, “You’re not staying?” UM. Did he not experience what I experienced?! Stay for what? So I could eventually end up sleeping on the Ikea rug on the floor while he spoons with Marmadevil on the bed? I couldn’t get out of that hell hole of bestiality fast enough! But as I’m starting to leave, I look over at beast master and I swear that dog winked at me like, “Bye, whore.” And you know it wasn’t the first time or the last time he gave that wink.
Anyways, what I’m getting at is that I hope Olivier Martinze’s dog isn’t anything like that, or else Halle Berry better invest in some armor for her asshole.