In Bakersfield, California it is illegal to have unprotected sex with Satan

Sea slugs don’t have a lot of stamina in bed.

Don’t bring it up- they get self-conscious.

You’re lounging on a pouf scrolling through satanic smut

off the internet while Hannibal flambés a librarian’s short ribs.

the doorbell rings and Lucifer’s standing there with

a decorative shrubbery and apple butter pecan pie

because it’s so like Luci to get pretentious pastries

And he’s dressed head to toe in a snazzy white suit-

The Devil Wears Prada-

but his boxers are Armani

Not that you noticed at Broseph Stalin’s Mexican-themed midsummer soiree

(because do you really care about cultural appropriation when you’ve got Kim Jong Il dropping the bass and Voldemort putting on a wicked light show with a sombrero and a child molester mustache on?)

where Satan got a little too frisky with the Jose Cuervo

and sashayed a strip-flamenco across the fairy-lit garden

And you’d knocked back some margaritas so you cheered

because fuck it, let the Prince of Darkness be empowered and feel comfortable

with his body but at the same time you were like “girl, look at that body”

girl spelt with a “u” but there weren’t any girls around so you’d probably said that

to Alex or one of his droogs:

the chubby one who keeps going on about this hermaphrodite he dated who 

used to walk in his sleep and one time flashed a kindergarden class while taking a

power nap.

Now you’re all tucking in to Mr. O’Connolly, the librarian

and Hannibal’s a great wingman because he splashes chardonnay into Luci’s glass every time

he leans back to laugh his full-bodied chuckle

like a sun exploding in a puff that reminds you that the devil was once an angel too

before God gave him the boot. 

And you’re doing that thing where you laugh a little too loudly at his dead baby jokes

and you brush his arm while Hannibal smiles like a cannibal at a fat people convention,

which he did drag you to that one time, but you got a free shirt and a great pot roast out of it

—the best thing about crashing at Hannibal’s is that you’re always well fed.

Halfway through the creme brûlée and pie you’re engaging Satan in a merry joust of your mom jokes and things are getting heated—literally heated as the table where Luci’s leaning his palms starts to char and your nether regions are getting hot and bothered. You hope Hannibal has

a stash of condoms because you’re pretty sure it’s Virginia where it’s illegal to have unprotected sex with Satan, although considering there are bits of broiled

 scalp crusting your dessert it’s not that big a deal until an off-color crack about Luci’s mom

being so old that she prostituted herself to Jesus and holy crap, you’ve got 6”3 and two hundred pounds of Satan slamming you onto Hannibal’s now-violated mahogany table, breathing lightning and ash and eternal sorrow and a carnal hunger for flesh not on Hannibal’s menu.

Fucking Hannibal keeps smiling, enjoying the dinner and a show although when you stalk and stuff your face with people I guess every meal comes with entertainment. 

Imagine—a cannibal cabaret.

Fast forward fifteen minutes later through the sex show of awkwardness where Luci brushes himself off with a cough because the Adversary doesn’t apologize—courage never to submit or yield and all that—and probably because he liked it judging by how he’s patting down the

front of his trousers, 

and you’re thanking Hannibal for the repast amidst small talk of the growth patterns of manatees

and wanting to smash small children with a hammer.

You show Luci to the front door like a good co-host but somehow

he’s cupped your hands and slow-danced you to the door of your guest room and 

whoops you’re alone and somehow there’s floating candles and smooth jazz and rose petals

(wait no those are the leftover blood spatters from the milk man)

And he keeps locking and unlocking the bedroom door with his angelic-devilish douchebaggery until you sigh “just get on the bed you goddamned idiot” before you lean in to the suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

And that’s how you ended up doing genocide and grand larceny and normal coffee shop date things with your boyfriend, Satan, courtesy of your number one wingman Hannibal Lecter.