The Ice Cream Social - A Hideous Recollection From The Pandemic

I have never been to an ice cream social.

I don’t know anyone who has ever been to an ice cream social.

“In my driveway,” the invitation read. “We will enjoy ice cream.”

And I knew I was screwed.

And I was right.

And wrong.

I mean who the fuck would invite people over for ice cream during the most devastating pandemic since 1918.

“Fuck ice cream,” I thought. “I’ll bring tequila.” And, I did.

And so did others.

And that was her point.

Life is meaningful because of connections.

Sometimes lubricated.

Lonely people look for others, even as far away as next door.

Her bet was we won’t give up our new connections after the ice cream.

Except the ones the virus kills.

They will be forgotten.

The dead are always forgotten.

I smiled knowingly and dumped my ice cream into the dog bowl and drew deep on a half- empty, probably virus-ridden, bottle of cheap Mezcal.

I knew it was cheap. I brought it.

And that’s the moment I could see it all clearly.

I grabbed the black seal rum and dick-mixed it sloppily with heavy cream. I called it “Sperm.”

Everyone loved it.

I tossed one into our hostess’ face. I told her it was a “cum shot.” She was horrified, but not surprised.

Jane and Bill laughed wildly and quickly disappeared into an upper bedroom. They fucked each other senseless.

I know. I heard. It all.

I get it.

We need to drink.

We need to fuck.

We need each other.

We need ice cream socials.

The ice cream is optional.

Selah.

- Karger, 4/5/2020

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