Mar 12, 2021, 06:29AM

My Agent is Sleeping With My Wife

Rooster gets cucked by his agent Maury, and doesn’t appear to care all that much.

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Pictured: The author, where he belongs.

“Rooster, what is this? Your shit’s all fucked up. I can’t read this. Can you read this, Monica? Come over here, I wanna see you.” Maury wasn’t allowed to touch my wife. He was never allowed to touch my wife. And yet my wife embraced him—this scum, this worm, this insect. I hate him, but he’s my agent. I must rely on him to get my books published. “Where are we at in terms of Italian paperbacks? Do they still use yellow covers? I’d be willing to license Always a Stone to a pulp publisher…” He stopped me right there. “Rooster, you’re all fucked up and I don’t know how to tell you really, really, how bad it is with you.” He helped himself to more of the cottage cheese he brought for himself. I tried not to ralph all over the room confronted with my sleazeball agent with a mouthful of creamy white chunks cradling my wife’s fat rump.

I should be nicer to my wife. My cousin Bennington, who’s perfect, would never hurt a woman, let alone criticize her rear.

Maury has pre-#MeToo hands. I will not elaborate. No he did not spend the night in my bed. Being a published author is very hard sometimes.

“Rooster, what is this? You’re killing me here, you’re killing me. There’s no kraut on this dog!” We moved to the backyard the next day for a cookout. It was nice this week. At least the weather was. I didn’t really enjoy my agent fucking my wife in my house, in my bed, while I tried to sleep downstairs, listening to them the whole time. No I don’t “get off” on this sickness. My wife needs help. Ever since she retired from being an international paramilitary mercenary, she’s needed more and more extreme thrills to “get off,” and I don’t just mean in the bedroom.

(Sorry. I’m old, but I am a bit prudish I guess. “Bedroom.” Hehe).

“Roo, come look at my shit. It’s more blue than usual.” That was one of the worst things I’ve ever heard in my life. I don’t like waking up in the morning (the early afternoon), because it’s the time—at least lately—when my wife “shits.” (I use her word, out of deference, respect, and love.) I’m not going to get into my “sex life” in this space but let’s just say her anal fixation is more… uh, active now. Like all day. I’m losing my goddamned mind I swear to God. “ROO. COME LOOK AT MY SHIT.”

I just don’t like anything to do with that business. So I leave it be. Bennington doesn’t either, but he can tolerate it. He’s truly a better person than me. I have to admit it. Perhaps this is why I had to watch my wife give my agent a blowjob in my own backyard in front of a live grill cooking pig flesh and vegetables. I wasn’t frozen with shock, I wasn’t angry, I wasn’t even perturbed—I was just bored. Could I possibly be as jaded as Monica by now? I’m not that much older than her, and I certainly didn’t get a “whirlwind of experience” when I was locked away in Guantanamo Bay nearly five years ago. I’ve lead a relatively calm life compared to her recently.

I don’t like being “cucked,” and once again I use a word that’s not my own, one that I don’t approve of, but nevertheless, describes my condition. “Rooster, you got any mayonnaise in the fridge? Corn in the barn? Chicken salad? I’m getting peckish, I could use some olives. Did you know I read and rejected that ‘Cat Person’ story a few years ago? Didn’t think it was any good. Thought the lead girl was a whore. Anyway, dumb asshole I am. You’ll be fine. We’ll slot you in with the Goosebumps reissues.” I should mention that he was flashing his cock at me through his leopard print bathrobe. It was only sort of hard (and vanishingly small).

I didn’t say anything. I just let him go upstairs so my wife could fuck him.

This isn’t how these things usually start. I’m really not aroused or interested in any of this, but I’m also not motivated to change it. Maury’s a disgusting human being, but he provides a service for me, helps me earn a living. Monica’s the love of my life and my soulmate, someone who I can tell anything and everything and with whom I share all of life’s spoils and miseries. I guess I don’t know what I’m saying. Bennington would never get this confused. I really don’t like that my agent is fucking my wife, but what can I do? Really, I mean, what? Call the police? Writing this column is humiliating enough.

I should ask my cousin Bennington (a genius) for advice. He’d know what to do—he always knows what to do. Where’s he been lately anyway? Splice Today readers miss the better Quibbits, the best male specimen of the family line. He’s so smart and funny. Don’t worry, I’ll cede this space—just like my wife—because I’m weak. Maybe I’ll retire, or kill myself. Honestly the second would be preferable. If I do either though, check out my cousin Bennington! Hit him up on all your socials and send him some bones on CashApp or Venmo! He could always use it, and know this, he’ll always deserve it.

I love my wife. But not as much as Bennington loves this world and everyone in it. He’s so beautiful and I’m the whore. Bennington.

—Follow Rooster Quibbits on Twitter: @RoosterQuibbits


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