expat leap year
Izzy Capulong
robert de la cigarette has never had an orgasm. not for lack of trying - he’s stuck his dick into plenty of receptors and they’ve all loved it. enthusiastically expressing their love for his sexual prowess. everyone seems to be getting in on the robert de la dick celebration except the owner of the dick himself. he’s tried everything — vacuum cleaners, holes in the ground, every porno shop owner in the quartier pigalle knows him by name. he has his own coupon (after 12 pocket pussies, the 13th is free) but no matter what he does, no matter who he does, no orgasm! it’s not like he can’t feel any pleasure. on the contrary, he’s no ernest hemingway in the sun also rises, but it’s as if he’s being edged by some greater universal power. at this point, he’s fucked everyone in the 5th arrondissement, save for that homeless woman who catcalls him every time he walks by. he’s going on day 69 now, ironically, of hearing her yell “ROBERT DE LA GRAND BIT!!!! ROBBIE COME SHOW ME HOW YOU PLEASE A WOMAN” and such.
with all of that time that should have been dedicated to orgasming perpetually available, robert de la cigarette spends his time with the french crypto communists — not in a ‘redistribution of bitcoin to the working class’ type of way, but in a ‘they believe that crypto will heal the universe so they call themselves communists even though they look up to elon musk and frankly i’m losing all the respect for french anarchism that i once had’ type of way.
but, february 29, robert de la cigarette accompanied his best friend a rave with some movers of paris, some shakers of berlin, and some dealers of cleveland. rob’s best friend is bearded shapeshifter who apparently believes that he’s jesus or a prophet or something like that. but that night, february 29, is also the night that monsieur de la cigarette had some really sketchy mdma from a kid who said it was “as clean as his shit normally is” — which, in hindsight, should not have been as reassuring as he thought it was. little did he know that this estuary pushing the salt of assorted white powders to the young, beautiful, soon-to-be 27 clubbers had been supplied by this literal and metaphorical key holder — who happened to be hedi slimane’s american plant-waterer.
robert de la cigarette tells the prophet that he’s never had an orgasm. the prophet reveals that he is a prophet and that, after years of being suicidal, au cause de la fact that his streetwear brand wasn’t taking off how he had hoped, he finally took a bite out of that metaphorical hunk of metal in chekov’s pistol (probably by jumping into the seine, because that seems like something a pre-resurrected cheeseball of an unrealized prophet would do). but, he came back to life. strangely enough, the technicalities of his resurrection were the vaguest part of the story. robert de la cigarette decided to roll with it anyway. speaking of rolling. he was tripping absolute balls. sack and all.
robbie, alongside our prophet of the dancefloor, our hermes with winged kiss boots, discusses the other members of the new world order — kanye, elon, and all the other ‘radicals’ and ‘tastemakers’ of the universe. the author wishes to remind everyone that this was written pre kanye’s white lives matter ordeal, there are lines, some crossed, some uncrossed, many done.
robert de la cigarette is entranced as he tries to remember any instance in which elon musk had ever been heralded as a style icon. he follows the prophet to the vip section. the cool thing about being a prophet of the new world and also a well-known french cryptocommunist influencer streetwear designer, is that you can easily penetrate the vip section. no lube needed. it’s 4 am now and robert de la cigarette does not remember if today is february 29, or if he arrived at the soiree february 29. having crossed the border of midnight into the next day without the shovel of sleep to draw a line in the sand, r comma ciggy sits a bit stupidly and listens to his prophet friend, watching as his beard moves and he changes color. he hopes to uncover the secrets of the phallic orgasm.
the prophet is sat across the bartender, waiting on tips and her smoke break. robert de la cigarette doesn’t know if it’s the combination of the mdma and his focus on getting his penis into a receiving hole by the end of the night, but he feels extremely in touch with this bartender. he can read her thoughts as she unwillingly receives one of the prophet’s disjointed sermons:
“i fuck with people with the ability to perceive”
what does that even mean, she thinks, frenchly.
“the eye holds the meaning of life. my soul resides in the obelisk outside the church”
what the fuck
“nice doesn’t exist. sorry doesn’t exist”
…
“it is suicide to go against allah and we are all allah. women are superior because allah made them second. women are god”
im god?
“i am the dalai lama. you are god”
im god. isn’t the dalai lama actually an asshole? i should google that. fuck. hes looking – i was supposed to answer. i should nod
she nods. the prophet slowly and graciously lets a smile envelop his face.
“YOU UNDERSTAND! YOU GET IT!”
ah jeez, she thinks, even more frenchly.
“DEATH ISN’T FOR GOD AND WE CAN’T DIE! LIFE IS ETERNAL! BOO! AAH! I KEEP MY REE- CEPITS! WE ARE BONSAI! KAMIKAZE BONSAI!”
wait did this guy just change color?
“DEATH TO THE WHITE DEVIL!”
yeah he definitely used to be white but now he’s more of an ethnically accurate jesus. curious
“I HAVE MEMORIZED ALL OF DICK GREGORY! DID YOU KNOW THAT! I’M RICH! I HAVE NO DEBTS!”
this strikes the bartender. nice, she responds, warming up to our bearded prophet.
“IT’S NOT NICE! IT’S BEAUTIFUL! NICE DON’T EXIST! TONIGHT I WILL STAY AT THE COMFORT INN FOR FREE!”
the bartender starts to start to respond, but it’s here that a disgruntled sneaker-clad patron approaches her. “alloooooooo j veux un boissssoonnnnn putaaaaiiiin t’es en train a travaillerrrr ou tes en train a parlerrrrrrrrrrr mon dieuuuuu.”
this dude’s vibes were so off, even the prophet came off of his kamikaze bonsai high. his gaze darkens. he continues his sermon, now only looking at the patron. “i fuck with people who can perceive. and you can tell who can perceive through their expression. but no one here has any fucking DRIP! NO FLOW!” he’s agitated. “WHAT ARE THOSE FUCKING SNEAKERS! SNEAKERS IN THE CLUB! WHAT HAPPENED TO ART AND EXPRESSION! WHY IS THERE NO FLOW! WHY AM I THE ONLY ONE WITH FLOW IN THIS CLUB”
oh god robert de la cigarette get the fuck out of there! the prophet, fed up with the lack of flow in the club, takes a bottle and smashes it over the patron’s head. the bartender uses this to make her leisurely escape to her smoke break. she seals her handroll with blood spatter. the prophet is inconsolable.
there’s blood on the dancefloor of the vip section. jaeger is spilled. memories pour out of the patron like grey goose. rob! get the fuck out of there!
r of the cigar ditches his best friend to try and live another day. after all, he can’t die without having an orgasm. as he claws his way out of the bloodied and beer-battered vip section, toward the cold and welcoming air of 4:30 am paris, guided by the light of the street lamps and the full moon growing ever closer, he makes his way out, only to stumble the homeless woman who has catcalled him for 68 days straight. if she says anything, that would make today day 69.
he stares at her unblinking and unwavering, waiting for her latest creative comment about his cock bulging through those skinny little navy pants that all respectable french men seem to wear. she opens her mouth — oh god here it comes, much unlike someone we know — but to his surprise, and to her own surprise as well, she closes it. they are looking each other up and down now.
illuminated by the forgiving light of the 4:33am french moon, coupled with the gentle backdrop of a no-longer pitch-black night, (credits to the smog, excellent work, lovely color palette. great for ambiance, leaving you a wonderful yelp review as we speak), the woman looks quite beautiful. and to the woman, robert de la cigarette doesn’t just look hot, or like a source of a good fuck, he looks like someone she could fall for.
jaws clench. holes loosen. and the two wordlessly make a b-line for the other’s mouths. they fuck rough and with love.
robert de la cigarette has never felt anything like this before. maybe, he thinks to himself, unwashed pussy is the way to go. of course, the woman is loving it. nothing can pull him out of this trance. except, he sees a familiar bearded fellow - but this time no prophet, no shapeshifting — by job, he thinks, it’s jesus h christ himself! good lord! that’s the good lord! if that’s the second coming, then i must be the first ! yes! yes! oh no!
at this moment, three people round the corner, leaving jesus to run through the streets, slipping on the cobblestone in his sandals and all rob can think is “thank god i am not ernest hemingway in the sun also rises!” still thrusting, he sees the three guys each pull out a metal pipe.
oh? he thinks? still laughing and still reeling in the pleasure — so close to an orgasm
the three guys start beating the shit out of jesus
oh. he realizes. his thrusts start to quicken. still watching the son of god get beat up, metal pipes on beat with the growing moans of the woman under him.
three guys. the father the son and the holy spirt.
im going to cum?
the dalai lama, allah, and woman.
im going to cum! my first orgasm!
robert de la cigarette is having his first orgasm!
but alas! the light of the moon, the mdma, and the bloodloss are too much for his pleasure-submerged body to handle.
in time with his final thrusts
in time with the final moans of the homeless catcalling woman
in time with the last thumps of metal against jesus’ sandaled frame
in time with the prophet’s last smashes of jaeger bottle
and in time with the pulsing of his newly minted
“orgasm-count: 1” cock
robert de la cigarette passes away
under the light of the 4:58am french moon.
izzy capulong is a writer at office mag, secret meme page admin, ex catholic school attendee, ordained minister, and create mode repeat offender. she once got called “poet” by gordon raphael. she really hopes her mom doesnt read this. her substack name — “everyone’s sober girlfriend” is a joke, as she is most likely drunk now.