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My Friend Diane

Story by Emily Flouton (Read author interview) May 16, 2016

Art by Katelin Kinney

My friend Diane once had sex with this guy and went home from his place the next morning wearing his roommate’s contact lenses instead of her own. She’d gotten wasted like always and was so hungover she didn’t even notice. The roommate was not happy. Diane tried to laugh it off but the dude never called her again. Another time Diane had sex with a guy with a tampon in. It got jammed up so far inside her during the act that she couldn’t find it afterwards, so she asked the guy she’d just screwed for his help getting it out. He helped her, but it grossed him out so much that he stopped talking to her. I don’t know why she couldn’t have just done it herself or asked a friend or something. Stuff like that makes us go, “That’s our Diane!” Then there’s the time Diane spent the night with this guy she really liked, who really liked her back. He had to leave for work early the next morning, but he trusted her, so he left her alone in his apartment. Diane was in snoop heaven, opening drawers and making herself coffee. After the coffee she had to use the facilities, if you know what I mean, and of course she managed to clog his toilet. She looked everywhere for a plunger but she couldn’t find one so she actually tried to MacGyver the toilet with a wire hanger. Well, it didn’t work, and she had to leave, because by this point she was running late for work herself—she’s been a receptionist at the same hair salon for five years, it’s a little sad—but she didn’t want to leave a bowlful of crap there. So she found a plastic bag under the sink and used it to pick up her mess the way a dog owner cleans up after a dog. Then she wrote the guy a note, like, “Hi, I had a great time, let’s do it again soon,” plus maybe some sexy stuff. And she left, pulling the door closed behind her to lock it, only to remember that she’d left the bag of her own excrement sitting on the counter next to the note, handles wrapped in a bow like a gift. What did she do after that? I’m not sure, actually. Diane always ends the story there. We’ll be in stitches by that point, rolling, it’s our favorite Diane story, and she’ll be looking down at her hands and shaking her head all rueful, but it’s obvious she knows it’s hilarious. She loves telling it. One time after Diane told that story, I found her in the ladies’ room just staring at herself in the mirror and I was like, “What up, D?” and then I was embarrassed for her because she seriously looked like she was about to cry.

About the Author

Emily Flouton is pursuing an MFA in creative writing at The University of New Orleans. Her work is forthcoming from Flyway: Journal of Writing and The Environment.

About the Artist

Katelin Kinney is from the hills and fields of Southern Indiana. She attained two BFAs from the Herron School of Art and Design in Indianapolis, IN. Her portfolio consists of fine art and commercial freelance work.

This story appeared in Issue Fifty-Two of SmokeLong Quarterly.
SmokeLong Quarterly Issue Fifty-Two

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