Art by Paul Rios
This here is a memoir of Monsieur A. Pervért and his misadventures of perversion and grime.
It was a usual night. I was sitting in my usual seat at my usual bar sipping on my usual brew with the sweet scent of fresh beer and pub food tickling my nose. My lady was pouring beers for the wayward souls strolling on in for a liquid remedy. The pub had its usual hustle and bustle, a steady flow of folks coming and going. Most nights I keep to myself. Chatting with the bar staff or maybe a couple regulars, nothing too exciting on most nights. I enjoy people watching and like any pub there’s always a good number of people to check out, but none quite as enigmatic as Monsieur A. Pervért.
Now I’ve seen Monsieur A. Pervért on multiple occasions and exchanged a couple niceties of recognition, but up until last week I had only heard stories of his famed perversion. Awkward stares, smiles and obscene comments were only the tip of the iceberg from what I’ve heard, but those are other stories for another time. This here is the memoir of my first encounter with the perverted legend himself.
Like I said before, there I was, sipping on my usual beer in my usual spot, when Monsieur A. Pervért slithered through the front door wearing his usual perfectly matched all denim Canadian Tuxedo. With a name and outfit such as his, one can only assume Monsieur A. Pervért is part of that exclusive league somewhere deep in the heart of French Canada. Something that I should, but I don’t hold against him. This is the least of his faults.
After giving an unusually long scan over the pub, Monsieur A. Pervért strutted over to the bar, gave me a smile, sat down in the stool next to me and ordered his usual Guinness. My smile back must have been an invitation to talk because the next thing I knew I was deep in my first ever conversation with Monsieur A. Pervért. Not surprising the entire conversation was dominated with degrading talk about women–fat women, skinny women, old women and young women, Monsieur A. Pervért apparently doesn’t discriminate. If you have lady parts, boner teams a go.
After hearing what this gentleman of the night would do to every woman in the pub, a unsuspecting gentleman came up to the bar to order beers for him and his friends. Monsieur A. Pervért quickly engaged this guy and for some reason or another asked if we could join his group festivities. The guy looked a little confused at the proposal, but stupidly must of thought we were harmless and accepted Monsieur A. Pervért’s proposition. Monsieur A. Pervért must of sensed my hesitation and offered to buy my next beer to coax my temptation. Now it’s no secret that I love me some beer. Some sweet, sweet beer. So naturally I accepted the freebee. Now being caught in the middle and in debt for a beer, I decided to go over so not to seem rude.
Reluctantly I walked over to the table of unknowns, smiled and pulled up a seat. Everyone was quite nice and we quickly got to bullshitting about anything from politics to our favorite books. Losing track of time through enjoyment, I forgot about Monsieur A. Pervért. Realizing that I hadn’t heard him chime in to the conversation, I glanced up to see what he was up to. There he was, eyes fully engaged on the girl’s breasts sitting directly next to him. Like a hungry piece of wood hunting down a beaver. Or is that the other way around? I tend to jumble things up after a couple drinks. Anyway…
The rest of the table stayed completely oblivious to the eye molestation that was going down, including the girl being caressed via mind power until Monsieur A. Pervért tapped her on the shoulder. This is where weird went to creepy.
“I really love your breasts.” Monsieur A. Pervért threw out all nonchalantly. The girl stared at him eyebrow raised, probably not quite sure what to make of this forward comment. I held my breathe not quite sure what to make of this moment myself. After a couple-contemplating seconds she responded with an awkward, “ok yeah thanks. I guess.”
I let out a sigh of relief. I was expecting worse. Unfortunate for me, my relief was short lived. The table gazed at both Monsieur A. Pervért and me. Apparently the kind gentleman that allowed us to sit with his group of friends had something going on with the girl Monsieur A. Pervért was ogling. I assume some sort of boyfriend or jealous want-to-be boyfriend. He most certainly had something different to say.
“Ok dudes that wasn’t cool at all. I invited you over to our table to hang out because I’m a nice guy. Cut that bull out or both of you can get lost.”
Lost for words and a bit embarrassed to be put in the same category as this obvious creeper, I didn’t respond. Seeming to be no stranger to such reactions, Monsieur A. Pervért calmly responded hands out while nodding his head, “Ok, ok sorry man. I was just playing around. No harm, no foul. I feel ya.”
This gesture seemed to be acceptable to the table and people went back to their conversation. Fortunate for us because I could have sworn I heard a dirty comment follow under his breath. Something along the lines of supple and nipple.
At this point I started to wonder what the hell I was still doing in this situation, but I reminded myself that he did buy me some beers so out of respect I had to stick it out. Wanting to ease my tension I quickly joined in the conversation in hope to help make amends. It seemed that Monsieur A. Pervért was also making some headway with the girl he offended. They were deep in conversation with some definite smiles and laughs. So I guess this guy really isn’t that bad after all. Maybe just a little misunderstood.
The night appeared to be on the upswing with everyone enjoying themselves and knocking back beer after beer. Not that we would all be best of friends after the night, but definitely good acquaintances. Just as I was starting to get really comfortable with the evening events, Monsieur A. Pervért struck again.
In an unapparent attempt to make himself look good or to just shoot himself in the foot with this girl he was making good headway with. Maybe he had run out of competent things to say or perhaps to just be a complete ass. I really don’t know. In a rather too loud of a statement, Monsieur A. Pervért blurted out without a hint of shame, “Hey baby. I can suck my own dick.”
All that raced through my mind was, ‘Holy crap. Was that for real?’ That was it for me. Before anyone had time to react to the world’s worst pickup line, I quickly stood up and walked away with beer in hand. That was definitely my cue to leave. I went straight to my usual seat at the bar and stared straight ahead at the TV with my back to the table I just hastily left. Not daring to turn my head around I heard a face shattering slap, a most well deserved grimace of pain and the shuffling of chairs as people scurried to get up and not so gently escort Monsieur A. Pervért out of the bar. What went on from there I do not know and do not care. Any hope of newfound acquaintances surely squashed.
My dignity definitely took a hit that night, guilty by association. I didn’t even get a trial. Seems about right for our social jungle. I think the moral of this story is to beware whom you accept a free beer from. No matter how free you may think it is, it most certainly can screw you in the end. Roofied or not.