Bobo and I knew that our love would never be acceptable in our lifetime.
We had been nearly as close as siblings throughout all of the parts of our lives that we could remember. We'd been weaned from the breast, taught to speak English, and potty trained together. Bobo had a little doll named Apple Mary, a gift from his handlers, that had become precious to both of us. He was my best friend and I was his. I was his.
I can't forget the day that he finally made his intentions clear to me. He had been trying to tell me for many years. I was a fool not to have recognized his overtures sooner. We were playing our customary game of checkers when he decided to break the rules. ALL of the rules. He put his checker on top of mine, making a King checker, and then proceeded to stack up all of our other checkers on the board, in the manner of a multi-storied, stuff-less Oreo. He offered it to me on bended knee, head bowed but with bright eyes fixed to my own. There was no possibility of escape or circumvention. The chimp loved me, and I loved him. If only I hadn't been so dense.
But if I had been a little less sensitive to his vocabulary; if I had been less susceptible to his charms; this story would not need to be told. If, when presented with that first red checker, displayed, as it was, between Apple Mary's cotton-filled legs, I had screamed and run, looking for my parents, as others have suggested would have been the rational course of action, I shudder at the thought of what other fate might have befallen me. No; I would not be the ChimpWifeGirl, as the internet and its denizens have so succicntly named me. Likelier, I would have become Mrs. Paperboy or Mrs. Mailman or Mrs. Why-would-you-let-her-spend-so-much-time-with-a-warthog. Conjecture is useless. There is only the Now.
Once I reached sexual maturity, I had many suitors. Bobo was just one of the many male animals who were interested in my future. My parents, unfortunately, were of the old school of romance. Their ideas were set upon my coupling with another human. Toward that end, they introduced me to a gentleman named Soren Bowie. He was as white as a sheet of paper and as interesting as a sheet of paper that was slightly crumpled in one corner. Although having paid handsomely for a few hours of my company, he squealed in fear and fled to his own anonymity after a changing room incident in which he may have been exposed to a full and honest viewing of my genitalia.
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