The Year without a Cupid

1.

Cupid was on the roof of the Cooper Union building in New York, threatening to jump. A group of college students had gathered in the street below, staring up at the devilishly handsome young man with the curly blond locks and porcelain skin, realizing he wasn't wearing any clothes.

"I'm calling 9-1-1," a girl said to her boyfriend.

"Good idea," the man answered.

Cupid inched closer to the edge of the roof, his muscled calves and bare feet extremely white in the February sun. His penis, which was already small to begin with, shriveled in the biting cold. This only served to increase his agitation.

"I'm going to jump!" he shouted to the crowd. "I swear to fucking god!"

The crowd in the street grew larger as people gawked and pointed. The man on the roof had obviously suffered some kind of mental breakdown -- the voices in his head apparently telling him to take off all his clothes.

"Love is dead!" he ranted. "So is Valentine's Day! I'm so sick of all you assholes with your chocolate candies and stuffed animals! Your romantic greeting cards with pictures of winged toddlers shooting arrows! I'm not a little baby with a one-inch dick, I'm a grown-ass man!" He tossed his quiver of arrows on the roof, disgusted. It was true. Cupid's true roots went back to the Greeks who called him Eros, an adult male heartthrob who made women swoon. It was the Romans, fearful of his sexual power and control, who reinvented him as a magical baby.

A fire engine came down the street, it's siren loud and blaring. Several police officers were already taping off the area.

"I'm done with Valentine's Day, understand! Done with it!"

"Holy shit," a professor from Cooper Union said. "That's Cupid."

"Who is it?"

"Cupid. I never thought I'd see the day. I've been teaching Greek and Roman mythology for over 30 years, but I never thought I'd see him here, in New York City. Christ, he's handsome. Even more gorgeous than described in the literature. His penis is just as small, too."

It was Cupid, alright. In the flesh. Standing naked on the roof of the Cooper Union building seven stories up, clearly out of his mind and looking like he was going to jump. He hugged himself in the wind, eyes welling with tears. None of these pathetic mortals knew his pain. Knew all the bullshit he had to go through, year after year. All the arrow-shooting and flying around, it was quite exhausting. He was over 2,000 years old, depending on whether you asked the Greeks or the Romans, and despite his heavenly physique, his fingers were calloused and he'd come down with a double case of tennis elbow.

But his suffering went much deeper than that. His biggest gripe was with his mother, Venus, the self-absorbed cunt who couldn't leave shit well enough alone. She'd finally done it at last -- banished Cupid's beautiful wife Psyche to the underworld for all eternity. Venus never liked Psyche from the start, never really cared about Cupid's happiness. It was always about her and her beauty, the vain bitch. So what if Psyche was more attractive and alluring than her? Why couldn't she be satisfied with the contentment of her own son?

Fuck Venus, Cupid thought. And fuck Valentine's Day, too. Did anyone actually think he was going to show up next week on February 14th, quiver full of arrows, and help anyone in this awful, rotten world find love?

Not a chance. Not a fucking chance.

It suddenly dawned on the crowd gathered in the street below that the crazy man standing on the roof was indeed Cupid, the god of love and desire. It was him, absolutely. You could see his tiny dick, plain as day.

"Oh my god!" someone shouted. "That's Cupid! I see him! Look!"

It was like a celebrity had just been spotted, and a frenzy came over the crowd. They pulled out their cellphones and took pictures.

"His dick is so tiny," a girl said.

"I can't see it," another said, squinting.

"I'm done with Valentine's Day, understand! Done with it!"

A police helicopter had been dispatched and was flying in the air, an officer shouting at Cupid through a bullhorn.

"Cupid! Back away from the ledge and go back inside! That's an order!"

"Fuck you!" Cupid said. He grabbed his quiver of arrows, shaking them angerly in his hand. Then he turned and dove off the roof, head first, letting his body free fall through the air.

"No!" a woman shouted, throwing her hands over her mouth. The police scrambled to get an inflatable mattress in place to break his fall, but they were too late; Cupid was speeding through the air, about to crash through the windshield of an SUV. Faces contorted in horror as everyone braced themselves for impact.

But he didn't crash, of course. The feathered wings on his muscled back kicked into motion and he stopped in mid-air. He floated for a moment, flipping everyone the middle finger, and like lightening, shot back up into the clouds, disappearing from view, a tiny fading dot on the golden horizon.

2.

The next day he went to a bar in Los Angeles, where he took a booth in the back with his favorite lady escorts. His bodyguards, Roland and Royce, were there with him, too. It was a funny thing, an immortal god like Cupid needing human bodyguards, but that was the life he led -- ever since he lost Psyche, that is.

Word had gotten out through social media and cable news that Cupid was in L.A. He'd been spotted at the Trees Lounge on Fairfax Avenue, where the owners had to close down early to keep people out.

Cupid was drinking a double bourbon and rocks, professing his love for Psyche as Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" played on the jukebox. It was his third drink since he'd gotten there two hours before. He was naked, of course. Clothing made him itch and break out in a rash. Two women -- a sultry redhead named Trinity and a blond tramp named Chelsea -- were sitting on either side of him, rubbing him down. There were two other scantily clad ladies sitting at his table, ready to service him. Roland and Royce were standing several feet away, arms crossed, surveying the situation.

"You think you know what love is?" Cupid was saying to the women at the table. "That's a laugh. You have no clue what it's like to be madly in love with somebody, to be with them for thousands of years, only to have that person stolen from you by a conniving, cold-hearted, total bitch of a mother. And for what? Because she was too beautiful to be allowed to stay here on earth? Because she might get all the attention?"

Cupid drained the rest of his bourbon, crunched an ice cube.

"Shhh, baby," the redhead said to him, kissing his neck.

Just then Roland and Royce turned toward each other and nodded.

"Can I have a word with you, Mr. Cupid?" Royce asked.

"What? What is it?"

"There's a woman here to see you about Valentine's Day. She says it's urgent. She says she traveled all the way from San Diego to see you. She even mailed you a letter."

Cupid rubbed his temples. "A letter? What the fuck? Does she think I'm fucking Santa Clause?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Well where is she?"

"Outside in the parking lot waiting. There's a line around the building, sir. Lots of people here to see you. It's Valentine's Day in six days, you know."

"I know when fucking Valentine's day is Royce, I'm not a fucking moron. Do you think I'm a moron Royce?"

"No sir. Of course not."

"Jesus Christ." Cupid grabbed his glass, saw that it was empty, frowned. He snapped his finger and pointed. "Yo, what the fuck? Does anybody work in this shithole bar or what? I need a refill, chop-chop."

A waitress came over and gave him a fresh drink. Cupid sipped it, lolled his head. "Okay," he said to Royce. "Send her in. Just her, nobody else. I don't need a whole crew of people in here whining about their love lives, and how so-and-so doesn't know they exist, or how such-and-such doesn't want to go out with them, or go down on them, or whatever the fuck, okay? I can't take hearing that shit today."

"Yes sir," Royce said. "Just the girl from San Diego, no one else."

"Fine."

The woman came in and walked up to Cupid's table. She was an attractive Latino girl in her mid-twenties, tall and slim, with dark-brown hair and eyes. She had on tight jeans and a white sweater. Her tits were small, Cupid noticed, but perky. Rosebud tits, he thought, and wondered how hard he could get them. He reached his hand under the table and felt his quiver of arrows, and his mind wandered.

"Hi, I'm Isabella," the girl said, holding out her hand. Cupid just stared at her. The girl was nervous and at a loss for words. She smiled instead. She had an absolutely gorgeous smile, which softened Cupid and made him think of Psyche.

"So what makes you think," Cupid said to her, leaning back in his booth, "that you're worthy of love? That's why you're here, I take it. Because you're in love and you need my help?"

"I'm here for a friend," Isabella said.

"A friend? Seriously?"

"Yes. A very close friend. His name is Joe."

"Joe?"

"Yes. Joe Avalon."

"Okay," Cupid said. "And let me guess: you want Joe to fall in love with you?"

"No, well--"

"No? That's not what you want?"

Isabella thought for a moment. "It's not like that," she said at last. "Joe's in love with Gretta. Or maybe he's not, I don't know. He's going to ask her to marry him on Valentine's Day, but it's a big mistake. He's with her because she helps him take care of his daughter, Lily. But she's not very good with her, you know?"

"Uh-huh," Cupid said.

"Joe's wife died three years ago, when he was 38. She had ALS. It was really sad. I felt so bad for Joe. And little Lily too. Joe's my coach, by the way. And personal trainer. I'm a distance runner. I'm training for a big 10K race this spring."

"Great," Cupid said.

"Yeah, so that's why I came here. Joe can't marry Gretta, he just can't. I don't want to tell him what to do, and I promised Carol -- that was his wife's name -- that I wouldn't interfere. She thought, at the end when she could barely talk or swallow, that something was going on between me and Joe. There wasn't. I would never, ever, do anything like that to Joe or his family, especially when his wife was sick. Joe wouldn't do that either. I'm Catholic, and go to church every Sunday. I won't complicate Joe's life, that's a promise I'll take to my grave. But I still really care about him, and I know what he's planning to do is a big mistake."

Cupid drank his bourbon, crunched another ice cube. "So what do you want me to do?"

"Stop them from getting married. Stop Joe from proposing on Valentine's Day."

"How?"

"Make him not want her anymore."

"I don't do that," Cupid said. "That's not the way it works."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't do that. And if Joe's in love with this Gretta chick already, it doesn't matter. It's a done deal. I'm sorry you drove all the way up here for this."

The sultry redhead sitting next to Cupid was now rubbing his shoulders. "You're a very attractive girl," she said to Isabella. "Want to join us for a little fun?"

Isabella nodded. "No thanks. I'm a--" Isabella trailed off. She was a virgin, a 26-year-old chaste, pristine church girl. It was embarrassing. She often wondered if saving herself for marriage was archaic and foolish.

"Thanks," Isabella said finally, "but I should be going now. I appreciate you meeting with me. There's like 500 people outside, waiting to see you."

Cupid gave a polite smile. He motioned to Royce, who got up and walked Isabella out of the bar.

3.

The next day, back in San Diego, Isabella injured her knee during a running workout at the local community college track. Joe had her lie down on the infield, took her left leg and bent it slowly, pushing it against her chest.

"How's this feel?" he asked her.

"It hurts a little."

"How bad? On a scale of 1 to 10?"

"About a 2 or 3."

"Okay. Meet me in the training room in 15 minutes. I'm going to get some treatment on that knee."

"Alright."

She hurried into the locker room to freshen up. She looked at herself in the mirror above the sink, undid her ponytail. Her long brown hair spilled over her thin shoulders. She wondered if Joe liked her hair better up or down, but knew in the end it didn't matter. He was her coach and sports trainer, and that was it. They were good friends who'd known each other for four years, but Joe was a widower and father of a six-year-old little girl named Lily, and was currently seeing someone else.

She met him in the training room, slightly nervous. She lay on the table face down. He began working on her left knee, bending her leg back and forth, testing the tendon with his thumb.

"There's a knot here, Isabella. You feel that?"

She flinched in pain. "Yeah. I do."

"I'm ninety percent sure it's your iliotibial band. It's the ligament that runs from your hip all the way down to your shin. It's probably inflamed from overuse. I could use the roller, but your glutes and back are tight as well. Let's do a full body massage. There's a robe on the back of the door. I'll put some linens down on the table and get some oil."

"Okay."

Isabella hopped off the table and went back into the empty locker room. She took off her jog bra and singlet, running shorts and panties, and put on the robe. She checked herself in the mirror again, put her hair back into a ponytail. She was completely naked under the robe, and would soon be laying down on the table under a thin white sheet in front of Joe, allowing him to put his hands all over her. Her body tingled at the thought, a charge going through her clit. She opened her robe and tweaked the nipple of one breast, getting it hard and erect.

She put a hand between her legs and touched herself, thinking of Joe. She couldn't help it. Joe got her hot in a way that no one else did. It was so sinful and wrong, picturing Joe eating her pussy right there on the locker room floor, her legs pushed all the way back and him burying his face in her mound.

She fantasized about him fucking her doggie style, bending her over the lockers and sliding his cock into her. She would suck him off, too. That put her on the edge of orgasm. She was a virgin and had never even seen a man's cock in person, let alone put one in her mouth. Instinctively she knew she'd give a decent blowjob, Especially with Joe. She could literally taste his dick, feel it throbbing as she took him down her throat--"

"Isabella?" Joe's voice called from outside the locker room.

Startled, she stopped masturbating.

"Coming," she shouted back.

She took a deep breath and left the locker room. Joe was sitting on a chair next to the massage table. He'd tucked a sheet around the table, and had another on top of that.

He turned around as she got under the sheet, face down. When she was situated he began working on her. He massaged and stretched both her legs, artfully maneuvering the sheet to keep her chest and groin covered. He kneaded her thighs and hamstrings, calves, and feet. He massaged her back, his strong hands once in a while grazing the sides of her breasts. Another dirty, sinful thought entered her mind, an image of Joe groping her breasts, putting them in his mouth and sucking them, and she shivered and felt herself getting wet again.

He was ready for her to turn over. He held the sheet up high, turning his head away from her. She rolled over onto her back, stealing a glance at Joe, whose eyes were closed. He was so rugged and handsome, with his tightly cropped salt-and-pepper hair and tan face. He had this sexy five o' clock shadow going, and Isabella allowed herself to sit up and hold her gaze on him for an extra second, perhaps a second too long. That's when Joe opened his eyes and saw her small breasts, nipples rock hard, and she wasn't embarrassed.

She sat back under the sheet, just a runner getting a sports massage from her personal trainer and physical therapist.

But was that all she was?

She thought she saw something in Joe's eye, something that was deeper and more meaningful than anything they'd ever shared before.

"That reminds me," Joe said, now working on her neck and shoulders. "I have something to ask you."

Isabella's stomach filled with butterflies. "Yes? What's up?"

"I'm thinking about proposing to Gretta, and I need to buy a ring. You feel like going ring shopping with me? I have some rings in mind, but I need a woman's perspective."

Isabella felt something sink inside her. "I don't know, I'm kind of beat from today. I was thinking about going to bed early."

"Of course," Joe said. "I understand. You've been putting in some serious miles lately. I'll go out ring shopping later myself. No biggie. Stay in and get some rest."

Isabella nodded. There was a long silence. Finally, Isabella said, "I have to go to the bathroom."

"Oh, sorry. Here, let me get going. I'll head to my office now. Take your time getting dressed. I'll see you tomorrow, first thing. If the knee feels good, we'll do some long slow distance in the morning, and maybe hills in the afternoon. We'll keep an eye on the leg."

"Great," Isabella said.

Joe smiled. "Awesome."

He left and went into his office. Isabella walked to the locker room, sheet wrapped around her. In the privacy of the bathroom, she let herself cry.

4.

Cupid was back at the Trees Lounge with his entourage getting sloshed. He had tweeted his followers -- all 100,000,000 of them -- that Valentine's Day was cancelled. Love was dead, he announced, which is why he would not be partaking in any such foolish human rituals that involved going out on dates, giving out candy or stuffed animals, or doing dinner and a movie. He certainly wasn't going to fly around the world with his quiver of arrows, aiding and abetting people "falling in love," whatever the fuck that even meant.

"Love is merely a madness," Cupid told Trinity, the sultry redhead groupie, quoting Shakespeare. "Who needs it? Not me. I'm a fucking god, for Christ's sake, immortal! Who needs love? Fuck love. I'll wipe my ass with it if I ever find where it's hiding, mark my words."

"Love sucks," Trinity agreed.

"Need a refill?" the waitress asked Cupid.

"Does Howdy Doody have wooden balls?"

She brought him a fresh bourbon over ice. Royce had been watching the waitress all afternoon, making eyes at her. Cupid wondered if Royce had fucked with one of his arrows in the quiver under the table, or poked himself with one by accident, but Cupid checked and they were still fresh and fully charged.

"Pardon me for saying this sir," Royce said, "but our server is one beautiful woman. I wonder if she's married."

Cupid shook his head. "Beautiful? Ha! You have no idea. Let me tell you about beautiful. My wife Psyche, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. The hottest woman ever born. You want to talk about desire? You want to talk about love, about fucking lust? The first time I met Psyche I nearly exploded. The earth quaked and the heavens roared. Imagine for a moment a human woman, born of flesh and blood, doing that to an immortal god! Think about it! My mother Venus sure as fuck did. She tried everything to keep us apart. Played all those goddamn games. Did they work? Fuck no! I helped Psyche pass all of mother's tests. I secretly helped her organize the grain in the barn, collect the golden fleece from the sheep, and even arranged for her to go to the underworld to bring back Prosperpine's beauty in a box!"

Royce stood listening politely, arms crossed, wishing he'd never brought up the waitress.

"Psyche opened the box," Cupid continued, "and almost fucked everything up, but all this had been settled by Jupiter. He talked to mother, and she agreed to let Psyche stay and be my wife. Jupiter even took her to Mt. Olympus, fed her some ambrosia, and made her immortal, for fuck sake. But that wasn't good enough for mother. Not for the great Venus, the god of beauty. Who'd have thought she would have waited 2,000 years to get her revenge!"