Harold The Mothman, Respectful King

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I watched as he brought his... you know, penis... closer to my vagina. And let me tell you, it was HUGE. His penis, that is. My vagina? Oh no, not huge. Tiny. Like, 'wow, that's small' tiny. 

Anyway, back to the penis— it was slowly, dramatically, almost cinematically approaching my vagina, as if it were the star of some erotic action movie nobody asked for. Tension was building, and so was his penis-metaphorically and literally.

l asked, "Do you... maybe want to take your pants off?" He smiled. Nodded. Slowly unbuttoned them, and then let them drop to his ankles. 

His New Balance sneakers remained firmly on, squeaking softly against the floor. His white socks? Pulled up mid-calf like he was about to mow the lawn.

There's just something so irresistibly hot about a man standing there with his pants pooled around his ankles, his erection pointing straight ahead, and his shirt bunched under his chin, as if it were a bib for this very moment.

And then...he waddled. Yes, waddled. Toward me. His sneakers squeaking like a chorus of sad rubber ducks, his eyes locked on mine with the intensity of a bird of prey that had just spotted a mouse. Why was he moving so slowly? Why did this feel like the climax of a nature documentary?

I couldn't help myself. "Get over here!" I whispered, my best Scorpion impression absolutely wasted in the moment. He didn't respond, just kept duck-walking closer, his erection leading the way like the prow of the Titanic, determined to crash into me (hopefully not to the same catastrophic end).

I knew this was it. My finishing move was imminent. "Pilot my cockpit and take me to orgasm airspace!" I thought, though thankfully I didn't say it out loud.

And as his scaly, hairy arms reached for me, I couldn't help but feel both aroused and slightly horrified.

Oh, did I mention my lover was the Mothman? Yeah, that Mothman. The one from the urban legends. The one people claim is some harbinger of doom, but to me? He was just Harold, a misunderstood cryptid with a fanny pack full of granola bars and a penis the size of a travel thermos.

As he waddled closer, sneakers squeaking on the IKEA floor, I couldn't help but admire his dedication. His wings fluttered slightly, sending a gentle breeze my way that smelled faintly of moss and regret. His glowing red eyes locked on mine with an intensity that said, "You're my whole world," but also, "I might abduct you after this."

He reached out with his scaly, clawed hands, the talons carefully trimmed (respectful king), and pulled me closer. "Are you ready?" he asked, his voice a strange mix of gravel and midnight radio DJ.

"Yah," I replied. Because what else do you say when your lover is a six-foot-tall cryptid with dad sneakers and a passion for slow-motion waddling?

And as he adjusted his fanny pack one last time, wings quivering with excitement, I knew this was going to be a night neither of us would forget-especially not the IKEA employees who were now watching from behind a KALLAX shelf. "Let's do this," I whispered. My tiny vagina braced itself. His enormous... presence... loomed closer. This was it!

His wings gave a little flutter, like an awkward moth trying to look cool at a porch light. "IKEA won't know what hit them," I thought, as he pulled me in, closer, his fanny pack squeaking slightly against my torso.

I could feel his erection-still leading the way, as if it were the captain of this absurd vessel -and I couldn't help but think, "This is it. This is what they warned me about in health class." His glowing red eyes softened, or maybe it was just the glare of the IKEA showroom lighting reflecting off his forehead. Either way, it was intimate.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, like someone trying to seduce you over the intercom at Home Depot. I felt my knees wobble-not from passion, but because he stepped on my foot with his squeaky New Balances.

"Ow." I said softly, trying to stay in the moment. He didn't notice, too busy adjusting his socks mid-calf with one hand while holding me with the other. Truly a multitasker.

As his claws trailed down my back, I thought of all the places we could've chosen for this encounter: a candlelit bedroom, a moonlit forest, literally anywhere else. But no. We were in IKEA, surrounded by budget-friendly flat-pack furniture and the faint smell of meatballs. It was, dare I say, magical.

"Are you ready for me?" he asked again, voice trembling like a leaf in a windstorm.

"Yah," I said, nodding enthusiastically. "But maybe...lose the sneakers?”

 He laughed—a low, guttural sound that was both terrifying and oddly charming. "Never," he said, shifting his weight and causing his erection to bounce slightly like a prizefighter psyching out an opponent.

The room seemed to freeze. Not because it was romantic, but because Darla from IKEA had just walked around the corner holding a clipboard. "Oh my god," she muttered, before turning and walking away, muttering something about how it wasn't worth the minimum wage.

And yet, none of that mattered. Because there we were-me, the Mothman, and his enormous erection-ready to take this to the next level. His wings spread wide, and I braced myself for what was coming next.

His wings spread wide, sending a fake potted plant tumbling to the floor. It was chaotic, clumsy, and somehow still happening. My tiny vagina braced itself for impact, and I heard the faint rustle of his fanny pack as it slapped against his chest. Somewhere in the background, Darla sighed loudly into her walkie-talkie, "Yeah, we're definitely going to need security."

But none of that mattered. Not when the Mothman's enormous... presence... was upon me. He thrust forward, the motion both determined and awkward, like a dad learning TikTok dances for the first time.

And then, without warning, a sound burst out of me—a noise I had never made before and hope to never make again. "ARRGHGHGAAAA!" It was half-moan, half-dying walrus, and 100% embarrassing.

He paused for a moment, blinking his glowing red eyes. "Was that... good?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

I nodded furiously, too flustered to form words, and gestured for him to keep going. He took the cue, thrusting again, his sneakers squeaking like the saddest symphony ever played.

"AHHWARGHNNG!" I moaned again, louder this time, startling a child walking by with his parents. They froze, locking eyes with me through the IKEA shelving. The kid pointed and whispered, "Mommy, what's happening?" The mom grabbed his hand and said, "We don't look, sweetie. We just keep walking."

But the Mothman didn't care. He was in the zone, his wings flapping so hard they knocked over a stack of BILLY bookcases. His fanny pack bounced rhythmically, its contents clinking together like a budget percussion instrument.

"ARRHHGGGAAAAA!" I screamed again, this time for both passion and comedic effect. Somewhere in the distance, Darla facepalmed. "I need a raise,"she muttered, her walkie-talkie now dangling uselessly at her side.

And then, it happened. The climax. His glowing red eyes rolled back, and he let out a triumphant cry-"SKEEEEAAAAW!" —as his wings flapped with such force that a display of floor lamps toppled over.

We collapsed onto the carpeted floor of IKEA's as-is section, a tangle of wings, limbs, and a fanny pack that would forever hold my deepest shame.

"That was... something," he panted, his breath hot and mossy as he adjusted his socks mid-calf again.

"Yah," I said, staring up at the fluorescent lights and realizing I would never, ever be able to step foot in an IKEA again.

We lay in the IKEA parking lot, sprawled across one of those tiny, pointless landscaped grass patches that shopping centers insist on maintaining-because apparently, a single, depressed tree surrounded by cigarette butts and despair is supposed to make a strip mall look classy.

A flickering streetlight buzzed overhead, casting the same soul-sucking energy as a gas station bathroom at 3 AM.

I was staring at the sky, my very essence attempting to astral-project out of my body.

Harold was adjusting his mid-calf socks.

I couldn't believe the first sexual encounter we had happened in the middle of a busy IKEA. I swear at one point, I saw my gynecologist out of the corner of my eye. Pretty sure Harold made love to me so vigorously that my gyno would need therapy after my next annual.

A single, haunted-looking IKEA employee had still been clutching his clipboard when security arrived-mid-climax-and one of them had immediately vomited into a potted plant upon laying eyes on us.

I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply.

"Are you distressed, my delectable zucchini bread?" Harold's voice was gentle, yet deeply unsettling, because he was stroking my hair with his foot.

I sat up violently. "Harold, we are banned from IKEA. Forever."

Harold's glowing red eyes blinked.

"Not the first," he muttered.

I whipped my head toward him. "I'm sorry

—WHAT?"

But before I could demand elaboration, Harold scooped me up in his surprisingly soft yet questionably sticky arms and launched into the sky.

The familiar sensation of cold night air whipping against my shame-filled body barely registered because—

Harold began humming.

Then humming turned into full-blown singing.

Nickelback.

"LOOK AT THIS PHOTOGRAPH-"

I groaned. "Harold. Harold, no."

"EVERY TIME I DO, IT MAKES ME LAUGH”

I fought the urge to violently fling myself from his grasp. "HAROLD!”

He sighed dramatically. "You never let me have any fun."

"That's what you consider fun?

Nickelback?"

He cleared his throat, then whispered,

"Barbie Girl by Aqua?"

"I swear to God-"

Thankfully, before I could be subjected to Harold's full karaoke setlist, we descended, spiraling toward the yawning, rocky mouth of his cave. He landed gracefully, setting me down with unsettling tenderness.

The inside of the cave was damp, mysterious, and smelled vaguely like a Jiffy Lube waiting room.

Harold turned to me, his massive red eyes glowing with purpose.

"I shall prepare the nest."

That was a sentence I heard with my human ears.

I watched, transfixed, as Harold began fluffing a pile of what I can only describe as 'foraged materials' —mostly shredded newspaper, crumpled CVS receipts, and a single ratty pillowcase with a faded print of Guy Fieri on it.

A single moth wing stuck out from the pile.

I did not ask questions.

Instead, I sat stiffly on a nearby rock, still emotionally reeling.

Harold-ever the attentive and devastatingly horny host-knelt before me, his massive, clawed hands resting on my knees. "Do not be distressed, my luscious butterscotch crumpet. You are safe now."

I let out a laugh that sounded a little too close to a cry. "Safe? Harold, I am banned from IKEA. Forever. Do you even understand what that means? I can never experience the joy of Swedish meatballs again."

Harold's antennae drooped in what I assumed was empathy. "I do not understand, but I am deeply sympathetic."

I groaned, rubbing my temples. "I am going to fling myself into the void."

And then. It happened.

A deep, rumbling sound echoed through the cave.

A heavy, lumbering footstep.

A deep, familiar voice.

"Well, well, well."

I froze.

Harold went rigid.

Because emerging from the shadows of the cave was my ex.

My massive, hairy, seven-foot-tall Bigfoot ex-boyfriend.

Harold muttered under his breath.

"Spencer."

I gaped. "Wait. SPENCER?"

Spencer-my Bigfoot ex (yes, I have multiple cryptid exes, I am the Jane Goodall of unhinged supernatural dating choices, shut up)-crossed his massive arms over his impossibly broad chest.

"Didn't think l'd ever see you back here, Harold."

Harold let out a weird, glitchy moth noise.

"It was not my intent."

"Oh, I'm sure." Spencer's sharp green eyes flicked to me, his smirk oozing dangerous

ex energy. "And you brought... her."

I immediately wanted to implode into dust.

Because it was only now dawning on me that I had dated both Mothman and Bigfoot and failed to realize they apparently knew each other.

Oh. Oh, God.

OH GOD, WHAT IF THEY WERE ALSO EXES?

I slowly turned to Harold. My mouth opened. But before I could say anything, he immediately shoved a hand over my lips.

"Do not say it," he rasped.

I licked his palm. He yanked it away with a hiss.

"Harold," I said slowly, "Did you and Spencer date?"

Spencer let out a deep, disrespectfully sexy chuckle.

"Oh, honey," he purred. "Not just date."

The air in the cave was now a solid block of sheer, suffocating awkwardness.

I was in a love triangle with two cryptid ex-boyfriends.

I was the plot of a bad CW drama.

Spencer leaned against the cave wall, his sheer lumberjack energy radiating through the damp space.

"Funny seeing you here," he said lazily.

"Didn't think you'd be back so soon, after how things ended."

"How things—" | started, then realized what he meant.

I gasped.

"YOU'RE THE ONE WHO LEFT THE NOTE THAT SAID 'SORRY, GOTTA GO, I'M BEING HUNTED'?!"

Spencer shrugged. "Hey, it was true. The government's always after me."

Harold groaned, rubbing his temples. "I am going to fling myself into the void."

I sighed. This was fine. This was normal. I would simply lie down and let the earth reclaim me.

But before I could do that, Spencer smirked.

"You know," he said, his voice dripping with Bigfoot Bastard Energy, "we never did have our... final conversation, Harold."

Harold's wings bristled. "I will screech."

Spencer grinned. "Do it, coward."

And Harold did.

He screeched at full volume.

It was the exact sound a tea kettle makes.

I could not believe this was my life.

And then-to make everything EVEN

WORSE-Spencer joined in.

And what did Spencer's scream sound like, you ask?

A DEFECTIVE DOLLAR STORE ELK CALL.

So there I was. Sitting in a damp cave.

Watching my ex-boyfriend and my current cryptid lover scream at each other like feral barn animals in heat.

And I realized something.

I had hit rock bottom.

And I was pretty sure my tiny vagina had bottomed out due to Harold's thermos-sized penis.

Between hitting rock bottom and wanting a bag of frozen peas to ice my extremely dainty and tiny vagina, I just wanted the earth to swallow me whole.

For the love of God, why do these things always happen to me?

WHY?

The two massive, unhinged cryptids finally stopped screeching, both panting heavily, their chests rising and falling like two sweaty, overgrown beasts locked in an ancient, primal battle.

Harold's wings twitched. "I yield."

Spencer let out a cocky, ex-boyfriend scoff, crossing his massive, hairy arms over his ridiculously broad chest. "You always do."

I glared. "Oh my God. Stop. You guys are exes, not rival mob bosses. This isn't a forbidden romance novel where one of you is a reformed hitman and the other is a morally gray art thief."

Spencer smirked. "Sounds like you've thought about it."

l ignored him.

Harold looked away, guilty.

"Look," | said, rubbing my temples, "I don't care what unresolved cryptid tension you two have. I just need to lie down, ice my wrecked vagina, and forget that my first sexual encounter with Harold happened in the middle of a busy IKEA."

Spencer perked up instantly.

"Oh yeah, about that-" He grinned, pulling out his phone.

OH NO.

He turned the screen toward me, and I felt my soul detach from my mortal form.

The headline read:

"IKEA CUSTOMERS TRAUMATIZED AFTER CRYPTID-RELATED SEX INCIDENT IN BEDROOM DISPLAY SECTION. SECURITY GUARD VOMITS IN PLANTER.

ON A TOTALLY UNRELATED NOTE, ELDERLY CUSTOMER ENJOYING SWEDISH MEATBALLS SUFFERS HEART ATTACK AT SAME MOMENT."

I froze.

Because directly under the headline, in crystal clear, high-definition horror, was a photo of the elderly customer in question.

A frail woman, mid-heart attack, clutching at her chest, a Swedish meatball skewered halfway onto a plastic fork.

My blood ran cold.

"Oh my god, that's my nana."

Harold blinked. "Your what?"

I grabbed Spencer's phone, zooming in with mounting dread. There she was—my sweet, 89-year-old Nana, a matriarch, a pillar of our family, going into full cardiac arrest at the exact moment I got railed by Mothman in an IKEA showroom.

"I KILLED MY NANA WITH PUBLIC CRYPTID SEX."

Harold let out a low, distressed moth noise.

"This is unfortunate."

Spencer snorted. "Damn. That's—" he gestured vaguely at the screen. "That's wild."

"WILD?!" I screeched. "WILD?! SPENCER, MY NANA DIED BECAUSE OF MY FIRST SEXUAL ENCOUNTER WITH HAROLD.

Spencer shrugged. "Hey, at least she went out eating Swedish meatballs. Not the worst way to go."

"Not the—?!" | whipped around, frantic, barely hearing Harold mutter, "They are very good meatballs."

But as I was hyperventilating over my dead

Nana, my stomach dropped further.

Because while looking at Spencer's phone, something horrible dawned on me.

I didn't have my phone.

Or my purse.

Or my fucking car keys.

"Oh, holy fucking hell," | whispered.

Harold's wings twitched. "What is it, my sweaty little croissant?"

l ignored the very upsetting pet name.

"I-" My throat closed up. "I left my phone.

And my purse. And my entire sense of dignity. At the IKEA."

There was silence

Spencer squinted. "Wait, so you're telling me-"

"I left everything at the scene of the crime," | croaked.

Harold made a guttural sound. "This is deeply 

unfortunate."

"NO SHIT IT'S UNFORTUNATE, HAROLD."

Spencer burst out laughing. "Oh, this is so much worse than I thought."

"It gets worse." | grabbed his arm, manic, unraveling before their eyes. "That purse had my work ID in it. My work ID."

Spencer leaned back, grinning like a bastard. "Ohhh shit."

"MY WORK ID WITH MY REAL NAME."

Harold clicked his mandibles. "Oh. That is... not ideal."

I ran both hands down my face. "I CAN NEVER GO BACK. EVER."

Spencer nodded. "Yeah, nah. You're gonna have to change your name and flee the country."

Harold tilted his head thoughtfully. "I hear Canada is nice."

Spencer snorted. "She can't go to Canada.

IKEA is even bigger there."

I let out a noise. A helpless, broken, human noise.

And as if on cue, Nickelback started playing softly from Harold's fanny pack.

"LOOK AT THIS PHOTOGRAPH-"

I screamed into my hands.