Wednesday, February 15, 2012

A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Possibly Do Again

You ever been in one of these?  

It's 5am and you're wired on E, spooning in bed with a petite brunette, after raving at a club all night, and you have a raging hard-on rubbing up suggestively against her backside (with her panties on, of course), and she seems to be responding positively, grinding back, moaning softly, and you take this to be a sign to go further, and so you start to get frisky with your free hand, first fondling a breast, and then moving down to her smooth stomach enroute to her sinful hole, her apex of desire, and then, (then?) she jerks awake, (awhat?) and groggily says, "Hey! What are you doing!?"

My hard-on disappeared faster than a gram of crack in Whitney Houston's glass pipe. Too soon? 

It's amazing how quickly a girl can come out of a booze and drug laden sleep when she's being semi-molested. Or maybe it's not amazing, it's just what you would expect. But, I too, felt like I was being violated and molested in some way. I didn't act maliciously. Perhaps it's amazing what the body will do while unconscious. How it seems awake at first until you catch onto the ruse; like the cold dead eyes of a sleepwalker looking through rather than at you. My heart was in the right place, as it usually is I'd like to think, even with a fog of illicit chemicals coursing through me. Terrible thoughts of a long prison term a in rural Southern Ontario facility hit me, shitting in front of my cellmate, whose name is most likely Slippery Pete or something, and listening to him jerkoff in the bunk above me. I'll probably have to get a tattoo or two, too. I immediately went into damage control mode: "Shit, sorry, sorry. I'm sooo sorry. Oh my god! I thought you were awake."

And I did. Really.

Earlier in the evening, I was on a double date of sorts, but kind of not. My date, Alicia, was for all intents and purposes a platonic friend; I was definitely thinking that if I played my cards right there could be some action to be had but there are no guarantees. We made out once in my kitchen during a party but that was some time ago. Wedding bells were not ringing. It was a kiss devoid of passion. She did it as a display of her party girl ethos. Look how dangerous I can be. Not too say it wasn't nice on a purely physical level--our tongues were pleasantly slithering and flickering in each others' mouth's but we were both quite sure nothing was going to come of it when our embrace came to an end. I didn't pursue her that night and she sure as fuck didn't pursue me. She ended the kiss and I didn't want to be that guy, the one who creepily persists in ogling and groping when it's clearly over. I'm not inclined to put much effort into romantic endeavors. I don't know--I'm just kind of resigned to let the pieces fall where they will. I'm a proponent of subtle romance--a certain look or comment rather than an elaborate, fiscally intensive charade. Who wants to shovel pitch fork loads of their hard earned cash into the bank accounts of Tiffany's executives. I'd love to be the type of guy, like John Cusack in Say Anything, who shows up late one night under my one true love's bedroom window with a ghetto-blaster held high above my head blasting our song.  But I can't. Just like Stephen Hawkings can't do a cartwheel. Or how the GOP nominees can't convince me they're not half-retarded. Take that Republicans! 

Alicia is a great kisser though, and that's hugely important. No one likes a robo tongue or some weirdo who gives you the death stare the whole time. Thankfully, she let me assume the best possible position there is for a man when french kissing a woman: The double handful of ass. I was squeezing those cheeks like they were full of orange juice. Up and down, spreading them from side to side, then one cheek up and one cheek down. She let me do it all.

On this particular night, Alicia and myself were contrasted by the other two in our double date who had been together for years--Long-termers. Because the male half, my friend Marius, loves techno/jungle/drum n'bass/shit we found ourselves at some club full of jacked up kids dancing in a seemingly arbitrary manner, swinging their arms and twirling about in a way that I'm supposed to believe is hip and modern. I hope that if I have kids they don't turn out like these people is my first thought as we're enveloped by the darkness of the club. Glow sticks, like flying radioactive snakes, are whirling around in a blur. Unlike regular citizens on the street, these denizens have all put an inordinately large amount of time into their get-ups, even the males. Haircuts are gelled into asymmetrical shapes and gelled to perfection, beards are shorn down into pencil thin lines along jawlines. If anyone of the guys at this club were somehow plopped down in the middle of Thunder Bay, I have no doubt they'd be labelled either queer, faggot, or homo--maybe all three. The beauty of diversity, I suppose.

Sometimes, a small cluster in the crowd-at-large will part and form a circle around a particularly coordinated dancer, and he'll shred some tile like nobody's business as us lesser humans marvel at the display of dexterity. Being high on Ecstacy heightens the furious activity around me and adds another element of tension to the semi-confusion and fear of being in an unfamiliar environment. In this case a house club, or dub step club,  or drum n' bass club, or whatever the fuck kind of club it is. I'm not fucking Deadmau5 over here. 

I don't even really like the drug Ecstacy, I wouldn't touch the stuff nowadays, but this was years ago; and besides, if you're going to the rodeo shouldn't you wear a cowboy hat? With Ecstacy I'm a light weight. There are ravers out there who can gobble it all night long. Not me--after swallowing one pill I'm fully loaded, a total dancing queen. It's like being fried on speed and lsd at the same time. Not really my cup of tea anymore. It didn't stop me from enjoying myself though. If you are going to do Ecstacy it's definitely best to do it at a club rather than sitting in a house because your body needs to indulge in action of some kind. It distracts from the dread and paranoia. 

I dragged Alicia out into the throng of sweaty young bodies and we danced for hours and hours, with brief interludes of gulping water (her) and beer (me). I ended up swirling two--yes two!--glow sticks, gyrating my hips like a mental patient, and puckering my lips like Jagger for all the other dancers to gaze at in astonishment. I was dancing as if I was on the fastest setting on an elliptical machine designed by Andy Kaufman. I would oscillate between totally selflessly lost in the moment and totally consumed by the wrath of one thousand eyeballs. I had to get innovative and mimic some of the better dancers' moves, and, failing at that, feebily attempted to blend in. When I did lose myself, I was tapping into some larger communal energy, something inter-galactic. It's amazing what the power of drugs music can do.

Alicia seemed more interested in the better looking club kids but I didn't care--I could dance the night away. "Wait until this next guy comes on," Marius yelled into my ear, "you'll go nuts!" I could give a squirt of piss about who was coming on next because I was on another plane. All the DJ's seemed to have the same move--slowly increase the speed of the rhythm, a burgeoning crescendo that lasts forever until, mercifully, the guy with the mike on stage screams in a jibber jabber non-language (I don't think I would give him enough credit to be called a 'singer') and the beat drops explodes into a dancing frenzy. It's like a wave building up, getting bigger and bigger, just about to break, a perfect curl forming, and then it just fucking CRASHES and you ride that fucker as long as possible. Like your parents, I think it all sounds the same and it's no big deal. I've tried, I really have, to find some redeeming qualities, and I like everything from Refused to Bob Dylan so it's not like I'm narrow minded, musically speaking, but the appeal of dance music is lost on me.

We're back at Marius's apartment. Marius and his girlfriend have retired to the master bedroom and with only one smaller bedroom remaining there wasn't really a decision to be made. I could be a gentleman and offer Alicia the bed on her own and I could lay down on the loveseat with my gangly pasty legs hanging over the edge.

I went to the bathroom for a quick pee and when I entered the bedroom Alicia was already tucked under the covers, laying on her side. I mechanically disrobed down to my boxers and climbed into the bed with her. For a brief moment, a deathly silence befell us as we adjusted to the alien situation. I couldn't tell if she was awake or not, so I mustered up the cajones to inch closer to her body in the darkness. Every little movement was a victory, an advancement further into enemy territory, until I could finally inhale the glory of her dried sweaty essence. I cautiously draped my arm in a bracelet over her t-shirt clad waist, and she emitted a soft moan of delight. How delightful: She's awake and is giving me permission to proceed. I pressed my body up snugly to her backside. My cock was a throbbing jackhammer digging up the Ass Crack Expressway. Her body language was screaming at me to keep going, her ass climbing all over my apparatus. We were essentially dry humping our brains out in the spooning position. And speaking of dry humping, I have this nasty habit of doing that to women, especially if it is the first (and of course, most awkward) encounter, where it's improper to take off your clothes right away. Typically, I don't engage in dry humping because there is no need: I end up dry humping her pussy with my cock, the way God intended. After a few minutes of kissing on some couch or bed, I'm known to start humping at the poor girl like a monkey unable to stop from publicly masturbating. I can't control it, it's simply an evolutionary compulsion.  

Not too long ago I had this one HPOA splayed out vertically on her basement couch and our limbs were entwined, my knee digging into her crotch. I uncontrollably, almost imperceptibly at first, started thrusting whilst on top of this lovely specimen. My primal urges took over and there was no getting them back in their cage. I was going slowly at first but the thrusting generated into a furious ground and pound. 

"Are you dry-humping me?" She asked with a hint of mortification.

I was stunned to a halt, mid-thrust. "Oh, uhh, no. I guess I'll stop. If you want."

She kind of laughed and I blushed and rolled off of her, trying to brace for the oncoming psychic slaughter of a shameful self-pitying depression. Memories!

Anyways, Alicia was cooing, throaty uhhh's and hmmm's radiating from deep within her. I was fairly sure at this point that we were going to copulate and it dawned on me that I didn't have any condoms-- this thought, it's worth noting, rarely dawning on me because I don't usually need condoms when I go out. True story: About a year ago, I actually had a pack of condoms that expired. For a couple years the pack sat in my bathroom cabinet, these neatly coiled up rubber donuts, three quarters full (twelve pack). Every morning when I went for the toothpaste, this box of condoms stood there in stoic judgement, relentlessly mocking my manhood. It's not like a carton of milk going bad. There's a lot more shame to it than that. When the expiry date finally came around, June 2011, I had to begrudgingly toss them out. The last thing I would want to do to a women is put a rotten cock in her cunt. Most condoms out by the dumpster are used, but not mine! But I'm a hopeless optimist--my spirit sings to me, things will turn around.  

Anyways (I know, again) my left hand is moving all over Alicia's stomach and breasts, giving the nipples sensuous tweaks and they harden purposefully into nubs like the eraser on top of a No.2 pencil. I press my body ever closer to her and we are like one being under pressure, giving and taking; my hand glides down the length of her fit thigh and grabs a chunk. I want to just eat her at this point, bite into her haunches and rip off a hunk of chuck. Inevitably, as human behaviour is want to do, since time immemorial, from Apes to Neandrethals, to Insects, and a few North Koreans, my hand moves down to the golden chalice of lust hiding between her legs. The moist pink gates thrust themselves open and rays of light beamed out her oval hole and illuminated our under cover bodies, and I think a fawn went strolling by too. I was in heaven. The glory of vagina!

(I really shouldn't even put this in here, it's a total crowbar job, but it's the only mention of the word 'vagina' in the whole piece and there isn't going to be another one, and also because of my recent un-employment, I have decided to include this...I'm thinking of fresh new ways to generate an income, among them managing a hip new all-girl, all-Chinese pop band, called The VaChina Dollz. Just saying).

My left index finger was fondling her clitoris, and it too, became the eraser on a No.2 pencil. No doubt, that's the sweet spot. Alicia's moans became more guttural, more possessed. Busting a nut in my boxers was fast becoming a distinct possibility so I had to lay it all out there. This is the moment--now is the time--carpie diem--just stick it in her hot wet mess. Somebody's gonna get pregnant, Tracy Morgan bellowed through my head (still high, I guess). I whipped it out, and went to say, "Take your panties off," in as sensous a manner as was possible at 5am after screaming all night, when my bed-mate promptly stiffened up, ice in her veins, and bolted upright, and my left hand jolted back like it was on a hot plate. WHA IN THE FAH?

She then uttered the penultimate phrase, a phrase that no man should have to hear while in bed with a knockout, especially with such emphatic concern. It wasn't a "Hey! What are you doing?" like "I'm saying 'no' but I mean 'yes' keep going." It was "Hey! What are you doing!?" as in "Hey, there's a rapist in my house!" 

I apologized profusely, stunned and disappointed at the same time. Stunned because I thought she was awake and disappointed because there was not going to be any sex. But I was relieved that she wasn't  
infuriated with me.

"It's okay, just let me go to sleep," Alicia said wearily and promptly slipped back into still motion unconsciousness. I rolled over on my back and exhaled, staring at the ceiling. What a life. I tried sleeping, maybe dozed off for an hour or two. 

At about 8am, I was summoned into the stark morning light that's decidedly fetal-position inducing with an Ecstacy and booze hangover. Alicia appeared to be sleeping peacefully on her side of the bed, her body heaving softly, almost imperceptibly.

At some point during the night, I became convinced that I had to apologize to Alicia in the morning for last nights debacle, when our heads were straight. I couldn't just leave without saying anything-- hat would be worse Since I just wanted to go home and lay down in my own bed, I had no choice but to wake her up (again). I jostled her shoulder, "Alicia, wake up. I gotta tell you something."

I began to give her one of those apologies that are prefaced with a sigh and a "Listen..."

She was so dismissive about the whole thing and laughed it right off. Probably shouldn't have even woke her up. I put on last nights sweaty clothes, caught a faint whiff of stale tobacco, and walked out into the hallway of the apartment building. 

I walked like a zombie to the elevators. It was silent and I could hear the gentle hum of life in the building, families waking up to another day. I pressed the domed "L" button and it lit up. I looked back and forth a couple times. Empty. There was no one in sight but I could hear life going on around me. Clanking of plates, children using outdoor voices. A guy laughing, ack-ack-ack at his own joke. The elevator opened and I was swallowed whole. "L" again. I stared forward blankly, thousand yard style. Muzak played from an anonymous radio and I slowly descended until I was no longer there.

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