This was the my first foray into writing, and specifically, trying to incorporate any kind of social commentary. This 'quasi-factual' piece originated after I received a message on a social networking site from a friend of a (now ex) girlfriend. This person fancied them self as a sort of deviant/scenester/exhibitionist and their message contained questions like "what is your favorite part of my body?" and "what would you want to do to me?"
Seeming like a desperate cry for attention I yielded and wrote the following post;
We are both at the same bar, with different parties, but penetrating stares mean that we are both aware the other is looking. As the night moves on, the courage only afforded by power drinking beers leads me to approach you and we engage in small talk, both pretending to care yet both aware what a precursor this task really is. You ask me to dance and whilst usually I feel this is something only girls and homos partake in, I am aware that this is one of the hoops that women use to screen potential suitors and validate their actions (along with other such vacuous factors such as how much money I make or what kind of car I drive). We dance, well, you dance seductively whilst I resemble an epileptic in a full body cast and once you are fully satisfied that we have made a “connection” (which is totally ironic as dancing is the least engaging format, both interpersonally and with music) you drop the bomb on me: “How about we go back to your place?”. I react manically and mechanically, there is no need to give the boys notice as it would only lead to ridicule, and within minutes we are both in a taxi.
The taxi is a lot longer than the 10 minutes that it takes to get back to my place. We have exhausted all the small talk there is to make and change of environment means that those awkward silences are now compounded by the incessant beep of the taxi meter and the cultural gap between driver and passenger. We know what we are both here for yet strain for dialogue both neck deep in the illusion that this could possibly something more than what it really is.
We get back to my place and you are impressed by my digs, I respond by telling you that it is my parents house and we will have to be quiet which I can see totally rocks your boat. Inside I quickly use the bathroom then make us a couple of drinks and we fumble with conversation until we have re-covered what we already know. You see my array of conveniently placed instruments and ask me to play you something, I usually don’t "whore my art" like that but respond with a beautiful ballad which makes you weak at the knees and you query it, “Did you write that?”. My response is in the affirmative and I weave a magical story that my inspiration came from having my heart broken by the one person I ever thought could understand me, I am comfortable in the knowledge that you have never heard 'Interstate Love Song' by the Stone Temple Pilots. You sit down next to me and we start discussing matters of the heart, you seem cold and calculated but fortunately I have enough game to defuse it. I tell you that I think that you are hiding something as what you are telling me is not what I see in your eyes and you ask me what I see. I respond, “I see a crazy calm, like your tired of running. Your ready to face what you want to face, but you don’t want to face it alone….”. We kiss passionately and I thank Sin City and Josh Hartnett for giving me both the dialogue and the delivery.
You pull me into my room and our bodies grind like continental plates, you push me away, “We shouldn’t be doing this…I have a boyfriend!”. I also have a girlfriend but dealt with this moral implication before we jumped in the taxi. I don’t know why girls try to stop at this point, they ARE already a slut, and what (?) like post-action regret means there shouldn’t be any consequence (you have already kissed me and slept with me in your head)? I comfort you and give you some b.s. about “the heart sometimes being smarter than the head” which seems to validate your action. I care little about the schism in the virgin-whore dichotomy. We get back down to business furiously tearing at each others clothes, it has been a while for me and as a result I grope you like I am trying to crush a piece of fruit. You reach down my pants and grab hold of my throbbing f*ck stick, you notice the tip is moist and put this down to pre-cum but only I know it’s because I didn’t shake properly after using the bathroom. I am very aroused though and in an attempt to “make this party last a while” I go down on you where I am startled to find you ungroomed. I quip, “I hope that it has had it’s shots?!?”, you look confused and I save up my laughter for when I relay it to the boys later. After a couple of minutes of back-arching pleasure you ask me if I have a condom so I guess you must be ready. I roll out of bed to find the condoms amongst the mess in my room banging my knee on the bedside table…now this fucking hurts (right on the knee!) and I take a minute to rub it frantically, my eyes shrink wrapped in tears. Leftover food and sweaty clothes dot a landscape surrounded by air brushed pictures of models in seductive poses. These pictures fuel your insecurity, you know that you could NEVER match up in comparison and you start covering up. With the light on you get a full view of my physical splendor…. I am a lot paler and chubbier than my Abercrombie and Fitch polo shirt led you to believe but my shaved hog creates a 'bigger than average' illusion. The low artificial lighting compliments you and your body seems iridescent, just when I think I have a full view the selective darkness teases me. I find the condoms, "ribbed, for her pleasure"…that’s right….I’m thinking of you baby. Due to the pain in my knee my once proud boner is now limp and I coerce you to give me some head, which you do and all I can think about is how I am about to get snowballed the next time we kiss….it happens to every guy…we just don’t talk about it. In minutes (ok, minute) I am back to where I need to be and roll a condom on, mount you and thrust gently enough not to awake the hibernating bear that resides between your thighs. I flip you over and with my thumb try to give you 'the rhino' which is first verbally dismissed and then, on the second attempt, swatted forcefully away. It has been a minute or so and suddenly I am not as drunk as I once was…my mind begins to wander. Firstly, to what I have done tonight then to the models on my wall….then it all gets too much. I explode with absolute fury and go limp, a sweaty spent pile on the bed and you seem unsatisfied and bewildered.
The silence is back, I am sleepy and want you out of here. You prod me to let you stay but I lie and say that I have something important tomorrow and order you taxi you never requested. You think I am coming outside to wait with you but only go as far as the door, I mean we are both certain that we won’t see each other again…the first interaction has been uncomfortable enough.