Julene’s note: In case you missed them, here’s part 1 and part 2 for your enjoyment.
The paranoia was creeping into my subconscious, the dipping in and out of the twilight of sleep became a menacing din rising to a scream that would clamp my eyes open in stare. With my head turned toward the side my gaze fixed on the white metal blinds, obscured partially by a relaxed, dark brown nipple. The room didn’t smell of cigarettes, it smelled of drunken sex. Here I am, back in reality.
“We can’t smoke in here,” she’d repeat, as she would repeat everything she drunkenly said throughout our stay there, “My mom will freak out!” I didn’t care to mention if her mom had a nose there’d be no doubt in her mind something else went down in her apartment besides smoking.
There were no sheets on the bed, as they’d been stripped for my host who would occupy her mother’s apartment overlooking Central Park. I didn’t have an idea of the view as I lay there contemplating the blinds.
I fucking hate blinds. She snored. In fact, that’s all she did after we both relented, post-post-post-orgasms, and passed the fuck out. Finally my alarm went off the first time. I’d set it somewhere between walking, covered in bath bubbles, pants in hand, out of the bathroom and into the bedroom knowing getting up early and the fuck out of there would be wise as there was no telling when the folks would return.
Blinds, nipple… am I really in my 30′s thinking about a hasty getaway from a girl’s parents? She’s also in her 30′s, but keys to a posh Manhattan apartment for the weekend still come with their price, I suppose, and for people who live here, we can’t escape Neverland when we’re offered those kind of luxuries. It’s hard to grow up with scenarios like these arising once in a blue moon, but arise they do.
But this was an important one. I had to get back on the horse, and happily the horse came into the bar where I’d gone to pick up an art print I’d drunkenly left behind — long story. This night I was sober, she was not. She was on a mission, and oddly enough so was I, but for once I wasn’t getting trashed to shed shyness and accomplish it. The cyber monkey was off my back, the Eastern Euro gf was a month in the past, and I was on the prowl wherever I went. I hadn’t used deodorant in a week and though I didn’t smell, I didn’t want anything to obscure whatever I’m generating… didn’t want to leave anything to chance.
It worked, albeit subject to me breaking all my own conventions and actually putting up with some agonizing chat — well, more like (her) drunken confession. Normally, and perpetually I think, I’ve taken myself out of the game by just having no patience for the drunken monologues I’ve bailed on in the past. Citing, at least to myself, I have no business hooking up with someone to whom I can’t bare to listen. Truly, it’s not some alpha male shit brewing inside me, I’m just a bitch, and bitches don’t get to fuck, I guess. I’m stuck up and just don’t have time for whiney life stories of drama and chaos. I’ve had plenty of relationships that WERE drama and chaos, but those were rarely predicated on some 3 hours’ meandering preamble.
This time I was sober(-ish) and not going home unsuccessful. But, I should note, I didn’t seek this one out. She just kind of appeared, and sat silently by us for a while. We knew the same person, who popped by for a second, so for both of us it wasn’t completely uncharted territory, there were at least a few pleasant “I know you” glances back and forth.
I’ll skip the bullshit, and jump straight to it. Well, straight to what was going through my mind after the turbulent paranoia subsided and she began to wake with a series of dreamy moans, much like the ones she’d been cooing as she passed out after I finally came all over her ass.
Then it all started to happen. Text upon text, fully realized, appeared in my brain. It literally felt like I was in hyperspace circa 2001, shooting toward language I’d had bottled up for a year, or through a couple years of really forgettable sex. My friend had said, “Man it’s unhealthy to go that long without sex.” I said, “I know,” but I was also getting over some really weird shit for a while. Like, for a WHILE. And that kind of self-hate is a viscous circle of self-fulfilling prophesy. Once you get that shit on you, it’s a scent that doesn’t go away. Sure, there will be days when I walk into a room, a good day, where I’ll see everyone’s face light up. I can feel the energy lift, but those days are balanced on a very narrow precipice of self-doubt and rarely is that magic immutable. In fact what usually happens is that I’ll mentally stumble at the site of some über-beauty who might hold my glance for a second, only to be distracted by a slightly taller, yet, fully-androgynous, skinny, art-hipster with a jacked up face.
But in this case, the reset button was fully engaged. As in Cabin Boy, “These Pipes Are Clean.” There’s really no avoiding the cliché, probably because it’s just fucking true. You get laid you wanna win. It only doesn’t work in boxing or when you’re on tour and you fuck your girlfriend right before the show or the fight, and that’s just because you’re not hungry to win. In the other case, you’ve been starving to win for so long that you’re feeble and can’t hunt. Get laid and all of a sudden you’re not just back on the prowl, but you’re refueled and insatiable and the muscle memory springs back to life. You wanna feed and feed so that when winter comes you can hibernate, or at least maybe find your winter lover and keep the momentum going, but in “stay in all weekend” form.
Clichéd, yeah, but isn’t that what we all want in the dark days?
So here I am, kinda back in the saddle, definitely not giving a fuck and horny as hell. Maybe I can make it stick this time. I’m pretty sure I can.