Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
Joining The Bush Leagues
It all started when I wrote "God save me from teenage boys with womens' names." on the back of one of my poems, and passed it to my friend. I was not referring to my boyfriend[?], though it applies to him, but to the cute kid in the audience of one of my shows who'd tried to chat me up. I'm thirty. One teenager is four too many.
I was more than just a trifle embarrassed to realize that, for a good ten minutes of my show, that note was easily readable to everyone in the audience, including the teenager with the female name, sitting in the very front row. The possibility of him being illiterate or oblivious is the only thing that kept me from banging my head against the dashboard the entire way home.
I know he was neither illiterate or oblivious, because he IMed me as soon as I got home in order to a) flirt with me; and b) call me out on my note.
In order to distract myself, I started clicking on Craigslist ads. Not the sleazy hookup ads that I used to read, but apartment ads. And, ok, they were boring. And I had, like, a week to look for a new apartment, so why not check out those sleazy CL hookup ads. Why not place one?
30YO STD free, moderately hairy, masculine top seeks slightly but only slightly younger or same aged to relieve boredom on a Friday night. Fatties ok, femmes tolerable, but no teenage boys with womens' names, or seventy year old men looking to cuddle with young Asians.
I didn't expect the deluge of responses nor the desire to respond to them. I certainly didn't expect to leave my friend's apartment at 11:00 to go meet some stranger in a park I'd never been to before. Those nights are way behind me, right?
After spending twenty minutes walking around the park looking for the appropriate entrance, I found it. The sign was covered with dirt. This wasn't just a sign with the name of the entrance, this was a sign of things to come. Or come in, as the case may be.
The guy introduced himself as Junior, despite being a few years my senior. His picture must have been taken during the days when Soul Asylum ruled the charts. This did not bode well.
Despite his never having done "anything like this before", he knew precisely where we wouldn't get caught, but would be comfortable.
I really hadn't done anything like this before. Sex with some stranger I've only just begun talking to over the internet, sure. Outside? In public? No. I considered it research for my memoirs.
As soon as we were behind some bushes, the clothes came off. It was dark. This was both lucky and dooming.
He bent over immediately. "Do you rim?"
Have I before? Yes. With a stranger? No. Was I about to? "No."
"Ok. Just fuck me then."
So I pulled out my condom, and began "You don't need that." He said. "I'm clean."
Clean turns out to be a subjective term. Still, I put on my condom. This was both lucky, and dooming.
Before squeezing my cock in, I did some spit-lube fingering. Usually, I carry real lube, but when I was in Austin a few weeks ago, I put my lube in one of my extra shoes. A pair of shoes I ended up letting a friend borrow, not thinking to remove the lube first. Neither my friend, nor I, have brought up his extra special shoe bonus.
As a general rule, I spit on a finger, finger, then spit on another finger and use that. I mean, doody comes out that hole, I don't want to lick something that's just been inside it. This rule turned out to be both lucky, and dooming.
Our sex lasted longer than it should, because I realized that my boyfriend[?] has spoiled me by being not only attractive and good in bed (or, I suppose, bushes), but also being someone I care about. Junior was not any of those three things. And I couldn't stop thinking about that.
Eventually, though, I came.
"Can I fuck you?" He asked.
"No." I said, while jerking him to, oh yea, finish.
That was the last thing he said. He got in his car and drove off. I began walking home. About ten minutes into my walk, my nose itched. I scratched it and...and that's when I noticed my hands had gotten dirty. No biggy. I'd had to lean in the dirt a few times and *sniff*...eww. Eww. My hands, while dirty, were not dirty with dirt. They were, in fact, covered in a thin layer of human fecal matter.
I began feverishly spitting on my hands, pulling leaves off of trees and trying to scour them off. This did not work. Shit. Literally. Shit.
Had this Junior not heard of toilet paper? Does he not know the proper about to get fucked etiquette? Either finger yourself clean in the shower, or take a cleansing dump beforehand. This will minimize the shit to the surface area of the other person's skin ratio. I'd guess the last time Junior wiped his ass was when he had that picture taken at the Blind Melon concert.
I had at least an hour walk ahead of me, and I was shit handed. I couldn't even stop in a gas station and ask for keys to the bathroom because they'd have had to put the key to such a room in my crap covered hands. So, for the duration of my walk of shame I put my hands in my pockets, knowing I'd now have to do a load of laundry as soon as I got home. After the shower, that was.
The few people I ran into on the streets between the park and the house, didn't make eye contact with me for very long. It was though they could sense my shame, or else smell my hands, I thought. Turns out, it was neither of those things.
As soon as I got home, I ran into the bathroom, took off my clothes and turned on the shower. Then, I took the smallest bar of soap and scrubbed my hands until that soap sliver was but a memory. And that's when I looked in the mirror and saw why no one would make eye contact with me. My nose was brown.
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