I Just Said "No"

The only thing I fear more than death-by-loneliness is being stabbed to death in my sleep by a deranged girlfriend...no, that's not true. I'd rather be murdered in my sleep than endure a lifetime of bad relationships, so at the moment I am alone. That's a choice. I've actually had several overtures recently but I walked away from them all for reasons ranging from prejudice to self-preservation.

It's amazing how much you can learn about sex by not having it- the absence of humpage seems to encourage thought and reason.
Maybe I'm smarter now.
Or maybe I'm just picky.
Or scared.
Or all of the above.

In any case, I wound up giving my version of The Speech ( Let's Just Be Friends) again lately and it's starting to bother me; I am accustomed to being on the receiving end of The Speech, not to giving it- and after giving it, I realize that no matter how well-intentioned, The Speech has a tendency to be a bit disingenuous. Especially the part about remaining friends.

I have a friend here who drinks. Heavily.
Last winter, she reached out to me for help with the drinking. I can't do anything, I said, that is up to you. All I can do is listen and I will- call me anytime but don't call me if you are drunk.

She didn't call for months.

Then we bumped into each other a while back and started talking , she seemed sincere about quitting, she wanted to talk more, in private.

OK. I am cool with that.

So she invited me to dinner and when I arrived, she stank of vodka. Alcoholics like to think vodka is odorless and hence undetectable, but that is a fallacious assumption. Vodka has a strong odor and anything that's 80 proof will noticeably impair you and this woman was impaired. Wobbly drunk.

I got angry. Usually, it doesn't bother me very much to be around people who are drinking, but this was different- we were supposed to be talking about sobriety, a useless conversation to have with a drunk.

Look. I like you but I can't be around you like this.

Don't you think I'm attractive?

I should have said "no, not at the moment", but I was too nice. She is very pretty and I told her that - the next thing I knew she had slipped her distillery tongue into my mouth.

Aughh!

I swear, I could feel a 'contact drunk' from that stolen kiss. I wanted her (or at least my body did) but I knew what would happen if we slept together- I would convince myself that I was in love with her (I'm not) and try to 'rescue' her, which would fail and lead me back into drinking just so I could be with her.

I know this because I've been through it before.

To repeat my mistakes would be insane, so I did the next craziest thing, which was actually
the only sane option- I gave her The Speech.

Dickless asshole!

It didn't go over well.

Rule #1 : Don't date drunks.

Sub-Rule #1a: Don't date drunks who call you "dickless asshole."

Anyway, I must be putting out major pheromones, because a few days later I was getting a ride home from a woman I don't know very well and she asked me if I wanted to go back to her place and get high- sure, I said, why not?

I know her husband, so I assumed he'd be home and that this was just a social visit- I really should have known better. As soon as we sparked the first joint, she started talking to me about her impending divorce...man, I shoulda seen that coming. I've been there before too.

Most guys would probably have just fucked her and vamoosed, but I am not wired like that. I know what would happen- I'd wind up convincing myself that I was in love and it would end in humiliation and tears when I found out the feeling wasn't reciprocal.

Stupid, but I can't help it. It's how I am. I have an extremely naive and idealized notion of romance- it's as if my emotions stopped growing when I started my drinking career in high school and have only resumed progress now, twenty-odd years later.
I don't know where I get my ideas from- I certainly didn't grow up around well-adjusted relationships- I think my ideals are the merely the reverse of what I saw as a kid.
In my perfect world Daddy comes home at night and Mommy doesn't play with guns.
That's pretty much as far as I get with the details of my expectations.
Useless. Dreamer.
I wonder how many hopeless romantics come from broken homes?
Anyway.

So again with The Speech.

Don't you think I'm attractive?

Yes, yes I do...but I like you too much for this...which was a lie, because I don't know her very well at all. This lie made me feel bad, so I compounded the harm with honesty.

Look, I've been through this before and I'm just not emotionally suited to having affairs. I'll get hurt. You'll get hurt. Stop.

Man, I should have stuck with my lie. To her, I think it sounded like I was confessing to bedding every married woman in Virginia except her, because I somehow found her less attractive than all the other women- which wasn't true at all...I buried myself in a deep verbal hole and handed her the shovel. Instead of a spadeful of soil, she tossed this poisoned rose into my freshly-dug grave:

My husband won't touch me anymore.

Try walking home alone late at night with those words echoing in your head.
On second thought, don't.
It sucks. Take my word for it.

Rule #2: Don't sleep with married women.

Rule #3: Don't be a plot device in someone else's revenge drama.

The third rejection slip was the easiest one. It's much simpler to reject someone if you aren't interested in the first place -a gay acquaintance made an awkwardly polite move on me...dude, that's flattering and all, but I'm not gay. I didn't have to give The Speech at all, I just said "no , thanks."

When I was in my late teens I spent two or three days lost in a New Orleans dungeon.

It was during Mardi Gras and I don't remember how I got in or how I got out , but it did dispel any lingering adolescent doubts I had about my sexual orientation. It's a one-way street.
If a three-day absinthe and cocaine binge in a French Quarter dungeon doesn't bring out any hidden peccadilloes, nothing will.

Still, I thought it was kinda flattering to get hit on- most of the gay guys I know are very particular about appearance, clothes and general hygiene, so being hit on by one must indicate that I'm reasonably attractive, well-dressed and unfunky. That was rarely the case when I was drunk, so I guess I'm making progress.

Progress.

Did I tell you about this girl that I really like?

No?

Good.

Dr. Furter's Smoking Cure

The Rocky Horror Picture Show affected my life in at least two significant ways :

1) It made sure that I never became addicted to nicotine.

2) It confirmed my adolescent suspicions that I was a
heterosexual.

Let's start with the cigarettes... when I was 15, I got invited to go to the Midnight showing of RHPC at the Key Theatre in College Park, MD.
I was invited by some of my older friends who were , in my young eyes, 'supercool'.

They had weed, acid, booze and Susannah. I didn't really do a lot of drugs at that point, but I liked hanging out with the older stoner loners anyway. They made me laugh- they were all misfits and readily let me into their little group of outcasts.

Susannah was the older sister of one of my friends; she was a really old 17 and , I was to learn that night, she thought I was hot.

That's why I got invited- Susannah wanted me along.
I didn't know much about women then ( some things remain constant) so I was blind to Susannah's deft manipulations- as our group gathered around Andy's GMC Pacer, she waited until I got in the back and then pushed her other pals aside and plopped herself on my lap. There were seven or eight of us, so the lap-thing was mandatory- but she chose my lap.

Well, guess what?

About five milliseconds after she planted her nubile buns on my lap, I started experiencing this certain swelling sensation...at this point, I was still a virgin but I was pretty sure what was going on.

This uncontrollable swelling kept poking itself upwards, like it knew exactly where it wanted to go and nothing- not my Levis, not her panties, nothing- was going to stop it.

"This thing has a mind of it's own", I thought for the first, (but certainly not the last) time.

Of course, Susannah could feel this insistent, repetitive pushing against her fine, fine derriere. She knew what was going on alright- she wiggled around so that she was almost facing me , turned and gave me one of the most intense tongue-kisses I've ever had; grinding , grinding down, keeping perfect rhythm with her hips- it occurred to me that maybe she liked me better when I was swollen, so instead of trying to hide my condition, I pushed back.
So did she.
Repeat.
Repeat.

Aha! I was starting to understand what this was all about...all I could feel was my tongue sliding into the beautiful darkness of her mouth and this unknown ,but wholly natural-feeling pelvic combat taking place- completely out of my control.

There were six other kids in the car and we didn't pay any attention to them- someone tried handing us a joint, we heard them laughing at us but we didn't care- teenagers have been horny and shameless a long, long time before they invented myspace, you know...anyway, it was about a 40 minute ride to the cinema but I didn't make it that long.

Susannah could tell what was happening and she was right there with me...why are you speeding up ? I remember thinking...ah, the innocence of youth...anyway, when we got to the theatre, I headed straight for the restroom so I could discard my ruined underwear and maybe clean myself up a bit...

The Men's Room was full of transvestites.

See, at the Rocky Show, the audience dressed as the cast of the movie and the movie was full of campy cross-dressers (and some Meatloaf) - a lot of pre-movie 'costume' adjustments were done in the restrooms.

Here I was, barely 15 years old , still recovering from my first assisted orgasm and suddenly I was in a toilet full of trannies, looking for somewhere to ditch my scummy shorts.

Hmmm...well, almost everyone else in here has their pants off, I thought- and not all of the men were men- so I might as well get it over with...I dropped my jeans, pitched my nastified FotL's into the wastebin and used a wet papertowel to clean myself as best I could.

People were fucking in the stalls and sniffing blow off each other's body parts...nobody even paid me any attention. It was truly anti-climactic.

So I strutted back to our seats, dazed but needing more Susannah...I had never known that the inside of someone else's mouth could taste so good...I wanted her for every meal, forever and ever...ech. Sappy.

I was sure that after the movie, something very special was going to happen and it was going to be the best, most important thing ever...ergh. You know how kids are.

"I threw my shorts away", I told her.

She laughed and kissed me.

The sweet woman-taste was gone.

She tasted like tobacco, but honestly, I didn't care. I was 15 and all I wanted was more bouncing and grinding- I was pretty much oblivious to everything around me, which is no mean feat considering where I was.

After a long make-out session, she lit a cigarette.

Very sophisticated, she was.

She offered me one.

I accepted it and she lit it for me, using her own cigarette.

Then she kissed me and exhaled deep into my lungs.

This was a night of firsts.
That was my first cigarette.

It made me feel funny. Not in a funny-good way, like Susannah made me feel. The smoke made me feel funny-sick.

Very ill.

I puked on Susannah. All over her plaid skirt and her Doc Martens.

After that, Susannah was done with kissing me. She didn't even want to talk.
If Andy hadn't been a nice guy, they would have left me behind, 30 miles from home.

I missed my first lay because of a cigarette.

The only cigarette I have ever smoked.

Frustration

NOTE: This is not addressed to ALL dudes. Sadly, you DON'T know who you are. You should.

Dudes. Listen up.

Your girlfriends and wives are not happy. Do you not notice this?
You aren't giving them the attention they deserve.
Are you taking your woman for granted? That is a mistake.

I'm single and have been involuntarily celibate for about ten gazillion years and it drives me crazy when your women complain to me about your lack of enthusiasm and imagination. They tell me how dull you are and I start having detailed fantasies- sometimes I share these ideas with your unsatisfied lover and this is what your wife/GF tells me:
" My man wouldn't do that."

Well, I would.

And I wouldn't stop until your wife begged me - and even then I'd draw it out for a loooong time.... The only thing stopping me is a vow I made to myself to never sleep with a married/attached woman again.
Ever.
For five drunken years, the only women I slept with were sexually frustrated married/engaged women that I met at work. All that repressed sexual energy had to go somewhere- and sometimes it came to me.

For some reason, they felt comfortable telling me how much you suck in bed.

Doesn't that feel nice? Your wife told the file clerk about your "problem"...then she took him to a Motel 6 and used your money to pay for the room. I was siting right next to her while she lied to you on her cellphone. That rattling sound was me fixing her a drink.
Nice, huh?

Nowadays, the file clerk doesn't drink and he doesn't have affairs.

The file clerk is adamant about the drinking, but if he keeps hearing these complaints, he might have to change his mind about that adultery vow.

Better get busy unless you want your wife moaning the file clerk's name in her sleep.

The Bubba Closet

The skin on Peter's face is so red that his blond beard seems albino by comparison, he speaks and his words clungle in a sticky fog of peppermint schnapps...Peter has a 'trick' -he uses schnapps to mask the dozen or so beers he drinks during his day shift as short-order lunch cook at the corner bar where we both work.

"Better than a breath mint", he says.

"Goddmanit Peter, get your drunk ass outta my way...fuck, did you thaw the shrimp like I asked you...what did you do? This fucking prep list isn't finished..."

I'm sick of Peter's crap- he's been working here for twenty years and pretty much has tenure, but he's pissed because he found out the night cooks make a lot more money than he does- he's old, like forty maybe, and he resents having to answer to a punk-ass kid (me). I wouldn't get on his case if he didn't suck at his job...his idea of soup is to drop some grated cheese into warm tomato juice and call it "Cheddar Tomato", something I refuse to serve. I usually throw it away while he watches, hoping he'll get pissed enough to take a swing and get fired. The kitchen would run a lot smoother without him.

Peter addresses me by my last name, continues,"...things haven't always been great between us
but I jush wanta letcha know that I resphect you a lot and I mean that like a Man."

"Whatever dude. What the fuck is this deep fryer? The goddamn La Brea Tar Pit? I can't fry fish in 30 weight motor oil!"

" I was waiting for it to cool down."

I look at the fryer. The oil is black and congealed, doesn't look like it's been used all day. I drop a single frozen french frie into it. It lays inert on the surface, not heavy enough to sink into the solidified grease.

"But seriously", he stumbles up to me, "I've noticed that you've grown over the last couple years, your shoulders are broader. I really respect you as a Man", he repeats, looking me up and down...I am being scoped.
Unpleasant.

Later that night, I'm relating this bizarre encounter to Billy, one of the older cooks that I get along with...Billy explains that in the South there are a lot of rednecks who really are gay, but repress it from themselves...it comes out in weird ways, awkward "fag" jokes and homophobic insults are pretty common, and yeah, they like to get a buzz on and talk about Men being Men, just ignore them and whatever you do, never, ever give them cocaine.
Good advice.

A couple years later, a friend was visiting and he brought his Boss, who was a Closet Bubba- he couldn't watch ten minutes of football without talking about men's asses...I expect this sort of comment from my queer friends, but this guy is "straight" and worse , he's a dentist. A drunk redneck closeted homophobe dentist...I am charging him extra for his weed.

"I don't like having faggots as patients", he informs us between bong hits, "I don't like putting my hands into a mouth that's sucked a cock."

"So I guess you don't like women as patients either", I say.

"Or your mother", adds my friend,getting into the spirit.

Bubba hands me my bong and it stinks. Not in a normal, rank-ass nasty bongwater way, but in a saturated cheap cologne way.
Bubba the Closet Redneck Dentist is wearing so much cologne that it has rubbed off on my bong- the mingled smell of bongwater and cologne is hideous, I gag and set it aside.

I'm getting ready to throw this guy out of my apartment but first I'm taking his money. I think I'll just hit him with a baseball bat, take his wallet, drag him into the alley and leave him for the trannie hookers.

"Dude. You have ruined my bong. Ounces are two twenty. "

A month later he came back- I refused to let him in. A year or two after that he got busted for a dozen felonies, mostly prescription drug stuff, but there was a mail-order bride and a pregnant teen-age patient in the mix...he was gone for a long time but I recently saw his name on a case at the Firm.

Medical Malpractice, of course.