reached back like a pimp and slapped a ho
“Saying 'I hate women' while you're slapping some bitch in the face is a lot more believable than a chick saying 'I hate men' while she's got her mouth full of her ex-boyfriend's cock.”
There's left field. There's far left field. There's the carpark outside left field. And out on the highway, somewhere around the turnpike where it connects to the interstate and approaching a comfortable cruising speed, there's Daniel after a few joints and half a bottle of whiskey.
“I mean, how does that work? How can two bitches give some guy a headjob at the same time, then after they're finished, he goes and grabs a beer and they talk to each other about how much of an asshole womaniser he is?”
The man's life is on another plane to mine. This is a simple fact. Sometimes I envy him, sometimes I worry for him, but the unembellished truth is that despite our close friendship, we move in entirely different ways. Sometimes I wonder if I've given a wrong impression – if the combination of my experiences and my ability to bullshit responses to situations I've never been in have created an impression of me in his head that I simply don't match up to. Sometimes I think he's just got the wrong idea about me, plain and simple.
Most of the time, though, I just sit back and let him talk. It's more fun that way.
“How is the guy a womaniser? The two girls are sucking his dick at the same time, and when he finishes, they talk about how much of a womanising asshole he is? What the fuck!”
He just faces problems which I never have – nor, if my life continues on the current path, ever will. This is a man whose liver gave up in protest halfway through Year 12, but still drank a bottle of Jack Daniels the day before his maths exam. This is a man whose attitude towards condoms is, and here I quote him verbatim (albeit after half a bottle of tequila each), “Who gives a fuck if she's clean?” This is a man who is continually oscillating between manic enthusiasm, morning-after apathy, and alcoholic melodrama, and who should rightly be treated with sympathetic pity but is treated by our entire social circle as a tragic clown.
“I mean, I can still hate women but plough them in a degrading way, you know? But a girl can't say she hates men and have a cock in her mouth fifteen minutes later. This upsets me.”
It has gone midnight and it is cold - the cold where it feels like the end of your nose is dripping, the cold where your stomach is cramping from tensing up to stay warm, the cold where you gave up on your ears half an hour ago because forget it, man, they're gone. We are both at the stage where thought is a precious commodity, to be weighed and apportioned in exact amounts and given due reverence by the listener.
He is waiting for me to say something.
“Bitches, man. They crazy.”
“They are, man, they are,” he agrees, and takes a swig on his bottle, then a drag on his cigarette and leans his head back to exhale up at the sky. This would be much more dramatic if it were a starry night and the moonlight was pale upon his skin, but the fact is that it's the middle of May and the night is overcast and the only reason we're outside is because I don't need cigarette stink all over my couches, so really it just looks like he's passed out for a moment.
By the time these thoughts have staggered through my mind, he's already off again.
“Loose bitches are the worst, man.”
I simply nod silently and concentrate on rolling. My dexterity is by now somewhere around my ankles, which is making it very hard to keep the tobacco from joining it.
“Well, it's actually okay for like, the first two minutes, but then it's like the actual act itself has created them so loose that it's similar to the feeling of fucking air... Just like, really wet and warm air.”
At least, thought is a precious commodity for me, anyway.
“Fuck that. If we could invent something that makes them not loose after pregnancies or whatever, then just maybe – we will be able to make a fuckload of money.”
Somewhere deep in the intoxicated haze of my conscious thought, what's left of my clarity protests that the vagina's shape is not exactly static after pregnancy, but the statement is pre-empted - as they always seem to be.
“Did Winston go to Europe?”
“Uh... maybe? I dunno, I heard something about his girlfriend going over there.”
“What's up there? Is she living over there or something?”
“I dunno, man, I don't talk to him.”
The cigarette is now successfully rolled. Perhaps a little misshapen – I have never mastered perfectly tubular rollies, and since I only smoke when I drink, the odds are strong that I never will – but rolled nonetheless. I'm even able to light it without much hassle, which is a pleasant change.
“Hey, serious question.”
“Mm?”
“If you're fucking a girl from behind and she says, 'Oh you like to watch it, don't you' and then says 'I want you to film it so I can see too', is that dirty talk? Or does she literally want you to whip out the camera phone there and then?”
This is what I have in mind during the times I suspect he's gotten the wrong idea about me. The dual-fellatio question? Rhetorical. This? This, he wants an answer for. These questions come up from time to time - “What do bitches mean when they say talk dirty?”, “What do you say when they get period blood on your sheets?” - and without fail they are either situations which I have never encountered or are up to individual preference.
“I... I would say film it. I mean, once you're done, delete it with her watching so she doesn't get paranoid, but... yeah, I think film it. I mean, what can she complain about if you do?”
“Yeah nah, I'm sure in the case of a woman saying that, she wouldn't mind either way – I'm just thinking if she says that out of the blue during sex, you know, does she literally want me to stop, walk over to my pants, get my phone, whatever, or is it just dirty talk?”
“Oh, if your phone's out of reach, fuck it. Don't even bother.”
“But like, if I don't film it, is she going to feel stupid for saying it later?”
This is my point. How the fuck should I know?
“Definitely don't stop to do it, dude. Just like, make a flirty joke about it later, and if she still looks like she supports it when she's not midfuck, well - be prepared for next time?”
“Good plan, man, good plan.”
And I build that impression a little bit more, just like every other time.
We sit in relative silence for a while – smoking, drinking, freezing. I don't know what he's thinking about. I couldn't even pretend to be able to deduce it. I just sit there, comfortable in my mental cocoon, feeling the world fade away into alcohol and weed.
“So it's E's sister's birthday and they're having drinks at E's house -” E is his current thing, more on her after this “- and her sister's ex walks up to E and whispers in her ear, 'I fucked your sister in the ass last week.'”
This finally breaks through and cracks my shit up, and I sit there giggling because I have heard stories about E (who is Elizabeth, but apparently that is verboten). Saying that to E is like saying “I took your sister out to a candlelit dinner” to other people. The very first time I heard about her, Daniel prefaced it by saying “I had the dirtiest sex last night”.
Context is everything.
“And the thing about E is, you know, I don't think she really gets the cute, nice talk thing.”
I think I'm expected to prompt him to go on, but really, I don't want to get in the way of whatever's about to be said. I just stay silent.
“Like, she asked last week, um, why do you like me? And I go, I like you because you're nice and cute and smart and whatever, you know. And she goes, you're such a sweetie! I just want you to fuck me doggy right now.”
I bust up again. I'm the first to admit that I'm twelve years old mentally, and when I'm high, it tends to regress even further. The word “penis” would make me giggle for a minute at this point - you can imagine what this is doing to me.
(I ended up meeting E a week or two later. Sweet girl, when she has her clothes on.)
We both finish laughing eventually – it was one of those situations where the fact that the other person is laughing is just brain-breakingly funny; an oroboros of inane giggles – and settle back into contemplation of the mysteries of the universe.
“Did you hear we're getting a Hungry Jack's soon?”
“No shit?”
“Yeah!”
“Huh. Cool.”
if you honestly read all of that you deserve a medal or something for putting up with my crap
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3771) wrote,
quixotic
