They stumbled into his room, carefully avoiding contact. each was unsure of the other, and at this stage of inebriation, the slightest unintentional brush of skin on skin would be akin to striking a match on a powder keg. He pulled his shirt off over his head, managing the manuever with, if not sexy suavity, at least without tangling it around his neck. He scratched his flat stomach and yawned like a tranquilized bear.
"There're pajama bottoms, uh, if you like," he offered, waving an unsteady hand at the large stainless steel shelf which served as his bureau.
"Oh, I would like," she said, sounding genuinely pleased.
"Um, flannel, or scrubs." He held out two pair, one thick and checkered, the other sheer, turquiose, medical.
"I want the scrubs."
He handed them to her. He'd had them for years -- taken from the hospital where he was born, the pair his father had worn in the delivery room -- and nodded approvingly at her judgement; they were indeed comfortable. He slurred an attempted joke about how she was unlike the women in the song by TLC, who, as was common knowledge, didn't want no scrubs, but was well past the point of making it funny, or, indeed, even comprehensible. Though, in his defense, the joke wouldn't have worked sober, either.
He turned around to offer her privacy while she changed -- this was something he often read of gentlemen doing in books, and was secretly thrilled at every chance to do so in real life.
After a few moments had passed, he turned, sure she was decent, and saw her bending to gather her clothes from the floor. The scrubs, large on him and thus clownishly oversized on her, had slid down somewhat over her small, taut behind, revealing a tantalizing black thong. The undergarment was at once provocative and functional -- a perfect balance of business and pleasure. He tore his eyes away and gestured to the bed.
"Yeah, I hope you don't mind that we share . . .." he let the statement trail off.
"No, no problem. But I'm just going to go to bed."
"Oh, of course. No funny business. I'm about to pass out."
They lay together under the covers. Her thoughts were a mystery to him. If she had spoken for more than five minutes to a non-blood-related male at any time in her life, his thoughts were not so much of a mystery to her.
Perhaps.
he looked at her as she lay there, on her side, her back to him, and thought how appealing she was: Strong, independent, yet fragile, as are we all. Just enough crazy mixed in with her solid, intelligent worldview to make her irresistible. She was like a bright summer dress that was the slightest bit frayed and mud-splattered at the hem.
He thought of how good she smelled -- of perfume and floral, girly shampoo, and the slightest peppery, bold hint of sweat.
He thought of how she was the first girl to share this bed, even if it was in a strictly platonic sense. He hoped there would be others to occupy it as well, sometime soon.
He thought of edging closer to her, pushing his face into her auburn hair, kissing the downy nape of her neck. He imagined curling his arms around her, letting his hands roam across her body -- the left up to her pert breasts, the right down between her legs, fingers stroking with gentle insistence at the soft folds barely concealed by her sheer panties, while he thrust his hard cock against her ass.
"My feet are cold," she said, appropos of nothing. Of course, anything uttered between two people sharing a bed needn't be neatly segued into; this is the advantage of pillow talk. It is free-form.
He inched a leg out, his calf connecting with her soles. They were indeed on the chilly side. He briefly considered curling up at the foot of the bed like a cat and warming them during the night.
"No, they're fine. Fine." He gave them a reassuring brush and then retreated to a respectable distance.
She giggled.
At this point he realized what he wanted more than anything, and it unnerved him.
He just wanted to cuddle.
The day's exertions and night's excesses had left him more or less a spent force. To approach the matter of sex from a pragmatist's lofty height, he was sorely out of practice and apt to be reach the crescndo well ahead of the rest of the orchestra. Also, he was far to weary to perform at anything other than an amatuer level.
But beyond the practicalities, he found that what he really desired was not aggressive intercourse, but simply soft and silent snuggling. He wanted to press his bare chest against her back, wrap his arms around her until their hands entwined, and match their slow breathing until they drifted off to sleep.
Christ, he thought, have I been so long without affectionate contact that I am reduced to fantasizing about cuddling?
He sighed and rolled onto his back.
"You know I will spread the most perverted rumors about you to the fellas at work, right?"
"That's fine," she replied drowsily, "I was planning on gossiping to the ladies about how small your dick is."
They were silent for a spell.
"It appears the state of detante holds strong, then," he reflected.
"Mmm. Sweet dreams."
And so there you are, dear readers. Further evidence of how I am woefully inept at taking advantage of drunk chicks.
I recently enjoyed a lovely evening out with a spritey female co-worker. I made the mistake of attempting, in my miasma of machismo, to match her drink for drink. A poor strategy I found, to my chagrin. The lady has the stamina of Marion Ravenwood from Raiders. She did not drink any sherpas under the table during the evening's festivities, this may be attributed to there not actually being any sherpas present.
I was tempted, upon waking the morning after to her evacuation claxon of an phone alarm, to blame my condition on my advanced age. But I gave myself a sharp mental reprimand. I despise individual of my -- or, to make a generalization about my readership, such as it is, our -- age bracket, moaning about being over-the-hill.
"Oh, I can't party like I used to in college."
"Man, I wish I could run like I did at 18."
Belay that talk!
We are in the prime of our lives. I am the most physically fit I have ever been! Tragically ironic that I have no willing nubile bodies to demonstrate my stamina to . . . but nevertheless!
Our generation's deep-rooted problems are many and varied, but I believe they are defined by two factors. These causes bookend our crippled psyche. The first is a prolonged childhood. What with parental guidance, a letigious society, a struggling economy, and a hypnotizing plethora of electronic nonsense to distract us and hem us in, we are stunted into a seemingly endless pre-teen mindset, never growing up. Ha! I was just about to begin my next sentence with "Adults," meaning our parents and grandparents. That is how deep this goes. We're adults now! Our parents would urge us to get out, do things, be creative. All well and good. But the problem of our advanced, post-modern society is that everything has already been done, several times. Creativity becomes exponentially harder as the decades progress. All the ideas get used up.
There is less structure, fewer pivotal moments now, I feel. There is no bell that rings when adulthood begins, we merely shuffle bleary-eyed into it.
Simultaneously we are offered a constant stylized view of what our lives should be, through sitcoms and films, music, and advertising. We are given glimpses of an ideal life in the pursuit of which we are hamstrung by those aforementioned limitations.
Like a crowd of ironic, self-absored Tantaluses . . . Tantali? Has anyone ever pluralized his name before? We reached for the fruit dangling above us only to see it drawn away, and try and drink the water we are nearly drowning in, and have it recede beyond our grasp.
Limbo I calls it!
Whew.
I ain't had a rant in a while. It feels gewd.
I might have wasted my time, however, on frivolous rants about youth culture (look at me, complaining about how young people gripe like the elderly before launching into a tirade against the young like a crotchety old man on his porch).
I sit here in my study. My delightful study. The one room in my house that feels like my own. (Perhaps after I spend a few sweaty nights and lazy mornings frolicking with someone in my bedroom, that, too, will feel like my own.) For now, though, I tinkle the ice in my glass in a good-natured salute to my immediate surroundings. I love this old desk, chipped and scarred as it is, procured for a mere twenty-five clams from a local thrift-shop and hauled up here in an effort equal to that of the Romans re-locating an obelisk to the Hippodrome. I love the soft Persian carpet beneath my bare feet. I love the antigue map of my new city, Holyoke. I love the ancient fan, perched on the desk -- a GE model from my great aunt. Its four razor-sharp blades are covered by about three scant rings of thin metal. I am amazed there are not more fingerless octogenerians running around. I love The Senorita. She is a black velvet painting of a dusky-hued woman, swathed in a crimson blanket which obscures none of her assets. She was rescued from an old and empty house belonging to a former employer of mine.
I love this room.
I want to perch on the edge of my huge desk with three fingers of Macallan and a warm smile and beckon guests to enter. I want to pace the perimeter, brooding, and explain the assortment of books, weaponry, trinkets, and treasure each in turn to a fascinated visitor. I want to kneel under the desk and lap voraciously at some girl's pussy while she reads my latest blog post. I want to bend said girl over the desk and spank her ass until she begs me to fuck her.
More than anything, I want to write!\
And yes, I have had two glasses of wine and a Scotch, but this is not a maudlin, passing urge.
Perhaps more fiction will follow.
As for now, I have but one more section with which to close this post.
An offer.
I have long languished whilst working this blog, not knowing to whom I am writing. So I have an incentive to comment: The ol' Reverse Quiz.
That's right. I'm dusting off that chestnut and cracking it open. For the uninitiated, a reverse quiz work thus ways: You comment, post your name.
In return I will devout an entire post to you. I haven't decided exactly what it will entail. there are the old standards: what song/movie/book reminds me of you, what is my favorite memory of you, what animal you are most like, yadda yadda. It's basically you as seen through my eyes. Most people love it, desperate as we all are for definition. For examples, please see: http://whiteytighties.blogspot.com/2005/05/this-is-test-of-blog-reader-list.html
I was re-reading some of those old, old posts and I gotta say, I forgot how awesome I was. Please do comment to give some material.
So let's do this, eh?
'Night-night,
