**Mom, don’t read this one**
I grab my phone out of the toilet and desperately suck the
toilet water from its lower holes. I don’t even really think about the fact
that I’m doing this in the moment, I don’t second guess my impulse to save my phone
at any cost. The fact that I’ve pulled it out of a public toilet in a dive bar
at 2am on Halloween night doesn’t really register.
Then I remember why I’m in the restroom in the first place
and I try to mentally prepare for what’s to come. I put my phone on top of the
toilet next to my purse which is still unzipped, it’s opening aimed at the
water—the cause of the accident. I see that the lid to my lipstick is still
floating in the bowl. I try not to think about the fact that my phone is
probably dead. John the bartender enters and locks the door. He turns to me.
“I dropped my phone in the toilet,” I say, pointing to it,
still wet beside my purse. As I point, I notice that my house key has
landed in the no man’s land between the seat and the back of the toilet.
I vow to remember to grab it later.
John doesn’t understand, or he doesn’t want to deal with
this right now. He grabs my waist and pushes me up against the wall. We’re
making out and his hand is up my dress and digging around inside my tights. That’s
when I remember the bandages.
Earlier this morning I preemptively went to spinning class
to “detox before retox,” as my instructor so eloquently put it. Not used to the
incredible friction in my crotch area, I chafed something terrible and
discovered later that the skin just inches from my outer labia was rubbed raw
and actually peeling off in stinging sheets. I smeared on globs of Neosporin
and bandaged the area. I vowed to not let any man anywhere near the region because all the bandages made it look like I had recently undergone
labiaplasty. Not to mention additional rubbing would definitely hurt like hell.
I decided my wounds would help me make better decisions, as I would have to
weigh the man against the guaranteed pain involved in hooking up with him—would
he be worth it? I didn’t consider as a real possibility that I would find
myself in this dilemma with John. I just never imagined we would actually get
to this point in our epic 11 month flirtation.
Earlier in the night, when I first arrive at the bar with my
roommates in our matching understated yet elegant costumes of all black
ensembles and masquerade masks, John greets me with a warm hug over the bar. I
kiss his cheek and, when he says “Oh!” in a pleasantly surprised manner, I ask
if I can have a real kiss later.
“I’m pretty sure you don’t get any more kisses,” he eyes me
suggestively. I obviously know what he’s referring to—the last time I was here I went home with his brother. Why this trumps the fact that he still lives with his girlfriend, I'm not sure.
“Why?” I smile coyly.
“You know why,” says John. But he doesn’t look upset; he
looks amused. I like this about him—he doesn’t seem to take it all too
seriously. Underneath it all, he seems to understand that it’s just sex. Who
cares that I fucked his brother and I still want to fuck him? He doesn’t slut
shame me for it. He still wants me too. I find this incredibly hot.
I haven’t really been drinking lately so after a couple
vodka sodas with a lemon and a lime (and a cherry that John adds without
asking), I am completely hammered. I’m on the floor dirty dancing with a Jewish
guy dressed as a Rasta. His dreadlocked hair keeps getting caught in my mask,
so I take off my mask. I freak with the Rasta like I’m at a middle school
dance, twerking my ass into his hips. He grabs my waist and tries to reach his
hand into the top of my dress, grabbing at my boobs. I enjoy dancing with
him—he’s fun and he can move (or at least I’m drunk enough, I think he can)—but
I don’t want to fuck this guy and when he tries to kiss me, I hold my face
away. When he tells me to come home with him to Pasadena, I laugh in his face
and say, “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
I carry my friend’s vaporizer loaded up with weed to John at
the bar and offer it to him. He takes it and puffs. I order a couple more
drinks for my friends and “a shot of your choice” for John. I do this several
times throughout the night but apparently he puts none of it on my tab because
my bill comes out to $18 at the end of the night. When John hands me my drinks,
I rub my fingers on his and we linger there for a moment. Later I make him lean
in so I can tell him something and I lick his ear. Later still I suck on his
fingers, which taste like lime. At some point, he declares, “You had sex with
my brother.”
I say, “So? I like both you guys.”
He asks, “Was he good to you?” I think this is a classy
question. Also kinky. I wonder not for the first time if these are the kind of Irish
twins that would fuck the same girl in the same room at the same time. If this
is a possibility, I need to do everything in my power to make it happen.
Suddenly, it’s 2am and the lights are coming on, the heavy
metal designed to thin the crowd blasting out of the speakers. John comes
around to sit in his usual spot at the bar to do the tip out on his computer.
Naturally, I plop down next to him, and this is when things take a turn. I try
to kiss him and he pushes his face into my neck and says, “I want to bury
myself in you.” I try to get his number, asking if we can be friends. He says,
“How am I supposed to be your friend when all I want is to fuck you?” I guess
that’s a fair question. I can see that he’s struggling. He punches his number
into my phone anyway.
He tells me I’m causing problems in his relationship. I tell
him it’s not me. He doesn’t understand what I mean. I want to point out that if
it weren’t me, it would be some other girl. He’s just not monogamous, at least
not at this stage in his life. I decide not to get into it. Instead, I run my fingers
down his back and along the top of his pants to the front. He grabs my hand and
puts it on his fly. He’s hard. He reaches under my dress and grips my crotch.
“Now that just kills me.” He seems to be referring to
the heat coming off me. He lifts his hand away from my crotch and runs it under
his nose, along his lips. It's about this time that the DJ says, "This one's for you, John," and proceeds to play Britney Spears' Toxic.
John won’t kiss me but seems to want me to keep grabbing his
dick. I guess because it’s under the bar and he thinks his coworkers aren’t
seeing what’s going on between us. I ask, “Why can I do this but you won’t kiss
me? Because it’s under the bar?” He nods. “So, do you want me to get under the
bar and suck your dick?” I ask. He nods, slower this time. Wow, he actually
thinks that we are being stealth enough to get away with this. I’m so drunk I
actually consider it.
My friends are ready to hit the taco truck, so I bid John
farewell. He looks disappointed, like he always does when I leave, and I want
to say, “Make up your damn mind!”
“Do you need to go to the bathroom before you go?” He asks.
At first I don’t register what he’s really asking and I
almost say no. Then I realize the meaning of this.
“Yes,” I answer and grab my purse. I march towards the
restroom.
Inside, the first thing I do is put my purse down on top of
the toilet, and then a couple seconds later register that I’ve dumped the
entire contents into the toilet. I fish out my phone, lipstick, Altoids.
Thinking at the time that all of these items are salvageable, even the mints.
This is when I suck the toilet water out of my phone and immediately turn it off,
remembering the advice I received the last time I dropped my phone in the
toilet. That phone didn’t make it.
With John’s hand up my dress, I remember my bandages and I
really don’t want to have to explain them to him. Instead, I move down and unbutton his jeans, squatting on the ground. I take his penis in my mouth. As I’m
sucking on him, I reach into my tights and rip off the medical tape and gauze
strips covering my outer vagina wounds. I drop these on the floor beside
discarded bits of toilet paper.
Naturally, as I suck John’s dick, I can’t resist comparisons
to his brother. I notice immediately that his brother was in much better
physical shape and therefore (as is my experience) his dick got bigger and
harder. John’s is hard but could probably be harder if he hadn’t been drinking
so much. He’s been working long sweaty hours and there’s a faint smell of BO
emanating from his nether regions. It’s not that bad and I don’t mind it. He’s
smiling down at me in a very appreciative manner—that’s nice.
I’m not getting anywhere with his dick in my mouth, so I
stand up and pull down my tights and underwear and turn away from him, putting
my hands on the wall and pushing my ass into his crotch. I fumble for his
penis, willing it to stay hard for just a little while longer.
“I can’t have sex with you without a condom,” he says in a
moment of sudden clarity. I respect this decision, for his girlfriend’s sake. And
because sex without condoms is a bad habit I need to stop. For some reason I
haven’t brought one with me, probably because I really had no intention of bringing my vagina out tonight.
I lean with my back against the wall, underwear down, tit
sticking out the top of my dress. John stands at the sink, staring at me and jerking
off. He ravages me with his eyes. I can’t remember who decides we’re done here.
Probably he says, “I should get back.” I pull up my underwear and tights but
leave my tit out.
“Put that away,” he instructs before taking it in his mouth.
Then he’s gone. My roommate appears in the doorway.
“I just sucked John’s dick,” I declare. “And I dropped my
phone in the toilet.”
It’s time to hit the taco truck.
After I order my nachos, I text John, “Hey John, it’s me.
Let’s be friends.” With a winky face.
Him: “What”
Me: “What what”
Him: “Ok. Yes.”
Me: “Yes what?”
Him: “I don’t know”
“Our interactions are like a Pinter play,” I declare to my
friends.
“What’s that?” They ask.
I tell my best friend Sadie about this experience and she
asks why I want to fuck John. She thinks my story doesn’t sound very
passion-driven and feels more like a challenge I’ve set for myself. She wonders
if by fucking his brother, I simply upped the ante in this game of trying to
fuck John—actually making it harder for myself, adding a new level to the game.
I tell her I find the combination of John’s inability to have sex with me and
his desire to do so incredibly hot. I wonder aloud if people who don’t know me
would think my mission in life is to home wreck happy relationships. She
doesn’t think so—she thinks it’s clear from my perspective on infidelity and
monogamy that I don’t consider myself the cause of these men’s relationship
problems. I’m a symptom.
Sadie says it sounds to her like I’m bored, that if there were
anyone more exciting to come along, I wouldn’t be interested in John anymore.
“Well, of course. But isn’t that always the way it is? You mess
around with people that aren’t the real thing until something more interesting comes
along?”
She concedes this is probably true.
“If John said he was leaving his girlfriend and wanted to
fuck you all the time, would you want that?” She asks. Probably not, but there
are a thousand what ifs I could go through that have nothing to do with the
actual situation.
“What will probably happen is it will turn out that John’s
girlfriend is like your blog’s biggest fan.”
I laugh, “That’s what happens in the movie version of my
life.”
“The brother will fall in love with you,” she goes on, “and
you’ll fuck both of them and get pregnant and won’t know which one of theirs it
is and you’ll all end up raising the baby together.”
I tell her about how I’ve made plans to see John’s brother
over Thanksgiving when I’m up in the Bay Area visiting my parents.
“I wonder if he won’t want to see me anymore if John tells
him I sucked his dick,” I muse.
She bursts out laughing.
“You are building yourself a fucking garbage fire.” Maybe
she’s right. Maybe I am bored.
