Nine Days
There will be thousands upon millions of happy babes, and a hundred thousand martyrs who have taken upon themselves the curse of the knowledge of good and evil.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
Nine days of inanity began on a Friday with drinks over at Open. Jack-n-Jill came out with us. The proprietor was nice enough to buy us all a couple of rounds, a fair exchange, perhaps, for all the girl-on-girl productions we put on there during nights past. Jill was all bubbly and girly. She and Leslie kissed a lot, which human females sometimes do. We really do get along famously with them. Jack even told us, in his usual jovial manner, that they love spending time with us. Jack-n-Jill took off after a while and we hit the Grill to see what sort of cauldron of trouble we could stir up. It’s not the same without our old bartender, what with the lame karaoke night on Saturday and the limited buybacks and the end of decidedly illegal after-parties til seven in the AM. Leslie’s childhood chum was there, who’s known for buying shots and getting all sloppy. These shots contain alcohol, a poisonous substance known to suppress brain function. A poor girl stood outside inspecting the damage to her parked car, which some anonymous asshole had sideswiped. What is it with people in New York? How fucking hard is it to execute a parking maneuver without smashing into something at top speed? We invited her in and bought her a shot, but it wasn’t fifteen minutes before the bartender shouted last call and I was, like, “What the fuck? It’s only three thirty.”
Saturday evening brought us to Aubette for the Flirt party pre-game. Margaret, looking splendid in pleather pants and a pure latex top, stood at the bar along with her husband and a few other couples. We hung around making noises using mucous-lined organs in our throats; other people received these noises via strategically placed holes in their heads, somehow processing the signals into intelligible data. The holes in our heads served the same purpose. Humans are strange creatures, a species generally predisposed to making noise rather than paying attention to the noises other people are making. Though sometimes after hearing the right noises, humans remove their clothing and mate. The owners of the establishment thought it would be funny to pipe in loud background noise using magnetic gadgets called speakers, making it difficult to detect the sounds humans were making. One guy cleverly used his noise-making organ to tell us sordid tales. Later on we all sauntered over to the Flirt party, where Leslie and I made noises at various people. A few partygoers wandered around wearing nothing but torn sheets over body parts that many humans find embarrassing to leave in plain sight. Les amused herself by removing her dress and making a skirt and bra out of a spare sheet. We met a lovely little flaxen-haired, fair-skinned Latina and exchanged numbers. Another Latina, tall and busty, rather porn-star-like, affixed herself to Leslie, and we went to Sound Factory with the girl and her husband. “Bleep, bloop,” the speakers said, drowning out all the human noises. “Bleep, bloop. Thump.” We waded through the sounds that pooled around us, making our way to a bank of seats along a wall. Leslie and the girl kissed, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the seizure-inducing strobes. The couple gave us a ride home in their tricked-out BMW 745il. I’ll never go to Sound Factory again.
On Sunday we breathed, meaning we used mucous-lined sacs to extract oxygen from the air and expel carbon dioxide. My sacs are damaged from intentionally breathing in toxic chemicals on a regular basis.
On Monday Leslie was on the Fifth Wheel again. She met a girl.
Tuesday was quiet, but I had some dirty thoughts.
Leslie had a date Wednesday with an Indian girl. Les called me up at eight and we all went out to the movies with the Indian girl’s friend. He sported black penny loafers and white socks. The Indian girl later told Leslie I seemed rough, and asked if I was rough in bed too. “Only if you want him to be,” said Leslie.
On Thursday we attended a Nerve personals party—largely for the open bar—and drank a quantity of red wine. After drinking our fill we stepped outside and struck up a conversation with a cocoa-skinned woman who carried a skinny designer purse and smoked skinny designer cigarettes. The woman wanted to see my sex organ. I declined. A pale hipsterish girl with frizzy, curly, mop-top hair approached Leslie and the two of them made all kinds of excited noises. The girl, Babs, had exchanged emails with Leslie a while back. “I’d never forget your eyes,” Babs said to Leslie. “You’re beautiful.” Babs’ unassuming friend, Nicole, invited us to a party on Saturday and then left. We briefly hit the Grill with Babs, where the two girls lifted each other’s skirts and smacked each other’s asses, and then Babs convinced us to come out to the Hole to meet her other friends. The Hole is, true to its name, absolutely disgusting. The open bar certainly doesn’t help. Walking in we were greeted by the smell of stale beer—the very stench of evil. Squinting in the darkness I made out walls covered in graffiti, piles of broken glass, and banks of deeply stained upholstery. Babs’ crazy friends were ensconced on some couches in the corner, right next to two homeboys who were dealing coke in plain view. I sat down with beer in hand to take it all in, mouth agape. One of Babs’ friends, a pretty girl with a mane of dark curly hair (rather like Leslie’s) sat next to me and started asking questions. It took me a little while to realize this girl, Emma, was chatting me up but by then my bladder weighed on me like a distended water balloon. I excused myself to take a piss. A guy in the bathroom line asked if we could make peepee together. I declined. Not long afterward, Babs had to be stuffed into a cab. She had sort of passed out drunk between the two coke-dealing homeboys, which was bad for business, yo, so Les and Emma took care of this task while I sat around talking to some of the guys. When Les and Emma returned the two girls feasted on each other, locking lips for a good five minutes. Emma’s breasts heaved into Leslie’s embrace. The rest of us looked on in fascination. You see, many human males become aroused at the sight of two females kissing. Later on a couple butch dykes would ask me if “those girls in the corner” were really into girls or just drunk and I would laugh. I learned, after the snogging session was over, that Emma had dated a couple before. I told Emma we’re looking to get off the party train and find a nice girl to date. She wrote “Naked Loft Party” on a pack of Marlboro Lights.
On Friday night we had dinner with Cherry Girl and her beau. Much had happened since we saw them last. The boyfriend, Film Boy, had spent a month in the jungles of Peru and picked up a smoking habit. Poor Cherry Girl got hit by a car and broke her foot, so now she’s walking around on crutches. Given her limited mobility, we opted for drinks at her place, which rapidly devolved into sex at her place. It wasn’t long before I was on the couch sitting between Cherry Girl and Leslie, fingering them both as Cherry Girl spastically jerked at my sex organ and forced her boyfriend’s cock down her throat. Leslie mounted me, and I fucked her that way while Cherry Girl begged Film Boy to grab a condom. I flipped Leslie over and entered her again as Film Boy bent Cherry Girl over the end of the couch. Cherry Girl took my hand in hers, squeezing hard as she came. We rested, thumbing through an album of Film Boy’s excellent photographs—all of them landscapes and nudes. I got frisky as Cherry Girl showed me her website. We ended up on the couch again, where Cherry Girl lay on her back with her head between my legs. I teased her with my cock, tapping it against her tongue until she’d turn her head and take it in her mouth, cheek bulging. Somehow a Polaroid came out and we snapped some great pictures of the girls licking pussy and gobbling knobs. Around four AM this idiot started repeatedly calling Leslie’s cell, claiming he knew her. After, like, the fifth time, Film Boy put on his best ghetto accent and answered as the rest of us snickered in the background. “Where you at? Leslie’s comin over right now. No man, I ain fuckin wichu.”
On Saturday we spent most of the night at Nicole’s party, held in her penthouse apartment down by the old WTC site. It was a converted office space: a modern two-level atrium layout with a large rectangular skylight, recessed lighting, and a balcony that ran the circuit of the upper level. We got there a bit early and sat around shooting the shit with Nicole and her sister as we reclined in flimsy beach chairs atop the roof. My escapades over the past few months have blurred the line between group sex and normal socialization. I thought of walking over to Nicole and putting my dick in her mouth as she sat there, as if this would have been the most natural thing in the world. Talking to Nicole’s sister, a Boston resident, I summarized the differences between Boston and New York thusly: “Boston has one of everything,” I said. “New York has ten of everything.” Babs and Emma showed up with a few of the other people I had met on Thursday. Emma and I clung to the railing, gazing at the tangle of narrow streets below. She told me she had been with that couple for nine months; the other woman’s jealousy had killed it. She asked if it had ever ended badly for us. “Once,” I said. “Sex is easy to come by, but it’s hard to find someone who can handle something deeper than that.” Rain chased us down from the rooftop. Navigating the roof-access ladder with drink in hand proved to be the night’s key challenge. It was stimulating, though, standing under Leslie as she made her way down. Emma took advantage of the situation by giving Leslie’s ass a few smacks. Leslie did a little dance on the spiral staircase between the upstairs and downstairs levels of the apartment, kicking around in her high heels and dangling precariously from the railing. She spirited Emma away into the bathroom for a little while. We made plans to see sweet Emma again and left for a little bar in the East Village, where we caught up with Annie, the girl Leslie had met on the Fifth Wheel. Annie was dressed like a Bodhisattva, with a crystal between her eyes and a flowing red gown that had all kinds of sparkly crap on it. She scared me a bit. Anna, a busty Croatian girl who was also on Leslie’s recent taping, sat in the back getting a sales pitch from some fratboy ingrate. He was making noises with that ersatz earnestness than human men sometimes cloak themselves in when they’re trying to get laid. The girl will learn one day, I hope.
The End.
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