OOC
Met Les and Nova at a bar in Midtown—the site, ironically, of a lousy swingers party I attended during a previous life. Leslie was OOC going on several days now… fucked too hard I guess. Nova was OOC too, a reaction to the polyurethane. Cross those condoms off the list. On our way over to Brasserie we bumped into Natalia on the sidewalk. She was also OOC.
How was it that all three of them could be out of commission?
Half-an-hour late for our table of four but the wait wasn’t long. The overly self-conscious postmodern decor was enough to make a university cafeteria look romantic. Filet Mignon for me and for Nova, who was kind enough to give me a quarter of hers. Salty butter crowned the cut like congealed ejaculate. “The French and their overwrought sauces,” I lamented. I took a bite. The delicate flesh didn’t so much rip apart under my teeth as dissolve against my tongue.
Later on, at some gay bar in the East Village, we drank and then drank some more when Jack-n-Jill showed up, Jill looking regal in a white coat with a furry collar. In the bathroom stood a trough in which, evidently, one was supposed to urinate while, evidently, checking out the next guy’s package. I ignored the shaking dicks and sidelong glances and went about my business.
The Hole offered up a melange of holish vignettes: snippets of gay porn on the projection screen, a few gay men strutting over there, a few lesbos clucking over here, a pack of straight men on the make with eyes drowning in testosterone, a go-go dancer sporting a flimsy fig-leaf of leather over his insistent erection. Film Boy, Cherry Girl, and Jorge showed up. Natalia produced a one-hitter, one puff of which sent me into a fugue state… sent me crawling up inside my own head.
When I came to I was standing there, rooted to the spot, babbling at Jack-n-Jill while watching Les, Nova and Natalia dance together in a tight circle. And then plop down on the couch together. I’d created a beast, a six-legged beast, pawing at itself, locked into a masturbatory embrace. Jorge was seated at the end that looked like Natalia, caressing a leg and shooting me furtive glances as if he didn’t know what to make of it all. The beast finally broke into its component parts, shattering the illusion.
The couples left, first Jack-n-Jill, then Film Boy and Cherry Girl. Natalia danced with Nova, cooed over her, as Jorge told me a long story about cutting back on drinking. It was sad in a way: I had taken solace in his drunkenness (at least I’m not that drunk, I would remark to myself). He helped me fend off the wolves who circled, sniffing around the girls. I found myself hovering over Natalia. “I can’t wait for you to fuck me,” she said. I pushed up against her, then flipped her around and bent her over the backrest of a couch.
Exhausted. Time to go. I packed Natalia into a cab and headed uptown with Les and Nova. Nova soon lay face-down on our bed, drifting off to that place contented young women go in their dreams. I perched atop her, massaging her back as Les suckled me dry.
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