The Rake's Progress

Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Oct 17, 2004

Sunday blurs into Monday. Your internal clock is all wrong and your head’s spinning with memories of the weekend. Think of your lover and replay events—something, something doesn’t add up. Queue up a few songs when the evening comes. Just ride it out.

The next day your girlfriend leaves town. She grants you shore leave with Natalia but Thursday’s still a long way off. Layla sends you a missive, her words laden with frustration. She’s torn. Trade notes with her: but I did and you did and she did and I thought and you thought and she thought and I felt and you felt and she felt. Decide that to spill electronic ink is futile, to rehash the specifics pointless. Where the three of you are concerned you all have different energies, different orbits.

The game’s on. Pace around in front of the television with a beer in hand. Sport only gets you more agitated. Wonder, briefly, what you’ll say to her tomorrow.

Layla calls the next evening. You listen. You speak. At least now you know the score, the parameters, the possibilities—that’s all you wanted. Hang up the phone. Feel relieved, upbeat even. Breathe.

The questions will come later. You’d expected her to find someone; even wanted her to. But something this all-consuming, when you’re only just getting to know her? And what was the point of that conversation the three of you had over dinner a few weeks ago? Someone else is getting her A game, maybe even her A, B and C games. Her explanation had sounded good enough: he’ll be gone soon and we’ll still be around. Now it seems you’re the insurance plan. Has the coalition reached an impasse?

You sigh and run your hand through your hair. No one owes anyone anything. You can invest yourself emotionally or you can hold back. Either way you lose. Realize she must face the same dilemma. It’s the classic Catch-22 of free love. You’d like to think that somewhere, somehow this works for someone, but right now you have your doubts.

Every day the rose sheds more petals but it’s still hanging in there. You admire its tenacity, its willingness to go through the motions. Every day you lop off another little section of stem, hoping to keep the thing alive. You are the patron saint of lost causes.

Thursday, finally. Emma wants to meet early. Natalia’s on board. Tell ‘em to meet you at the grill—you can’t think of anywhere else that won’t be overly trendy. Talk to the girls. Flirt. Marvel at the months that have gone by since you met them. “You guys didn’t think I’d still be around,” Emma sez.

And she’s right… you didn’t. And you think… you think… that it’s not about the high of falling in love—that it’s about trust, comfort, longevity: accepting flaws and limitations and simply getting along in spite of everything. It’s quotidian, actually. Doesn’t make for good copy. That high you get at first is addictive and error-prone: a momentary lapse of reason. To love is to choose—to cast a jaundiced eye upon fate.

“Life isn’t a romantic comedy starring Hugh Grant,” you said to Layla last night.

Tell the girls every woman in your life has a song. Leslie’s, for example, is “Hotel California.” There’s a Jewish girl somewhere who’s got the second movement of Beethoven’s 7th. Emma sez yours is “Creep,” because you sang it for her once. And it fits, except that it’s so much easier for you to play the cad, the rake, the orgy guy. Emma gets “More Than This.” Natalia gets “Milkshake.” “Hey, that’s not a romantic song,” she protests. “Yeah, but are you trying to tell me it doesn’t fit?” Man, cause it sure does.

Natalia’s got her hand on your ass and you have your arm around Emma and Natalia’s trying to get you to come to Brooklyn and Emma’s weighing in with her opinion and it’s sort of hot that it’s all out in the open, that they’re cool with everything and so is your girlfriend. Pile into a cab. Go ahead and paw at Natalia’s double dees, then lean over and push your lips against Emma’s. Glide over her silky tongue; stroke her curly pigtails. Tell her she’s a great kisser. Kiss Natalia’s mouth, then traverse the length of her neck. Whip your cock out and purr as the girls stroke it. Invite Emma to feel Natalia’s tits. “Do I have permission?” she asks coyly. Of course. Then Emma lifts her sweater and Natalia coos over the pretty bra and you and Natalia take turns lapping at her little pink nipples. Place your hand between Emma’s legs and squeeze, wondering what the cabbie thinks of all this activity. Don’t forget to talk dirty.

The cab’s already uptown and Emma invites you out for one more drink. And as you stand outside waiting for the bouncer to get around to your license you say: “The first rule of bisexual girls club is no one talks about bisexual girls club.” Derek is there and you talk for awhile. Natalia’s got her arms around you. Don’t forget to put your hand down the back of Emma’s pants. Give her a nice kiss before you leave with Natalia and ride across the park.

Home again home again. When she offers you some smoke take a little but don’t overdo it. She asks you to put on a porno and you laugh. Rocco on the screen now, on a bus, surrounded by Eurosluts—you don’t pay him much mind. Back to the real world. Touches, licks, caresses, fingers going everywhere, but the girl just wants to get fucked. You grow numb from the smoke; your consciousness flickers in the light of the teevee. Soon you’ll rise again and take her from behind and smack her and in the end you’ll flip her over and thrust to the hilt. Cap it off with porno panache by spraying all over her, both of you giggling at your copious output.

Take the last cigarette out of the pack—damned girls bummed off you all night but you love ‘em anyway. A gangbang is just wrapping up on the teevee and you stand there watching the finishing blows, not turned on, exactly, but mesmerized. You rouse sleeping beauty. Lead her into the bedroom and part the covers for her, then crawl in yourself and drift off, remembering that Lay never did call tonight but then… you never expected…

Your girlfriend returns the next evening and your heart skips when she passes over the threshold. Your long week finally ends. Look forward to a quiet weekend.

Later on you’ll remember the poor rose. It’s dead now, desiccated: the husk of some long-forgotten dream. Fate’s finally come to collect. You shrug and toss the thing onto the counter. You want your fucking pint glass back.

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