Saturday, July 4, 2009

#10 - The Solo Cup Incident

Post-Coital, I reached for my cup of water – wait, I can't start there. First a little background is needed:

I was living in a new town, totally out of my element, during the worst sexual dry spell of my post-teenage life. I had no car, no real friends, and few opportunities to meet people my age. It was no surprise then that I hooked up with the first girl that came my way at my first state college party.

“Jenn” was, to put it bluntly, nothing to look at. Her face was dotted with pimples and her eyes crossed without the high prescription lenses that were always slipping down her nose. Jenn's hair was stringy and her curves, pale and sagging. She refused to shave anywhere, not in order to uphold a specific ideology, but for sheer laziness. Her halitosis was inhuman. As I have inferred however, I was desperate. Plus, I na├»vely convinced myself that her visible flaws would likely be evened out by her other traits: she must have a great sense of humor, right, or a biting wit maybe, a tragic sweetness?

As I got to know her better, I found Jenn to be humorless, cold, argumentative, pretentious, and tactless. I in fact have no guilt about my candidness here (read: talking shit), because as I was later made aware, during the two weeks or so we were hanging out she disclosed to our mutual acquaintances with every minute detail of our sexual encounters.

Jenn also had the worst-kept apartment I have ever seen. Seriously, I've seen some gross apartments, but Jenn's wins this dubious award. It made me embarrassed for her. Her bedroom floor was a deluge of dirty clothes, from which she would compile her makeshift wardrobe. There was a pile of dirty plates, silverware, and ravioli cans hanging out in one corner – theoretically only so organized because she had company. Mold and drain hair and dead skin seemed to be crawling out from the ajar bathroom door. Inexplicably, there were used Solo Cups in great abundance on every surface. I found myself here in her bedroom, clothes and microbes up to my knees. With one motion, Jenn cleared all of the papers and potato chip bags and Solo Cups off the bed and I sat down next to her. There, I kissed her halitosis lips.

After a mostly unsatisfying climax, I excused myself to go get some water. On the way, I got my first real look at her living room. Devoid of furniture (other than a single lawn chair) the only objects covering the soiled carpet were more used Solo cups. I picked up the cleanest looking one, rinsed it out as best I could, and filled it with tap water.

Back in her bedroom Jenn lounged, her unkempt body hair in full view. I sat on the bed next to her and sipped my water, glancing at her, then the suspicious stain on the floor by her bed, finally settling my gaze on her breeze-blown curtains.

We began a conversation, which quickly devolved into rhetorical argument. In the moment of annoyed silence, I reached for my water and grabbed the wrong cup. About to put my lips on the rim, I looked inside. I saw a used condom. It was not mine.

After a few minutes of listening to her talk about local politics, it started to sink in what I had been reduced to. It was all I could do to get out of there gracefully. I avoided her until she moved away to Idaho or something, later that month.

Friday, July 3, 2009

#9 - The Night I Got High On PCP

I was at one of those furtive warehouse parties deep in Flatbush when it happened. My friend “Greg” and I were tearing through cigarettes and four dollar vodka tonics. Greg was flying. He offered me some coke, but I declined; I only rarely even smoked pot. We were totally out of our element – we two bookstore clerks – but achieved a state of lucid comfort at around 2am on the roof of the warehouse.

On this roof, Greg and I spotted a cute girl and both attempted to hit on her at the same time. She wasn't having our drunken foolishness, but thought she might be able to get a cigarette out of the deal. Our packs were empty, so we both rushed out to try and bum one to curry her favor. A kid with Kanye West glasses and a shit-eating grin offered me a hand-rolled cigarette and I snatched it up immediately. Upon my return, our girl took one look at my gift and blanketly refused. As she walked away, Greg returned. “What the fuck was her problem?” We smoked that shit together and left the party.

I was by myself in the subway station when it hit me. I focused on the tiles on the opposite wall and time stopped. I was immediately aware of the musculature that ran from my shoulders to my fingertips. I could feel the underside of my skull. I sat there motionless waiting for the G train (probably for about 90 minutes, knowing the G train) and when it came I took great care in getting on, for with each footstep gravity seemed to have less of a hold on me.

Upon waking, I felt like shit obviously. I was catsitting in Williamsburg for the weekend and my friend “Joanna” came home to find me lying in her bed like a jelly. I told her of my night and her response was, “Yeah judging from your experience and where you were hanging out, it was probably PCP. Or maybe heroin.”