Sunday, July 27, 2008
No, she didn't come home with me, but that's good because I have enough vodka in my system to fuel a thousand limp dicks. Groundwork was laid, though. Hands were adventurous. Tongues were slithered. And her breasts, my God -- like mostly-filled water balloons. Natural, too.
That's pretty ballin' for a trip to the bar.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
"Can I get some of those Magnums, please?" I say to the female clerk, injecting a hint of embarrassment into my tone so I don't come off as one of those cocksure frat types. It's bad enough I'm wearing my "There's no such thing as free pussy" shirt (it was a gift). Still, I can't help glancing at the girl behind me to gauge her reaction. She darts her eyes away a millisecond too late.
She was sizing me up. I feel like a G.
Magnums are more expensive than regular condoms. I don't know if this is to cover the cost of the extra latex or what, but you're essentially being penalized for having an above-average sized penis. It's like a handicap in golf. They also lack the fun and features of their little brothers. They aren't ribbed or extra-sensitive or heated. They don't play ringtones. They're just bigger. You can probably order them special online, but where's the practicality in that? People lack foresight when they're thinking with their foreskin.
Let's do some arithmetic:
$5.43 ÷ 3 = $1.81
A dollar eighty-one per lay. That's assuming you don't tear the condom, put it on inside out, or lose your hard-on before you can get it on.
I'm poor in all of these categories.
But $1.81. Shit. I can almost buy a half gallon of milk for that price. I guess it comes down to this: would I rather fuck or eat cereal? Seeing as how I'm all out of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, I'd probably rather fuck.
I should go to the grocery store.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
You've popped your lonely bar guy cherry.
At the end of the night, your piss snakes its way down concrete.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
My manager pulls me into his office. He's drunk and there are bags under his eyes that rival Droopy the Dog's.
"You haven't been in a good mood today," he tells me, speaking slowly so as not to fumble his words. The way he says it suggests I've misbehaved, possibly thrown a chair or two. In reality, I'm just kind of quiet and distant. Nothing that affects my job. Members still enter. Parking still gets validated. Just with less personality.
And that's a problem.
See, I've set the bar high for myself. I'm animated, fun, flirtatious. I remember names. I'm a fucking mascot. Anything below mascot-level is epic, epic failure in the eyes of management. All other employees are allowed to be normal and cordial. I have to be loud and obsequious. I'm permitted two emotions when I'm on the clock: happy and happier. Traces of humanness, shades of grey, big no-nos.
The three seconds I spend checking in a member are infinitely more important than anything that's going on in my life. I'm responsible for making sure they feel wanted, needed, loved, even if they're just coming in to get a blowjob in the steam room. Because, aside from BJs in the mist, that's why people join gyms -- to be validated by its minimum wage staff. Now I'm not knocking on good customer service, but this isn't the fucking Sprint kiosk at the mall. A quick hi and enough of a smile should suffice. Except my company gives 110%. It says so on my name badge, right above my misspelled name.
"The members can tell something's wrong."
"You're compromising their experience."
My name badge also says that we never compromise the member experience. The problem isn't that I'm not doing my job; it's that I'm not doing it with enough oompf. I'm functioning, not entertaining. Jogging, not running. An A student getting an F for effort.
"I'm kind of dealing with some stuff."
"I understand, but we try to create an..."
He pauses for a second to think of the word.
"... atmosphere that's better than what they would get somewhere else."
I want to ask him if that's why we have buckets out to catch the water leaking from the celing. Instead I bite my tongue. In this moment, as much as I feel like quitting, as cinematic as it would be, I realize that it's going to be the same everywhere else. Blazes of glory are impractical, and most of the time they extinguish as soon as they ignite. It's a fun story for a couple days until you realize you're unemployed and rent is due. This is why the homeless have something interesting to say.
Still, it hurts me to an extent. This is society. This is life. I didn't have a lot of faith in humanity to begin with, but now I have less. What I don't understand is this blind corporate devotion. If my manager had sat down to speak to me one-on-one, as an individual, then fine, okay. But he sat down to speak to me on behalf of the company. A motherfucking ambassador. And that bothers me and makes me a little sad. I feel sorry for him, because he isn't a bad guy, by any means. Kind of dorky, but totally cool -- one of those Uncle Jesse, high school types. Foreigner, AC/DC, yeah!
It just feels like he's been brainwashed. Infected with Ebola.
To sit here and say the company this, the company that, it's bullshit. Everyone is expendable in a corporation, and to lay back and kick your feet up and think that this giant fucking entity genuinely cares about you and appreciates you as an individual, as a person, just because last month's numbers were boner-worthy, that's a fantasy. It's idol worship. A giant stone owl that will not protect you when the skies piss fire and the earth shits lava.
But, you know, I guess people need something to believe in.
I know I do.
"It's like putting feces in my mouth," she says.
This makes my heart do funny things. I go on Facebook and delete my blog link from my profile because I'm afraid I'll scare her off.
Our first date is on the Fourth of July -- apropos of fireworks. We grab drinks at El Compadre and hit it off. She's intelligent and beautiful, and even though she doesn't have brown hair I don't mind. I pay. She's the first girl in a long time to make me forget that I'm a cheap motherfucker who saves my fast food cups. $12 cocktails? Fuck it. She's smiling. I'm smiling. Her kisses are conservative with a dash of middle school tongue. My lips are too big for hers and I don't give a fuck. I'll adapt, she'll adapt, one of us will adapt. It's all negligible when butterflies are flapping poetic in the darkest pits of your stomach.
And I know you guys are going to think I'm a bitch, or that I catch feelings easily, or both, because of my post before last, but the truth is I don't. I guess I just have a knack for meeting girls I can't have, as much as she and I think (I think) both want the opposite to be true. She writes. She does comedy. She sees Batman with me at 12:38 on Thursday night. I hold her hand until we're both sweating and then I hold it some more. And it's not one of those one-sided hand-holds. No. She moves her thumb. Up and down. I squeeze. She squeezes. Fingers thread and jigsaw-puzzle together like the last two middle pieces of that giant red balloon you thought to be impossible days ago.
But it will never work.
His name is Nick and they have a history. Six years. Families know each other. Comfort has set in. Door-holding and face-brushing can't penetrate that. Only chip. I guess I'm not half the guy that stole my girlfriend away from me. How shitty it is to realize I'm only good enough to pay the tab.
Tonight, after the inevitable "what the hell is going on?" conversation sets in, I order a vodka diet coke.
"Strong as a motherfucker, please." The bartender nods, perhaps seeing what's going on in my eyes. Rachel orders champagne. I overanalyze this, of course. The alcohol brings me to the brink of tears, to the pinnacle of smiles. 90s rap plays and I do a pathetic dance and test her knowledge.
"Who sings this?"
Ouch. She knows. And that makes things sting even more. She makes the executive decision that we should leave. I order a Stella. Wallowing and far-off stares. I don't want to look at her because I don't want to tear. She goes to the bathroom and returns, looking at my beer before she looks at me. I call her out for seeing it as some hourglass. She says no, then admits to it. Exactly how many minutes does three-quarters of a beer equal?
I say things I probably shouldn't say. Examples:
-- My friends ask me how far we've gone. I tell them it's not like that.
-- I want to cook you dinner. I don't even cook. I don't even have pans. I should go to Target.
-- I want you to fall asleep with your head on my chest and complain that it's too big.
She looks at me with her brown eyes. Not as an equal, but as a puppy. I can't tell if she feels sorry for me or if she's just sorry that these things can't happen. Either way, it's a punch in the gut. My insides are an avalanche. Whatever was going to be, what could've been, will never be. It's over. Honesty claims another victim -- the most notorious serial killer of all time.
I take her home. Kiss her. Tell her she has to initiate things from now on. I'm not going to be the weirdo stalker guy. She disappears into her courtyard and I take a much needed piss by a tree. My kidneys hurt.
I drive home and light up in front my building. I feel like I'm too smart to succeed and too fragile to be. My heart aches like an Achilles.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
When you're drunk, things are quick and surreal -- like a green Mario Bros. pipe. Shit happens in a flash and whatever you remember in the morning is a greeting card memento. The beauty of drunkenness lies in the black person, take-me-as-I-am mentality. You say what you want, or what your dick whispers in your ear, and you don't give a fuck. You're playing the percentages with that slurred honesty that pours from your mouth. If you tell ten girls they're amazing and one girl swoons then you may as well be featured on the back of a Smirnoff bottle, because you are a fucking success story. It's always a hundred percent when your vision is blurred and your tongue is retarded.