A sex party is no place for a prude. Especially if the prude is the host herself. We gathered at a friend's house to listen to this woman who looked like a Dixie Chicks alternate tell us about vibrators and massage oils. This is good and fine. I've no problem with sex toys. Strap 'em on and light 'em up, ladies. More power to you. Fill your cunts up 'til your heart's content, and let me know what I can do to help; even if it's simply shutting the door behind me. I just want you girls happy and safe. But don't feed me beer, hand me lube, and stick a double ended dildo between my legs and expect me to behave. That's idiocy at the highest degree! Don't get me wrong. I'm not gonna not have fun, but I'm for damn sure I'm not gonna behave. That's enough of that. I get too heated thinking about that huffy Dixie Chick telling me that the new "something-something 5000" vibrator is an adult and mature thing. I know better. No one's reciting rosaries on anal beads.
And that was Shaun's second night here in Sioux Falls, SD. Another southern soul has sailed into this land locked port town.
Before his arrival I was having a drink with B-reezy and the sweet Anna Claire. We were at a cafe downtown called Riverwalk, and playing was this jazz band; this loud, smiley-white-guys jazz band. We spoke of the Women's Rights movement, Cybil Shepherd masturbating in a golfcart, and Captain 11. Captain 11 is a local legend who used to host some cartoon hour on a local station for the kids here. Anna Claire recalls him being drunk on the set and hornery with the children. He wrote a tell all book about his drinking and perversions. Where's Charlie Kaufman when you need him? I spoke of the coming of Shaun and B-reezy asked me why he, and myself, would leave a place that has given us many happy moments. I told her, you can get full up on anything. She asked me what that means and I couldn't tell her. The loud smiley-white-guys jazz band wouldn't let me, wouldn't let me get down to business. All you can do in that environment is sip your drink, wonder what the poor are doing, and smile at how nice the evening is. It was no place for discussions on love or wretched cunts.
But I'm in my own home now. I have my music playing. I can speak freely. I can tell you when I saw that cute face and those big titties again I was choking and vomiting, and if I didn't get out of GA soon I was gonna drown.
5
"cute face, gorgeous titties: two things i thought i'd never come to hate"
part three "wherein the narrator finally gets to the goddamn point and we can hear 'bout them titties, and we can finally get a new title"
Back in the day, before the beautiful artist, after my first girlfriend whom bit me on the nose and was consequentially thrown across the room, was Daisy. I was in high school then. I was in a play that she was working back stage for. I had long hair, wore black, and sported a studded cat collar, and many cats it did attract. One was Daisy. She walked up with that cute face, those blue eyes working that magic under black hair. Creamy white skin. Round ass. And did I mention big titties? Sure, I was mature beyond my years, childish long after its due, but my cock was right in sync with my eighteen year old body. Like a divining rod it had sensed her across that unlit stage, behind those black velvet curtains way before she ventured forth and asked if she could wear my cat collar.
She smoked Camels. She liked everything I liked. My friends liked her. They were jealous of me. She and I fucked, and fucked good, and usually timed it not only so that we came together, but so that we both finished up in time for Mystery Science Theater 3000. It was my favorite show. Should've been great. Should've been the one.
Slowly and surely she changed over the weeks; became more possessive, started whining, and making a fool of herself. She kept acting like a child trying to play big like an adult. She robbed all my tastes and opinions and perverted them as her own. I became sick of her pretty quick, but hormones wouldn't let me leave her.
Daisy wasn't even her real name. She gave herself that nickname. Who the fuck gives themselves their own nickname? Jackasses, whiney bitches, and wannabes, that's who. I was miserable, but I just wanted to fuck so bad.
What finally did it was the release of Mystery Science Theater 3000: The Movie. I had been looking forward to it for months. I had wrecked my car and we were taking hers. Her mother told me to do the driving in Atlanta. This sent Daisy into a hissy-fit. She bitched and bewailed the entire ride down to Phipps Plaza about how the drive was basically a couple of lefts and a right. I let her go on and on. I said nothing. My cock and I conspired, soon we'd give the baby its bottle. I just kept repeating my mantra: "Just think of Mike and the bots, just think of those titties, man."
We watched the movie and I could've escaped into it, found some peaceful quiet place among those obscurely referenced jokes and sight gags, but no. The awful baby had to make a show of how well she got the jokes, which she didn't. Her laughter was slightly staggered behind mine. This was the final straw. I would break up with her first thing tomorrow; right after I gave the baby her bottle one last time. Because, who needs this? Cute faces, big titties will surely come my way again, right?
After the movie, in the parking deck, she started in about driving home. I told her, no, that I'd made a promise to her mother. She began calling me controlling, and an asshole for siding with her mom and treating her like a child. This carried on out of the parking deck and onto the street. When she said that she was glad to see that I got what I fucking wanted I got the tunnel vision, the blood rush to the brain, adrenaline stampeding through my muscles calling a dormant hatred to arms...
In that way you fuck up when you're angry, when you stumble as you storm off, when you try to push your way through a door that opens towards you--I made a wrong turn. At a stop light she said "See? You're not some fucking excellent driver!" and let open the flood gates.
When I'm angry with you, when I'm truly fed up, I don't raise my voice. I do not wish to touch or be touched. I just want to bring you to terms calmly and coldly. But take me just a step beyond that...
I turned to her, got in her fucking cute face, "SHUT UP!" I hit the dash. "SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU STUPID FUCKING BABY! YOU WHINEY BITCH, SHUT THE FUCK UP! I'M SICK OF YOU, EVERYONE WE KNOW HATES YOUR GODDAMN GUTS, YOU SQAULIN' ASS KID! I HATE YOUR GODDAMN GUTS, YOU SORRY CUNT!" She trembled and sobbed backing herself against the car door. The only sanity left in me was fighting this urge to kick the shit out of her. I wanted nothing more than to live my life putting my fist through her face. I'm not sure how long I could've kept that resistance to bruise, snap, and tear every part of her, but, fortunately, a car had stopped beside us that night. It was occupied by some Buckhead couple. The man had that man-thing going, that "let's wait here, honey. that poor, poor girl may need me to have you watch me be a hero. it's my civic call." He gave me a stern, "Hey!" My attention diverted I struggled to get out of the car and take all this out on him. He saw my intention and sped off. Perhaps he felt more suited for kittens in trees.
My senses coming back to me, my civic restraint back in place, I pulled into a coffee shop parking lot. Since I was in no condition I dropped the keys on the floorboard and told her to pick 'em up. I told her she better fucking drive, and she better not say a fucking word doing it. How does the baby like her bottle? And on the way home I had my hand out the window gliding it up and down with the wind. I was smiling. I had broken the spell. I was freed from the cunt, no longer under the tyranny of the cock. Well, for the time being anyway.
After that I only fell in love with artists, teachers, and scientists. I'm better for it. I have a desire for the strong, for the intelligent, and wild. No more do I blind myself to others misgivings, but am open to the vulnerability of others as precious, of how a woman can grow beautiful and rooted around her flaws until they are not flaws but where beauty springs from. And for a while these women were everywhere. And I wanted a taste of them all. Therein lies my tragic flaw. But the justice here is that since Daisy most of them have done the leaving. For myself it is hard to say whether I have withered around, or earnestly begun to grasp my own flaws. And if the latter be true I should struggle still as it seems to me a girl, a woman will always mature faster than this boy, stronger than this man; at least the kind of female I find myself fascinated with.
In GA I had finally seen that these artists, teachers, and scientists were all something I'm not: successful. At twenty-five I found myself just a bartender still talking all that smack about writing, being published, and being somebody. I was beginning to choke, starting to vomit.
And wouldn't you know it, right when I was at my lowest SHE walked into my bar. The One. Excited she ran up to me to hug and laugh. She wanted to know all about me. I stood there staring at her with my mouth wide open. It was Daisy. Fucking Daisy after all those years, telling me how she now works in the bar with me. Fucking Daisy: fatter, with bastard child, and all too happy to be arriving at the very station in life I was beginning to feel was my doom.
Enough was enough. I was full up on this life. A month later, after I had gotten the money, I followed the Lady Windham out of Atlanta. I'm here now, in Sioux Falls. I'm here in a true now where no ghosts of days past haunt me, where no semi-precious locale forces all the bitter-sweet moments down my throat. I'm here now where I am master of my memory, where I recall who I want, and only my loved ones have the ability to call on me. And because of all this I am a paid writer now. I am published now. For an article on David Byrne the Athens rag Flagpole gave me a little scratch. Nothing big, but, finally, not nothing.
