By Anthony Paull
This month, I’m not writing about myself. I don’t want to come off as conceited, even though I have nothing to be conceited about. I mean, hello, I live with my dad, and that’s not cool after the age of 30, especially when your dad goes in your room without permission, only to stumble upon your spankerchief. Mind you, it was an accident, he states. He wasn’t snooping. He was merely vacuuming the sheets on my bed.
“Please, Dad. I’m not shedding.”
“No, but you sure are staining things,” he replies. And if that’s not mortifying enough, he begins a speed round of 21 questions, beginning with, “Anthony, are you having enough sex?”
“Of course not. I have a boyfriend….”
But seriously, who stops jacking off even if they are having enough sex? I mean, yes, masturbating can seem a tad superfluous in between consistent, sexual encounters, but it’s super fun. I have nothing for which to be ashamed. In fact, my efforts should be applauded. Masturbating keeps me smiling and disease-free. Plus, it’s convenient, and I can avoid petty banter afterward. But that isn’t enough for Dad. No, he thinks I’m sick – that I’m isolating, building up walls in order to keep from getting hurt in my relationship. Therefore, he wants me to start doing that sort of dirty thing outside of the home. Then maybe, I’ll have to screw my boyfriend. The problem is: my boyfriend and I are trying to find other things to base our relationship on other than sex. Too bad, he’s out of town.
So fine! I’m taking Dad’s advice, and I’m going out. Of course, I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m going somewhere. So I call my friend Doug, and at midnight, he agrees to see a movie as long as we agree to skip the movie and get drunk, which seems like a splendid idea. That is, until we opt to attend a keg party in the ghetto instead.
Granted, it’s one of those “bring your own drink, because no one can afford to share” parties. But it seriously rocks, because we’re already drunk, and we don’t know better. I figure that’s why I tell him about my dad finding my handkerchief; my inhibitions are down. Still, he fails to react. Why? Well, you see, he’s the calm, collected type, and he’s already had his fair share of drama for the night. It appears, he was in a fight with a love interest earlier. According to Doug, the guy was insensitive; he didn’t care that Doug had just found out his best friend had been in a car accident. Instead, he got angry at Doug for being sad about it. Therefore, Doug broke up with him. No big deal. There’s already another guy texting.
“Want to get pile-drived tonight?” Mr. Text writes.
“Not really,” Doug replies. You see, he’s too consumed with hanging out with me, and according to him, the key to having a lot of sex is to completely ignore the person who wants to have sex with you. The problem is, lately, Doug seems to be ignoring most everything, including important things, like the fact there’s a gang of men charging at us from the darkness as we drunkenly sway along the road in search of the party.
“Oh god, we’re going to get killed,” I mutter.
Doug is nonchalant, sipping his vodka from a stadium cup as if it were chamomile tea. “What?” he questions – his blue eyes, so serene.
“Um, hello. We’re about to get jumped,” I say. Yet, he acts as if he doesn’t care if he dies, or about anything else.
Luckily, the gang bypasses us to vandalize the Christmas decorations on a nearby yard, consisting of plastic, glowing elves and blow-up snowmen. Pop, pop, pop, that’s all I hear. Meanwhile the party is nowhere to be found, and Doug is verbally listing off the things Mr. Text plans to do to him later tonight. “He’s going to slam me in a wall. He’s going to choke me with his snake. Oh, and he’s going to disrespect me orally and anally. Reading the list, Doug yawns as we trek to my house. “Damn, I just don’t know if I want to have sex tonight.”
“WHAT?” I question. “Don’t you want sex, like all the time?”
“No,” he says. “Do you?”
And I think normally, no. Yet, since I’ve reunited with my boyfriend, sex seems to be my primary focus. At work, I’m typing, and voila, I’m hard. At the market, I spy a ripe banana, and boom, my mind wanders. It’s all-consuming, every second of every day, and it only seems to be getting worse, to the point where I feel guilty for being a slut.
“Yes, I want it all the time,” I admit.
To which, Doug downs additional vodka. “That’s because you’re with someone you trust,” he says. “I forgot how to trust when my ex fiancee cheated on me two weeks before our wedding.”
I can’t help but fall silent, since this is the first I’ve heard of this. “Sorry to hear,” I finally manage.
“No problem,” he says, trudging along. “It helps to hear there are guys out there like you, guys with handkerchiefs who feel slutty even if they’re only cheating with themselves.”