Say My Name, Say My Name
By Anonymous
Karaoke should never lead to sex. No man, anywhere in the world, should ever be seduced by a pedestrian rendition of “Love Me Tender”. It goes against all logic. But if I’ve learned anything in my 23 years on this planet, it’s that four beers and a handful of cigarettes destroy logic. They eviscerate it, like a knife in the gut of a self-righteous samurai. That night, our self-indulgence did a real number on logic – cut it from bow to stern, and wore its duodenum like a scarf. Our sins looked fashionable wrapped in the entrails of our common sense. Still, I can’t say, not if I’m being one-hundred-percent-raise-your-right-hand-and-swear honest, that I regret what happened. To tell the whole truth and nothing but, I had been thinking about it for a while – been “having the thoughts while touching the spots”, if you catch my pervy drift – been wondering if something might happen, where it might happen, when, and with who watching. That night, I got my answers:
“Yes. At your apartment. After a night of poorly chosen karaoke numbers. Your cat.”
My cat is a dirty voyeur.
But, wait. Let me fill in the gap between beer guzzling, and cat perversion.
The bar was empty that night. It was just the two of us (and a handful of people who, as far as I could tell, never left the place). We had the room for all intents and purposes to ourselves. He stood in front of the teleprompter. I stood in front of the stage, watching him, ogling him really, wanting to devour him faster than I had gulped down my fourth beer. He was singing Stevie Nicks’ “Edge of Seventeen”, and joking with the regulars about how Destiny’s Child had perverted a classic.
With him in the pulpit, and me on the altar, I was a little lamb. With a head full of beer, I danced for Him – not quite a Virgin sacrifice, but something wholly ritualistic. A holy ritual. Sweaty palms, finding each other in 4/4 time, hair glued to a hot, wet forehead, the female equivalent of a raging hard-on springing up in my jeans.
When the song ended, he jumped off the stage. We hugged. We smoked, and then the emcee called my name. Suddenly I was nervous. Conscious of the sweat clinging to unshaved armpits, reminded of my grade-F singing voice.
He held my hand at the front of the stage, laughing, saying stupid, perfect things like “Will you marry me?” and “Baby, you’re Wild At Heart.” My head was swimming in a sea of booze and impure thoughts.
We ran out of the bar with our coats half on, riding our bikes as fast as our wobbly legs would allow. By the time we got to my apartment, our minds were on the same, solitary track. We didn’t have time to lock our bikes.
We stumbled into my apartment, gaining speed, and losing clothes. Hands grabbing wildly at lust-seared flesh – our breath a sweltering vapour. He kept calling it “sexy sex.” “This is very sexy sex,” he said. I laughed, saying nothing. It was true, I had never felt sexier, but I’ve never thought of myself as sexy.
We slept together a few more times that summer, but eventually, sexy sex became boring sex, and then, finally, non-existent sex.
There’s a rule written somewhere, in some dusty book, in some dusty man’s library that says “Friends Should Never Fuck, Period.” I think I read that book once, but somehow, in my memory, the “Never” dissolved, replaced with a “Probably” – the period, with an “On the Regular.”
I think I need to revisit that book.
Afternoon Daydream
By Phallus in Wonderland
This is the story of a would-be sexual encounter. It’s about one of those truly great afternoons that manage to leave only dreamy memories and hazy details. This is the good stuff.
On May 12 of last year I had a conversation with him. Actually, I had more than that. He was simple and kind, and he did things that I really liked. I mean, he had a true charm about him. I remember sitting and reading a book, sipping iced tea and smoking a cigarette – something I rarely do. He looked at me as if he didn’t really know what to do, but I saw him smile. He was working at an indoor rock climbing business around the corner and, as a result of six months of instructing, had this fantastic shape. He said something about my book, I can’t remember what, and then sat next to me on the grass. He sort of kicked off his shoes and rolled onto his stomach, taking out great pieces of paper from his backpack and then some dark pencils. He started to draw, and I think I was so surprised that he was there, I barely moved.
I’d been wondering about him for months. I first noticed him when I was sitting on that very grass one day, taking a break from the bookstore/coffee shop where I work. He had smiled at me then, too, as he strode across the back lot with a handful of kids, off to their climbing lesson. I liked him instantly. It usually takes me ages to be really interested in somebody.
Several weeks after I first saw him, I was drinking wine with my friend Pascale. She was telling me about the awful sex she’d been having lately and how, suddenly, she had met a beautiful man at a flower shop and he’d pushed every button in just the right way and, well, it was suddenly dawning on her that sex was the most healthy thing you could do for yourself. After she left I sat by my window for a long time. I looked out at the street and watched people come and go. I wondered how many would go home to feel a warm touch on their skin. I wondered how many would scream out in pleasure or laugh with delight. I realized that his face was right in front of mine – that I was picturing him with his lips engaged in a full-on grin. I really liked his smile.
As he was drawing there on the grass that day, I noticed that it was getting quite warm for spring. I, too, kicked off my shoes and lay on my stomach. He kind of looked at me sideways and then asked me what my name was. I told him: Lucy. His name was Sam. He spread out his lunch on the grass and unwrapped a jug of sweet tea and two small teacups. It crossed my mind that he may have been wondering about me too. We sipped and discussed books and work.
I felt a breeze tickle my legs and thought it might be better to move down to the brook behind the back gravel lot, to get out of the wind. We picked up our shoes and wandered down, the sun flicking our faces and the breeze grabbing our hair. We dipped our feet into the cool water and settled down on the small sandy shore. I suddenly felt the dreaminess of it all, the absolute delight. I looked at him and he looked at me. His lips were closer then, and then they were gently around mine. I took his hand and squeezed it tightly, and he smiled broadly. He slowly removed my feet from the water and lay over me on the sand. His lips felt every inch of my stomach and waist, and his hands felt all there is to feel. I could smell springtime on him, and as I rose up to sit atop him, and my hair fell before my face, I felt true happiness. We moved into the grass and he lifted my legs to taste me.
The rest is merely dreamy memories and hazy details – the good stuff.
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