ONE
“Oh shit son”. We find ourselves in situations where these words are precisely how we feel, and are the exact words that must be uttered, screamed, or silently thought. They follow the good times we have as an after shock of sorts. As in, “Oh shit son. I forgot to take the dog out for a shit before work”, or “Oh shit son, my house is trashed after that ridiculously large, wild, fun and out of hand party I had and my parents are on their way home”, or the ever so appropriate, usually said in a raised tone, “oh shit son, the condom broke.” Those sort of events. My “oh shit son” came to me while in bed. Wrapped in sweat soaked sheets, and staring at his mascara infused pillow, as I was coming down from the blissful clouds of euphoria from the night before. My “Oh shit son”, was covered in smiles.
***
As I felt around for my keys in my purse, walking out of the grocery store, potato salad and olives in hand, the rush of water that hit me as I walked out of the front doors was nothing shorter than a shock. Clearly I am an idiot, and didn’t realize that by the time my purchases where wrung up, and my purse was back on shoulder, the seemingly perfect day – sun shining, birds seducing, and all that funky jazz - had turned into the BBQ party form hell. I could only imagine what Dani’s place looked like at the moment.
I was running late –as usual- and by the time I got my life in order, I was already 25 minutes late. I pulled onto her street, and as I approached the house, all I could hear was pumping music. All I could smell was a BBQ full of them burgers and dogs, roasting away in the splendors of the grill and in the fires heat, being caressed by the hand of an amateur chef. Walking along the side of the house and peaking over the tall, moss stained fence, before making my hopefully subtle appearance, I got a quick glimpse of all my high school buddies that I hadn’t seen in ages. A Kodak glimpse of the countless soaking bodies of all these people I love. It was a perfect summer BBQ, in my white – now see through – shorts and all.
TWO
“Oh shit son”. We find ourselves in situations where these words are precisely how we feel, and are the exact words that must be uttered, screamed, or silently thought. They follow the good times we have as an after shock of sorts. As in, “Oh shit son. I forgot to take the dog out for a shit before work”, or “Oh shit son, my house is trashed after that ridiculously large, wild, fun and out of hand party I had and my parents are on their way home”, or the ever so appropriate, usually said in a raised tone, “oh shit son, the condom broke.” Those sort of events. My “oh shit son” came to me while in bed. Wrapped in sweat soaked sheets, and staring at his mascara infused pillow, as I was coming down from the blissful clouds of euphoria from the night before. My “Oh shit son”, was covered in smiles.
***
As I felt around for my keys in my purse, walking out of the grocery store, potato salad and olives in hand, the rush of water that hit me as I walked out of the front doors was nothing shorter than a shock. Clearly I am an idiot, and didn’t realize that by the time my purchases where wrung up, and my purse was back on shoulder, the seemingly perfect day – sun shining, birds seducing, and all that funky jazz - had turned into the BBQ party form hell. I could only imagine what Dani’s place looked like at the moment.
I was running late –as usual- and by the time I got my life in order, I was already 25 minutes late. I pulled onto her street, and as I approached the house, all I could hear was pumping music. All I could smell was a BBQ full of them burgers and dogs, roasting away in the splendors of the grill and in the fires heat, being caressed by the hand of an amateur chef. Walking along the side of the house and peaking over the tall, moss stained fence, before making my hopefully subtle appearance, I got a quick glimpse of all my high school buddies that I hadn’t seen in ages. A Kodak glimpse of the countless soaking bodies of all these people I love. It was a perfect summer BBQ, in my white – now see through – shorts and all.
TWO
Eight tall cans later and I’m on fire. Making my rounds with a wet showing ass, not giving a damn, it’s what loving life is all about. I end up on the lap of one on my greatest friends James. His hair is in his usual untamed fiery red curls, Mister Kennedy Ginger extraordinaire. As he rocks me into a slow and steady stupor, a joint is passed around, and I pass it without taking a hit, although craving one more than humanly bearable.
“Alba?” James’s voice seems boomy after eight beers for my relaxed body, or it could be because he was speaking directly into my ear.
“Whad tha fuck monsieur?” slurry slurry slurry.
“Take a hit.” Said like a true believer.
“Ok”
THREE
It’s now ten at night, and our little BBQ has turned into a parade as we venture over like vagabond creatures to James’s house of infinite fun, limitless possibilities, and no rules (except no scaring Destroyer, the kitten). At James’ it’s always a guaranteed night.
The escalation of my drunkenness has come to a halt. I stopped consuming my alcoholic tall cans at around eight o’clock, after my eleventh beer. The twelfth and final was given away in sheer desperation or sobriety, it kind of worked, I guess. My eyes (and hands) have been all over James, all night, discreet, but he gets the hint. I’m getting better at generally getting what I want, when I want it, I make me proud…you can be proud too. I don’t know if people can see it brewing, but it’s there, and it’s clearly going to happen. The thought of it makes me so excited, the feeling so long over due; a high library fine is in certain need to who/whatever controls the sexual aspect of my life, tisk tisk. James’s basement is an elated room of drugs and smoke and laughter and guitar hero. Joints fly from corner to corner, from couch to couch, from hand to hand, from lips to lips. Bongs. Pipes. Baggies. Pills. Fungi. Powder. Anything. There are people tucked into every nook and cranny; cuddling, crushed, content and craving. I sit on a black denim couch, faded in all the right places, rips patched with anything, the most popular being duct tape. My head rests in James’s lap as we pass a pretty pipe back and forth pausing to pack and pull. (twisty tongue, twisty tongue) Content. Smiling. Blissful.
[This is where it gets tricky. Since it all happened so suddenly, try and follow me, and imagine what I’m saying.]
My arms reach up and grab scruffy hair. Head drops forward and a gaze of stoned stupor is met by hungry eyes. His face buried in my neck lets out a deep sigh, a hot gust of breath is released. The kind that makes my heart cold and my skin rigged. “And so it begins” I think to myself. Rotate, rotate, adjust and sit. I’m on top of my ‘Kennedy Ginger’ straddling pelvis like a champ, sucking neck, and bruising skin, because it’s simply drôle. Hands fly and grab and move and work their way around the body of another. Unexplored territory, new, familiar, fun.
“Baah! James-and-Alba-are-fucking-hooking-up-on-the-corner-couch!” Josh never fails. He manages to string together a barely comprehendible bouquet of words; good boy. Although it was barely English, the story got around and in seconds, we were the talk of The Hamlet of Drug Haven. In mere moments James and I stand up…dizzy and drunk and a wobbly bunch and we giggle, and everyone giggles, and it is a clear indication that when thirty some odd people start to giggle in a choral harmony, with accompanied melodies, staccato’s and crescendo’s, it mean’s we are all relatively fucked off our faces. James bending his six foot six frame in half, leaning over to reach my five foot stature. He whispers in my ear words almost inaudible.
“Alba, come upstairs with me.”
“Right behind you.” Destroyer also followed, silly kitty.
“Alba?” James’s voice seems boomy after eight beers for my relaxed body, or it could be because he was speaking directly into my ear.
“Whad tha fuck monsieur?” slurry slurry slurry.
“Take a hit.” Said like a true believer.
“Ok”
THREE
It’s now ten at night, and our little BBQ has turned into a parade as we venture over like vagabond creatures to James’s house of infinite fun, limitless possibilities, and no rules (except no scaring Destroyer, the kitten). At James’ it’s always a guaranteed night.
The escalation of my drunkenness has come to a halt. I stopped consuming my alcoholic tall cans at around eight o’clock, after my eleventh beer. The twelfth and final was given away in sheer desperation or sobriety, it kind of worked, I guess. My eyes (and hands) have been all over James, all night, discreet, but he gets the hint. I’m getting better at generally getting what I want, when I want it, I make me proud…you can be proud too. I don’t know if people can see it brewing, but it’s there, and it’s clearly going to happen. The thought of it makes me so excited, the feeling so long over due; a high library fine is in certain need to who/whatever controls the sexual aspect of my life, tisk tisk. James’s basement is an elated room of drugs and smoke and laughter and guitar hero. Joints fly from corner to corner, from couch to couch, from hand to hand, from lips to lips. Bongs. Pipes. Baggies. Pills. Fungi. Powder. Anything. There are people tucked into every nook and cranny; cuddling, crushed, content and craving. I sit on a black denim couch, faded in all the right places, rips patched with anything, the most popular being duct tape. My head rests in James’s lap as we pass a pretty pipe back and forth pausing to pack and pull. (twisty tongue, twisty tongue) Content. Smiling. Blissful.
[This is where it gets tricky. Since it all happened so suddenly, try and follow me, and imagine what I’m saying.]
My arms reach up and grab scruffy hair. Head drops forward and a gaze of stoned stupor is met by hungry eyes. His face buried in my neck lets out a deep sigh, a hot gust of breath is released. The kind that makes my heart cold and my skin rigged. “And so it begins” I think to myself. Rotate, rotate, adjust and sit. I’m on top of my ‘Kennedy Ginger’ straddling pelvis like a champ, sucking neck, and bruising skin, because it’s simply drôle. Hands fly and grab and move and work their way around the body of another. Unexplored territory, new, familiar, fun.
“Baah! James-and-Alba-are-fucking-hooking-up-on-the-corner-couch!” Josh never fails. He manages to string together a barely comprehendible bouquet of words; good boy. Although it was barely English, the story got around and in seconds, we were the talk of The Hamlet of Drug Haven. In mere moments James and I stand up…dizzy and drunk and a wobbly bunch and we giggle, and everyone giggles, and it is a clear indication that when thirty some odd people start to giggle in a choral harmony, with accompanied melodies, staccato’s and crescendo’s, it mean’s we are all relatively fucked off our faces. James bending his six foot six frame in half, leaning over to reach my five foot stature. He whispers in my ear words almost inaudible.
“Alba, come upstairs with me.”
“Right behind you.” Destroyer also followed, silly kitty.
***
I definitely insinuated it all. We hurried up the stairs – as fast as naturally possible while being still quite drunk and stoned all the same – we shed our clothes as though the temperature was rising uncontrollably. Being thrown on the bed with relative force knocked me into realization “shit Jack,” my conscious, or memory, or whatever beckoned at me as we mixed and mingled and twined ourselves together, “don’t forget the condom.” Thank you subconscious me!
He grabbed my hips to the soundtrack of a basement party, full of booze and smoke and illegalities and friends. The sounds of The Red Hot Chili Peppers singing “Suck My Kiss” in particular, is booming form the guitar hero competition down below. I grab around his night stand and feel around and find a condom; hallelujah! Got to keep that for a bit! As we work our way along the bases (with vigor and speed, I must say) we get to the dirty dirty and……….MOTHER FUCKING OWWW! I saw stars…pain stars, but thank god that went away fast. Fewf, all better. I have to tell you though, skinny boys are good. Skinny boys are good. Skinny boys are good. Skinny boys are flippin’ great! We eventually stop and we are tired as hell smoking a J and a dart. Passing them back and forth.
“Let’s do something stronger.” I say because that is what I really want, and I know that it’s what he has.
“What? Stronger what?” he’s a fucking tool this kid.
“Drugs James, les drogues!”
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
“Anything?”
“Are you gonna repeat what I say for the next hour?” Hehe, it’s me! The sarcastic bitch!
“Coke.”
“Ok.”
FOUR
We get dressed (whatever we can find really), and James gets it all ready, he goes downstairs and picks up whatever amounts to two lines (probably getting praise and slack from the room’s knowing long distance audience). He’s gone, and I lounge in his relatively clean room, the lights are dimmed to the point of them being almost off, but not quite. There is just enough glow to make out the titles of the half dozen books beside his bed:
The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka
In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust
The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Leo Tolstoy, just to name a few.
Philosophers. James comes up the stairs and picks up a big black book off the ground and sits cross legged in front of me. I face him and he walks me through it. He makes two lines; they contrast the book so well that I let myself believe it was done on purpose, but most likely was not. I insisted that mine be smaller, so it was. James deflates his lungs as empty as he can and inhales deeply, quickly, viciously. I’m fucking terrified, and an “oh shit son” moment is bubbling on the bridge of my diaphragm, but I breathe and just do it. I follow suite, and copy the moves and methods of the movies and pretend I’m one of my friends as I have seen them hit before. Deep, sharp, weird. It’s an instant rush feeling, but that just might be the feeling of the powder lodging itself into the crevasse of my brain. The back of my throat trickles with a numb, sour, sweet sensation, and I don’t know what to expect next.
“What do we do now?” I ask innocent and idiotic.
“We chill and let it happen.” And it does.
WOW, is all my brain can muster. Weird feeling this high is, I feel simply euphoric, and I feel as though I want to chase the world before it spins too fast. I want to be able to hover three and a half inches off the ground. I want to chit chat with Destroyer, and I want him to chit chat back. I want to go to a department store and rate every perfume from a five star rating system. I want to open my cell phone and study its bits and pieces. I don’t want to leave this cocoon of a room.
***
We chill and laugh and touch and kiss and play and fight and jump and read and punch and spin and sit and stare and kiss once more just to be on the safe side. James is my friend and this is fun.
I definitely insinuated it all. We hurried up the stairs – as fast as naturally possible while being still quite drunk and stoned all the same – we shed our clothes as though the temperature was rising uncontrollably. Being thrown on the bed with relative force knocked me into realization “shit Jack,” my conscious, or memory, or whatever beckoned at me as we mixed and mingled and twined ourselves together, “don’t forget the condom.” Thank you subconscious me!
He grabbed my hips to the soundtrack of a basement party, full of booze and smoke and illegalities and friends. The sounds of The Red Hot Chili Peppers singing “Suck My Kiss” in particular, is booming form the guitar hero competition down below. I grab around his night stand and feel around and find a condom; hallelujah! Got to keep that for a bit! As we work our way along the bases (with vigor and speed, I must say) we get to the dirty dirty and……….MOTHER FUCKING OWWW! I saw stars…pain stars, but thank god that went away fast. Fewf, all better. I have to tell you though, skinny boys are good. Skinny boys are good. Skinny boys are good. Skinny boys are flippin’ great! We eventually stop and we are tired as hell smoking a J and a dart. Passing them back and forth.
“Let’s do something stronger.” I say because that is what I really want, and I know that it’s what he has.
“What? Stronger what?” he’s a fucking tool this kid.
“Drugs James, les drogues!”
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
“Anything?”
“Are you gonna repeat what I say for the next hour?” Hehe, it’s me! The sarcastic bitch!
“Coke.”
“Ok.”
FOUR
We get dressed (whatever we can find really), and James gets it all ready, he goes downstairs and picks up whatever amounts to two lines (probably getting praise and slack from the room’s knowing long distance audience). He’s gone, and I lounge in his relatively clean room, the lights are dimmed to the point of them being almost off, but not quite. There is just enough glow to make out the titles of the half dozen books beside his bed:
The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka
In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust
The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Leo Tolstoy, just to name a few.
Philosophers. James comes up the stairs and picks up a big black book off the ground and sits cross legged in front of me. I face him and he walks me through it. He makes two lines; they contrast the book so well that I let myself believe it was done on purpose, but most likely was not. I insisted that mine be smaller, so it was. James deflates his lungs as empty as he can and inhales deeply, quickly, viciously. I’m fucking terrified, and an “oh shit son” moment is bubbling on the bridge of my diaphragm, but I breathe and just do it. I follow suite, and copy the moves and methods of the movies and pretend I’m one of my friends as I have seen them hit before. Deep, sharp, weird. It’s an instant rush feeling, but that just might be the feeling of the powder lodging itself into the crevasse of my brain. The back of my throat trickles with a numb, sour, sweet sensation, and I don’t know what to expect next.
“What do we do now?” I ask innocent and idiotic.
“We chill and let it happen.” And it does.
WOW, is all my brain can muster. Weird feeling this high is, I feel simply euphoric, and I feel as though I want to chase the world before it spins too fast. I want to be able to hover three and a half inches off the ground. I want to chit chat with Destroyer, and I want him to chit chat back. I want to go to a department store and rate every perfume from a five star rating system. I want to open my cell phone and study its bits and pieces. I don’t want to leave this cocoon of a room.
***
We chill and laugh and touch and kiss and play and fight and jump and read and punch and spin and sit and stare and kiss once more just to be on the safe side. James is my friend and this is fun.
My “oh shit son” moment came to me while in bed. Wrapped in dampened sweaty sheets, and staring at his mascara infused pillow, as we were coming down from the blissful clouds of euphoria from the night before. My “Oh shit son”, was covered in smiles, and belongs to a bare backed boy.
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