|
|
|
Part Two: The 'Sup? Boy I'm not sure how. He was just all-of-a-sudden there. It was as if the hand of God had reached down from the Great Shell Game in the Sky with divine and well-manicured fingers and pulled a cosmic switcheroo; the woman who had been sitting, reading, sniffling, snorting, chewing on something I didn't want to look at but smelled like peanut butter or the soiled cedar shavings from the floor of a guinea pig's cage (take your pick) to my left has evaporated and been replaced with. Well. I couldn't begin to imagine how I missed his arrival (or that other broad's departure). Gospel truth, I didn't notice him until his arm brushed mine. On the armrest. A feathery battalion of hair (softly bivouacked all over the warm flesh of a warm arm) engaged in a "don't ask don't tell" situation with mine, and the skirmish's resulting frisson shot up my spine with enough raw force to knock the gel out of my hair. This tremendous quiver set a powerful internal alarm to alarming, and, like a one-eyed Lazarus on a dirty, dirty mission, you know who wakes, rises, joyful and triumphant, and starts pestering me to take a peek at the pulsating presence that's appeared in the newly womanless chair on our left. And I, of course, obey. Doing my best fake I'm-stretching-not-looking-at-you stretch, I casually reach my arms hiiigh...over...my...head, and yawn the quickest and most humiliatingly obvious peek possible across my left armpit. My heart feels like it just won every beauty pageant in the world. Words, Words, the tyranny of words! Are there enough of them in all the tongues in all the world to define one simple perfection? What wet colored adjectives would best paint him in an interested reader's imagination? Was he a symphony of flesh and hormones? A naughty little angel dropped from a particularly sexy heaven? A thousand early summer dreams of warm and sticky things? The hottest damn thing to ever scratch a scrotum? Why yes. Was he a long-lashed, long-legged, choppy-haired, indie college boy/garage band singer (you know the type) with a full sleeve tattoo peeking shyly (at first) from a short black sleeve before getting cocky and wending its way all over every inch of a just-veiny-enough-to-really-turn-my-crank forearm? Maybe. Honestly? I'd rather not say. Sexual tastes run wild and varied, and far be it for me to force my preferences on the reader. My ideals are probably not yours. Therefore, I encourage readers to superimpose whatever be-peckered archetype would best yank their own personal crank in their own personal imaginary seat to my left, and let's call that my xmess gift to you (ho, ho, ho) and continue. Busted! Sideways he catches my ostensibly surreptitious peek, looking up suddenly from his hipply-graffitied powerbook (Wow! Thanks mom n' dad!). He smiles at me crooked and looks me square in the eye. Big brown eyes. Eyes as brown as big brown pants. "Sup?" I put my carry-on bag in my lap and try to think of dead things. Impossible Release What a week. I flew from the bugling-biceps of SeaTac International Airport and into the expectant arms of Bert Mooney Airport (sandwiched cleverly between Holy Cross and Mountain View cemeteries, rusty old Butte's newest and most corpse-stuffed graveyards and no, I'm not kidding) three days ago. Three terminally eternal days ago. Three days, seven hours, and thirty-two minutes since my last orgasm, and three days five hours and fifteen minutes since I played armhair tag with the Sudden Airport Beauty (aka The Boy), who, by the way, I haven't been able to get out of my mind for a second -- and Christmas is tomorrow. The visit has been drier than a menopausal prune, as predicted. BDT has been a real prick, and who cares if the pun's intended or not. No one in my family seems to understand why I'm "so damn grouchy," and I'd be outside whacking in the snow if it wasn't a hundred and fifty three below zero. Fucking Montana. But, suddenly and for the first time ever, something amazing has happened. I am...alone. Somehow (somehow!) now (now!) after the 9 years and 72 nerve numbing, bickering and hugging, stocking stuffing and package wrapping, gravy dripping and nog swilling hours of annual home-for-the holidays angst, a Christmas miracle has wrestled itself free from Santa's bugling red sack and has visited itself upon me one day early. Alone! All by myself. Me, me, me my glorious self and I. No one here but us pre-verts. Alone. I am all alone! Okay, half of the fam damnly has run off to a nearby hot springs resort -- come stew yourself in the sulfurous volcanic pools of SW Montana! Fun for the whole family! -- and the other half has gone to break the camel's back by buying more Christmas presents. I have stayed behind by virtue of a fake case of the sniffles, which if not tended to might blow itself into a full-blown case of fake flu, but none of this matters right now, because we really don't have much time. (HURRY!) Before the last waves are good-byed, I rush to the medicine cabinet and capture the first thing that might resemble lubrication (which turns out to be a gaudy white plastic jar of mom's generic vitamin E enriched night cream from Downey's Drug -- that's what she gets for circumcising me), I charge from the bathroom in a flurry of soon-to-be-inseminated toilet tissue and naughty intentions, kick the couch, jump over the cat, dive between the covers of the air mattress that tortures my sugar-plum dreams every night, dive Mr. Hand down Mr. Trousers, close my eyes and I am... Back at the fucking airport. Have to be, it's where it all happened. Shhh, now, for a second, I need to recreate the scene: hicks, stench, late flight, boner...got it! Now that beautiful, angelic Boy that (somehow!) appeared in the chair on my left is now standing only 8 inches, maybe less, from where I stand. My pants are unzipped. So are his. My good pal BDT is exposed. The Boy's version of the same is free and dangling, too, I suspect. My head is about to explode. We stand, not talking, facing tile, far too stiff to move. Let me explain. Things were a little weird after The Boy caught me checking him out. I returned his "'Sup?" as best I could, with a startled and unpracticed nod that resembled the eviction of a fly from the bridge of a rude nose. He moved to say something ("Sup?" again, maybe), then thought better of it. I did the same. And again. And again. Embarrassed grins, nervous glances, tee hee hee! Tee hee hee. Hee hee. Hee. After the third or fourth not-started conversation, the sexual tension between us deflates like a leaky tire on the automobile of apathy as it drives down Disinterested Way. Everything just too awkward to talk to each other now, we save face by pretending to distract ourselves and ignoring each other. Author's Note: Such is the strange and wonderful Mating Dance of The Fags, as sung to the tune of, "You win some, you lose some," in the key of Sour Grapes. Someone should really write a book. We go on like this, The Boy and I, not really distracted, ignoring and ignored, until I decided to go to the can. A common enough gesture, really, rising to pee; a mandate of nature, not to be questioned or denied. Simple and direct: getting up to pee. No room for miscommunication, interpretation or discussion. So, what, then? Was it the wiggle in my walk? A Freudian message spelling "shhh, don't ask questions, just follow me" in some hip wiggling language that (somehow, somehow!) The Boy understands? Or did he just have to pee really bad, too? Neither you nor I nor anyone but The Boy himself will ever know for sure (his God too, maybe), but, under the circumstances, while I'm still conjuring the moment on an air mattress, white knuckling mom's night cream, I've understandably chosen to err on the side of orgasm and decided to believe that he followed me. If you disagree, that's not my business. So, anyway, the men's room. No big whoop. But the astute reader might have already guessed the problem that I faced when I got down to the watery deed. That's right. My pecker. T'wouldn't go down, you see. Not a lick. Especially not now, not after The Boy plopped down in the chair to my left and introduced our arm hair. Nope. I was hard as Chinese math. Harder. Stiffer than drinks in a boarder town. Boned up. Hardened on. Inflexible as fossilized freezer burn, and in no position to unleash any floodgates, let me tell you. Erections. Let's talk erections: Here's how my Funk and Wagnall's calls it: "Erection: (i-rek'shun),-n. A distended and rigid state of an organ or part containing erectile tissue, esp. of the penis or the clitoris." True, but only part of the story. We all understand that erections are natural things, wonderful things, crucial to performing acts of sexual mischief, nature's way of saying, "Hey, look! You're horny," and I say God bless them one and all. But there's a downside. As the great and horny mystics of the Great and Horny East have been trying to tell us forever now, there is no yin without yang, no effect, no cause, no action nor choice that does not exclude as much as it makes available, and brother, you just can't pee with a boner. The very same distended and rigid tissue that's so great for so many, many other things (don't get me started) also dams off one's aching bladder. Sometimes, things really are just that simple. The equation is an uncomplicated one: boner (a) plus gotta pee (b) equals no way, José (c). Ergo, in order for the water to flow, factor "a" had to be removed from the equation. And having no sharp objects with which to castrate myself, I chose another route. Which is exactly what I was doing when The Boy walked in. And this is where we left off. I've recreated the scenario in my imagination, abusing mom's wrinkle cream in ways old Downey and his Drugs never dreamed. Whether or not I really had to pee or just got up to whack off is inconsequential anyway, so let's just move past that point. Thanks. So there we were, The Boy and I, recreated by imagination as I lay exercising my fists and my X-rated powers of visualization: 8 inches, maybe less, apart, my stiff secret hidden only by a thin pressboard privacy plank some cursed airport janitor has screwed between the urinals (Jose? No way!). The Boy has entered the men's room behind me, catches my eye ("Sup?"), unzips with great gesture and I go stiff to the roots of my hair. I could peek over the partition if I really wanted to. I know I could. Or I could angle my hips and lean back in just the perfect way to give him a full view of my throbbing appreciation. But that would be tacky. Frankly, I don't know what to do. I was beating to beat the band when he came through the doorway, I didn't hear him until he had been there long enough to get at least some idea that my bishop was getting a good spank. But he stood next to me anyway, so he must (oh crap) want to join in? Watch? Marry me? He unzips, breathes in...and relaxes. Every molecule in my body is giving a quiet scream of joy. My eyes are big as dinner plates, my heart is auditioning for Riverdance, somewhere birds are singing and I don't know what The Boy is doing now, but by God, it ain't making water. There is no telltale tinkle, no rushing stream. But his eyes are as fixed on the horizon as mine are; six windows of the soul (two blue, two brown, two blind) stare at an imaginary horizon that's the last thing we want to be looking at. And I am tempted, tense, vibrating, feeling like I'm the world's biggest tuning fork and I've just been whacked with a cosmic hammer. I have to do something, anything, say something, make lewd gestures, vomit out my eyes. But I can't move. I can't. And I am beginning to suspect that BDT's "impressive libidinous accomplishments" have been embellished by time and ego because every drop of courage has drained from my body and runs out the soles of my shoes. I can't look. I can't. I can't.. Okay, I will. Now. Let me tell you something. If this story weren't true, if it was something I pulled out of my keister, a billion tadpole-tailed Adrian Jrs would in moments be doing 200mph face plants into imaginary (but still chilly) airport porcelain right now (before slipping sloppily to a forest fresh date with a urinal cake in my head), and an equal number of real splats would be splatting spermy little splats all over a borrowed Christmas quilt. But the events I recount are real, and reality being what it is, of course mother walked in. I didn't hear her come back in the house. I need to get my fucking ears checked. "I just forgot to tell you, when grandma calls, tell her we won't be able to pick her up until five-thirty, and would you mind watching your niece? She's decided she wants to stay behind too. You can play that new game." Game over. "And put my damn face cream away when you're done with it. " Mom was as astonishingly gone as she had appeared, and my fantasy has dried up like a wino in the sun. The Boy is gone, The Fucking Airport, gone, a billion Adrian JR's hitting the urinal, gone, any hope, gone, gone, double gone, gone squared, dog gone, dead and not so long gone gone, and I'm left with a fist full of wasted vitamin E cream in one hand and disappointment in the other. And (in neither left nor right hand) an increasing resolve. My niece rumbles into the room before I know what's happening, sets up a board game and switches on MTV. But as Carson Daley's waxed eyebrows arch suggestively at me from the screen, as the little pewter fella I chose as my game piece grabs his pewter balls and winks his monopoly eye at me, as I start to find the hair on my own legs sexy and my niece shakes her dice in happy oblivion, my resolve transforms into a decision. Not next year. Not again. No way. My darling niece's darling uncle is an intelligent, capable, sexually empowered young man and next year he's going to fly some hottie's ass off to London and blah, blah, blah. Yeah. Right. Merry Christmas.
All contents © 2002 Nighthcharm, Inc. and Adrian Ryan. All Rights Reserved.
|
|||
