Do We Need Cynar? 6

July 29, 2010

Are these the softest sheets I’ve ever had sex on? What kind of sheets are these?

- What kind of sheets are these?

-Pima.

-Pee-ma? How do you spell that?

-P. I. M. A. Pima.

-Are they expensive?

-They were a gift.

-From whom?

-An old boyfriend. My old sheets gave him a rash, he said, so he bought me new ones. I don’t think they actually gave him a rash. He probably just wanted an excuse to buy me something nice.

-That’s nice.

-You’ve never bought me anything.

-I buy you your salary.

-A salary is not a gift. You could buy me something once and a while. Something little.

-Like what?

- Something little.

-Like a key chain?

-Fine. A key chain.

-FINE. Fine is not fine. You understand. I’m in a tough spot here. I can’t buy you anything big because someone could notice and a big gift could send the wrong signal: Here is a fancy bracelet, which means I want to leave the wife for you. Or: Here is a necklace, but if someone sees it you have to say it’s from your mother or an ex and you only recently started wearing it for some reason. See what I mean?

-Fine.

-But if I get you a small gift like a key chain, it’d be a joke and you’ll think that I think that our Thing is a joke. And I don’t think that. Honestly, I don’t. Maybe you do.

-I don’t think we’re a joke.

-Good. What about a nice meal? I could cook for you. Pork tenderloin maybe. And a good wine.

-That’s not a gift.

-It’s funny you say that because the other day the wife was saying how much she’d love for me to put together a picnic for her like I used to. Years ago when I gave a shit about shit I’d get some brie and some good bread and a bottle of rosé and maybe some porchetta and put it all in a basket and we’d go to a park and eat and sit for hours and listen to an iPod with one bud in my ear and one in hers. It was all very cute.

-Sounds like it.

-And we’d fool around in the grass. It was like one of those paintings with a satyr and a what’s-it-called? and they’re both drunk and getting frisky in a meadow. Once a month or so we’d do this and sometimes another couple we barely knew would see us, maybe a friend of hers from school, and the dude and I would bullshit about beer or whatever and the girls would talk real estate. I swear I’ve had the same conversation about Dogfish Head IPA and what the difference is between the 60- and 90- and 120-minute and which ones we like more because all these dudes read a few articles on Wikipedia and they start to fashion themselves beer experts so when they get one-on-one with a guy who works in the food industry they get all foodie and try to impress him: I like the hoppier one, which is that, the 120-minute? But that’s just me. They sample a few good beers and now they have a license to bullshit about good beer but really, they don’t know anything, like, absolutely nothing, and before they sample an absurdly wide variety of shit they should keep their mouths shut because they’ll make asses of themselves in front of their girlfriends and the sad part is, their girlfriends don’t even realize what asses they are making of themselves. They think: Oh, that’s my man, talking about beer like he always does. He’s such a wealth of knowledge. Such a well-rounded man of the world. NO, lady, your man doesn’t know anything. He has been on the internet before and he’s had Dogfish Head a few times. That’s it. And in a more honest society I would have said: Listen man, I appreciate your interest in what I do but talking to you about IPAs is like… it’s like… Oh I don’t know, Keith Richards talking about the blues to a deaf baby, you know.

-You’re the Keith Richards of good beer?

-No. But these dudes, they’ve had whatever beer is on tap at those five good bars they go to and all of a sudden they fashion themselves beer experts. And I have to nod and agree and pretend like they have valuable opinions, and I have to educate these idiots instead of saying: This is dumb. This is a waste of time. My wife and I going home to have sex now and it will be much more interesting than talking to you about beer. Why can’t a dude just say that? It’s what we’re thinking anyway. It’s probably what he’s thinking, too. He’s thinking: Alright, we both don’t want to talk to each other but this guy runs a restaurant so he’ll want to talk about beer and I’ll tell him that my bro prefers the 90-minute but I’m hard enough to handle the 120-minute. It’s all a weird sort of round-about foreplay. I’m only talking to this guy for my wife and he’s talking to me for his wife. I’m doing it so she can talk to her kinda-friend about who’s moved to which neighborhood and they can keep their see-ya-once-a-year friendship in tact even though they’re both thinking: There is a reason I see this person once a year: we don’t like talking to each other, but I’m doing it so I’ll come off as social so the next time the couple sees another couple at a thing they ask about us the couple we saw in the park will say: Oh, they’re doing very well. And the dude who’s hosting will tell that other dude the thing that Richard prefers the 90-minute Dogfish Head but man oh man, I just can’t get enough of that 120-minute. Thinking of that hoppy 120-minute IPA makes me so fucking hard and I swear to God I’ll ream anyone who gets between me and my six-pack of Dogfish Head. HEY HONEY. Bring out the 120-minute IPA. Richard just got here and I’m trying to convert him. I’m gonna make him a 120-minute man. Where is it? It’s in the garage? Well I can’t get it. I’m busy talking to the what’s your last name again? I’m one of those people who are SO BAD with names oh Jesus H. we have so much fun at parties. Honey, maybe we should have kids after all so they can run out to the garage and grab the beer while we’re entertaining guests. You want to? Grrreat. Let’s get to the fucking then. Party’s over. Get these assholes out of our house. Or you know what? Let them stay. What 120-minute man doesn’t like to watch his bro fuck? Get the hummus off the table so we can fuck on it.

- Do you have a therapist? Because you should definitely have one.

-What? Am I wrong?

-You’re not wrong, just unoriginal. Do you think you’re the first person to have these types of opinions and feelings?

-Maybe I’m not.

-You’re definitely not. This is all standard-issue shit and frankly, it’s pretty boring and depressing. So. What time is it?

-I should go.

-OK. I’ll be in around three today. Robbie told me we’re probably going under and I’ve already started asking around. Oh, and fuck you for not telling me.

-I was going to.

-Right. So. That was probably the last time.

-What do you mean, the last time?

-The last time we’re going to have sex. I don’t think I can sleep with someone who has such predictable outbursts like that. It’s bad for me for a number of reasons.

-That was a fluke. I’m sorry. What if I bought you earrings?

-Take me dancing and I’ll reconsider.

NEXT: The Story Of Gary And Me So Far

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