Do We Need Cynar 11?

May 20, 2011

-The bar was cheesy. The gays picked it. That Robinson Crusoe-themed bar on Greenwich Street. It was me, M and her two gay friends who could not stop talking about Avenue Q, and throughout the night the tall one must have asked me four times if I had seen it and after the fourth time I gave in and said yes so he’d stop asking and he was like, Isn’t it the best, shouldn’t ALL musicals have puppets? The short one said, Now THAT would fill the seats: all puppets, all day. Memphis would have sucked less with puppets. The tall one got us started on Irish coffees. He spooned whipped cream on M’s nose and told me to lick it off. I said, I’m her boss, man, that’s weird. The short one: You’re not at work now so what does it matter? So I licked it off, and then M put a spoonful on my nose but as she went in for the lick-off, the short one beat her to it and he sucked it off and made a sucking noise. He said: I don’t work for you, I can do whatever I want with you. And didn’t he grab my sack? Fucking gays. When they’re drunk everyone is gay. And at that moment our pirate waitress walked by and asked us if we needed anything else and the tall one said, Four more Irish coffee with extra whipped cream. Which is the last thing we needed and by the end of the bight I had had five. M was in bad shape. She sang songs from Rent and moved her hand like it was moving a puppet’s mouth: Latex rubber rubber. Fire latex rubber latex bummer. And that’s our cue to leave, the tall one said. He told me to walk her home and he nudged me, like, nudge nudge, wink wink. Fuck her in the kitchen, I know that’s your thing, you sick puppy. M must have told them about her blowing me in the kitchen at Hey Jealousy. M said, Nobody’s fucking me in the kitchen tonight. Not you, not this puppet, not Rodgery Crusoe. OK, MAYBE Rodgery. Roger that, Rodgery Crusoe. Roger me. There was diddling in the cab. You have to wonder if cabbies like it. If my job were driving drunk people around all night I wouldn’t mind. M’s roommate was on the couch and he didn’t say anything as I fixed toast with butter and two glasses of water and walked M to her room. So that was the second time. I was so wired I didn’t sleep all night. I was awake when M passed out, clinging to me, her face in my chest, air from her nose blowing my chest hair, and I was awake when she woke up, still clinging to me. Her morning breath was coffee, whiskey and cigarettes but she insisted on kissing anyway. Was I holding you like this all night? she said. You were. Well that’s embarrassing. She was like a…what was she like? A koala? Do koalas sleep in trees?

-I think so.

-She was a koala; I was tree branch. All night. It was like that. It was adorable. From 5 till 10 in the morning she was a koala and I was a tree branch. That’s how she clung to me. In profile, her face looks like a koala sometimes.

-Other animals sleep in trees. Owls.

-But other mammals? I’m not going to compare her to an owl. Who wants to fuck an owl?

-Who wants to fuck a koala?

-If it weren’t taboo, who wouldn’t fuck a koala? I know you would. Therapists are just as sick as their patients. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t fuck a koala if you found a cute one that would let you fuck it, and you know you couldn’t get in trouble.

-They can be ferocious if threatened.

-That’s why you’d need to find one that would let you, one that was raised in captivity who likes humans. A wild koala? Forget it. You’ll walk away from that date bruised and bloody. But a zoo koala whom you feed and pet and get to know and really open up to, like, you tell it about your parent’s divorce and shit, yeah, you could fuck it. But you’d have to do all the work. It’s not going to present itself to you. You’d have to move its limbs and get it in position.  You’d take it from behind, of course. I’m not having eye-contact sex with a koala, I’m not kissing the koala. But you know, from behind it might as well be a furry grey human. A little human girl with a weird hair disease. And you’re doing HER a favor by fucking her. It’s a pity fuck. She’s been in hospitals and labs all her life being researched by scientists writing a book about weird medical problems and all this time she’s been waiting to lose her virginity. She’s a normal girl with desires and hormones; she just happens to be covered in grey fur. She would be grateful.

-You have a great imagination.

-I do. Like, whenever the wife comes to bed and gets under the covers facing away from me and we spoon and nuzzle I imagine it’s M whom I’m spooning and nuzzling. Because I’d much rather be spooning and nuzzling her.

-Sloths sleep in trees. So do leopards.

- Leopards! Yes. But do they cling? I doubt it. They lie there. M was clinging hard, like if she let go something bad would happen, like she was afraid of something in her room but as long as she held on to me she’d be OK. Later on she confessed it had been a while since she’d had a sleepover at her apartment. Or at any apartment. Eight months. That’s why she was clinging. She was happy to have anything there. I might as well have been a body pillow, or a tree branch.

If it were a big owl, and I was drunk, how could I say no?

-OK, it were it a big owl, and I was really drunk, then maybe. I’m not fucking a tiny owl. What are you writing? Are you writing that I would fuck an owl?

-Don’t worry about what I write. Let’s move on. What if M said she wanted you to leave your wife?

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