Kristine wasn't outside waiting, as agreed upon. Instead, she was waving
frantically at me from her window. Behind her was her roommate, Andy,
shielding his eyes from the bright Saturday eight A.M. sunshine. "Come in
here, Courtney," she called. "We'll go to the gym later. You've got to hear
this."
I followed them into their huge kitchen, which I'm always shocked to see is
as sanitary as a hospital wing. These housemates are a fanatical bunch of
clean freaks. There was orange juice, muffins, toast. Clearly a confession
session, although the third housemate, Dan, was still sleeping.
I noticed Andy had a little smile on his face. "OK, who was she?" I
asked, seating myself.
"No one you know," he said, yawning, scratching his chest in that monkey
fashion. "In fact, my career as a celibate single male is still sadly, sadly
thriving." Andy looked tired and a tad confused, though strangely smug.
"Tell her," Kristine commanded.
"OK. There I was, last night, out with the guys. Dan, Jake, Alex, the same
old bunch of losers. It was one a.m., and we're drinking away at the Toronado.
Talking about the same old stuff: sex, no sex, who's not getting any, who says
they're getting any and isn't."
Andy and I had just had a discussion last week about looking for love in all the
wrong places. "Never mind that you supposedly want to find Ms. Right," I said.
"Go on."
"We moved onto the Bongo Bar. Now it's 1:15. In other words, the clock
is ticking. The bar is starting to clear out. But there's this bartender. She
keeps giving me free shots. And all of a sudden, I notice she's smiling at me
in that way."
"Yes, yes," I said impatiently. I've heard these stories before. "Get to the
point."
"Not so fast," Andy said. He relaxed in his chair and took a slug of orange
juice. "So, there she is -- Monica, she's called. Jet black hair. Blue eyes.
Snow White look.
"The bar's getting emptier and emptier. Tick, tock, tick, tock. The guys are
doing that shark thing, getting that desperate look in their eyes, that
oh-no-I'm-going-home-alone-again face. They're circling the remaining
women, trying to talk to them. Meanwhile, Monica is practically shoving
drinks down my throat."
"Is she smart?" I asked.
"OK. Not a brain surgeon."
"Pretty?" asked Kristine.
"Uh, nice body. Her face isn't her strong point."
"Go on," I prod.
"It's ten to two. The bartenders are yelling at us to drink up, go home,
yadda yadda yadda. Finally, I ask her what she's doing after work. She invites
me back to her place. She gives me her address, tells me she'll meet me there
in half an hour. I have to drive all the guys home, you see."
"Always the dad," Kristine said.
"In the car," continued Andy, pointedly ignoring her, "the guys are slapping
the back of my head, yelling, 'You're going to get laid! You asshole!' I get rid
of all of them and speed over to Monica's house, way out in the Richmond.
She's waiting for me at the window. Lets me in really quietly, she's got
roommates. We go up the stairs to her room, and she's got a bottle of wine
open, blanket on the floor. We start kissing. Kind of touching each other's
skin. You know, sniffing around each other.
"She's kind of a Gothic chick. Lots of velvet around the room, crucifixes,
candles. At one point, she introduces me to her ferret named Tarquin. That was
a little creepy, but so what, obviously we were going to have sex. I'm happy.
But then..." He paused dramatically. "We didn't."
"Guess why they didn't," said Kristine. "She was willing. He was willing.
They were two horny individuals. You'll never guess."
"Five guesses," said Andy. "If you guess, I'll give you a hundred bucks."
I paused. "She was a he."
"Ah, 'The Crying Game' scenario! No, sorry."
"She had a sexually transmitted disease...You didn't have any condoms."
"No and no. I always have condoms."
I looked around the kitchen. "She had a bad smell."
"Nope. You've two more. Think about the ferret. The ferret's a clue."
I widened my eyes. "Please don't tell me she was into bestial threesomes."
"No."
"She had on a chastity belt and lost the key?"
"No -- but close. OK, I'll tell you." Andy leaned back and put his hands
behind his head. "She'd just gotten her clitoris pierced."
"Oh, come on," I said. I once went to the Mitchell Brothers flesh emporium on O'Farrell
Street, and all the women had labia piercings. I wondered about it ever
since. "You mean her labia. Not her clit."
"I think I know the difference between a labia and a clitoris," said Andy,
huffily. "No, it was her clit. On the little hood part. She'd just had it done
a couple days ago. She was still sore. She couldn't have sex for the next two
weeks."
"So what did you do?"
"Oh, just kind of groped. All our clothes were off. I was kissing her tits,
making my way down her stomach. Then I went and did the gynecological exam. I
was a little curious, after all."
"Naturally," said Kristine. She looked at me and we did a little sympathy
shudder. "Now, when it heals, is it supposed to make her come harder, or more
often? Does it rub against her while she's walking down the street?"
"Yes, I'd like to know that," I agreed. "Does she keep having multiple orgasms as she
shops in the grocery store, comparing lettuce prices?"
Andy said he didn't know. "I think it has to do with where the little ball
is on the hoop," he said. "If you girls are so curious, why don't you find someone who does it for you and check
it out? I'll come with you."
I gazed out the huge picture window that overlooked an expanse of magnolia
trees in their garden. "So, are you going to see her again? Do you have any interest?"
He stood up. "Nah, I don't think so. Not that way. There wasn't really
that... feeling about it. It was more of a sex thing."
"What if she calls you?"
"I don't think she will," he said. He looked vaguely annoyed, like a cat
that's suddenly been dumped off a warm lap for no apparent reason. "I think we
were pretty clear on that, in an unspoken way."
He sighed. "The problem now is that I won't be able to go to Bongo for a
while. It might be awkward. Or maybe not. Anyway, since I got home just half
an hour ago, I'm going to bed." He yawned and shuffled out of the room,
scratching his balls in that way that men for some reason think is invisible.
(Names have been changed to protect identities.)
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