Friday, February 13, 2009

I awoke yesterday on Riley's couch at 1:30 in the morning with a start. I'd passed out there sometime after 11, as far as I could remember, after a long stressful day and a few beers. When I'd pulled my hood over my eyes and closed them there had been a television on and guitars playing on the sofa next to mine; when I opened them again the room was empty and dark save for a dim bulb above the stove in the attached kitchen space.

The house is a case study in entropy, and Riley fights the good fight, but it remains inhabited by 5 very male people, cut from the cloth used to sew together the Man Show and dive bars. This also means they share their house with a host of dirty dishes, and random messes which materialize without owner in the communal spaces. The men there have nothing boyish about them. They're full grown bucks, with beards and body odor and nothing that could remotely be ascribed to metrosexual culture. They all smoke, be it cigs or marijuana or sheesha or anything else that can be lit and breathed in, and there is a cat in perpetual heat that rubs on anything new, so for those with allergies or breathing issues it's not the most comfortable house to relax in. But I love Riley, and it's primitively satisfying to hang out with the rest of the cave dwellers and feel all Cro-Magnonish, so I go there just the same.

I'm digressing, because this story is about why I woke up when I did, but I need to lay down a little about my surroundings before I get to that.

Of all the roommates, Riley gets along with Jason best (although, as men, they're still prone to the occasional manspat over this or that). Jason is built thick, large but not fat, as if the frame his flesh draped over was just a bit wider than the others. He's a little over six feet tall, I'd put him at 190 lbs if I had to guess, and he rocks facial hair like he's paid by the follicle. Likes Parliments and plays guitar, the classic shit. A guy's guy.

There is also a girl named Stephanie, a diminutive mixed-race cutie that lives either in the downstairs unit or next door. She's young, and looks more so with her hair poofed out in a gentle afro, and barrettes pinning the more undisciplined strands closer to her head. She's got a small, flat nose and a laugh that makes me think of a dining triangle being played by a preschool version of herself.

She also has the total hots for Jason, and sometime before December the kinds of things that happen when a guy's guy and a cute girl who likes said guy live close to each other happened: they started hooking up. Now I see her almost every time I'm over at their house, loving the boisterous attitude and the testosterone that seems to collect like a film on the walls and counter tops. She's teased by the other guys spiritedly and Jason treats her like a runt, but in the good kind of way, you know? She falls over herself for the attention, this young girl, not quite twenty, suddenly the focus of a group of dudes who are most definitely not boys, not by any stretch of the imagination. I doubt the relationship will last the next housing lease, when proximity's convenience is removed, and they find the new distance between their houses forces them to realize they really don't have much in common. They'll go their separate ways, and some day five years from now she may be taking mental stock of her lovers and wonder how that guy sneaked onto the list. Maybe not though; I'd hate to make it sound like Jason is without his charms. He's actually very personable and considerate, with a winning smile.

When I woke up I was startled and disoriented. It took me a second or two to get my bearings and remember where I was before I turned my attention again to the thing that had woken me. In the hallway down the living room, coming in clear enough for me to assume the door was wide open, came Stephanie's moans in slow crescendo. By the time I gave them a focused listen they were well into it, and if I had to judge those moans (which, laying motionless on a couch 20 feet from them, I did) I'd say they sounded wholly genuine, as if a wood nymph was pleasuring herself in a glen.

I was wide awake now, as you can imagine, and as much as I fought against it I was developing a massive hard-on, the kind that can only come from those ohs and sighs born of sincerity and ecstasy. I also had a bit of a dilemma. I had no desire to stay the night on that couch, alongside the drafty window with winter's fingers curled firmly around the seams of my pants and jacket, legs half dangling off the edge, and my neck already beginning to crick. But when to leave?

Absent loud sex noises I would have stood up and made my way to the foyer, where I would have put my shoes back on before heading down the creaky stairs and out the doors, the sticky wooden one that takes effort to close, and the wispy screen one that refuses to close without a gunshot slam. This is one of those old, noisy houses, so ill-kept, that students find and live in all along campus, and despite the fact her moans were becoming more urgent and pleading I would not have been able to leave without being detected. I imagined the moment - they would lean in hesitantly and whisper in each other's ear, "I think someone's awake in the living room!" and they would slow and stop, one still inside the other, maybe reddening a little at being so uninhibited and having been heard, their late-night sanctuary punctured by my exiting footsteps, waiting patiently for the tell-tale doors to signal that the intrusion into their lovemaking was over.

So, rather than cause them any interruption or embarrassment, I waited patiently for them to finish. It was already late, a little later wouldn't hurt me, and I assumed they'd been going for a while, so I expected to finally hear Jason's part in this symphony before the sounds would fade and they would pass out much as I had done alone on my couch. But there were movements left to play, and pause after short pause she'd come back, having found her lungs again.

I waited it out, long as I could, politely turned on but at least keeping the illusion of their privacy intact. I thought on their relationship, its inevitable end maybe less than months away, and these two people very much enjoying themselves. I remember, too, being twenty. It's that all-too dangerous time when two years of college seem to hang like heavy pelts from the belt of experience and you feel adult and empowered, long before you have the maturity and awareness to recognize just how young you really were. I had that relationship, with the girl far too old for me, but I could talk a good game and I was as virile as I was naive. We stayed together until distance, too, showed us just how really far apart we were in temperament and life.

Lost for a moment in the glow of my own memories, I zoned back in to her moans that showed no signs of stopping, indeed they were forming words now (the usual things that get said in the heat of the moment, your oh gods and what-have-yous). My patience for their coda had run out, and I was getting sleepy again and missing the warmth of my own bed and reckless youth. I stood up, put my shoes on, and began the audial fanfare that would signal my presence. The sounds from the bedroom stopped, and as I went down the stairs I heard her ask, in sotto voce, "did you hear something?"

"I did," I thought to myself as I drove home. I had heard the notes of a playful romance harmonizing with the sighs of my own wistfulness as I reminisced on who I'd been before.

18 comments:

Hh said...

Just a little something from a couple weeks ago for your Friday.

Nutmeg said...

well scribed sir.

Patrick said...

...and gradually, over the coming months, there were fewer and fewer stories about frisbee. There was a little blurb about the 2009 college season, a little hype about Madison Club, but even those were dotted with sensual, catchy little phrases that didn't quite belong in an ultimate narrative. "Annen still looks long and strong, and Foster, hard and firm like an African gazelle in every way except for his hands, which trap and snatch the disc away from defenders with supple but powerful fingers." But mostly, there were more stories about friends, acquantainces, or even strangers making it happen in his midst. His readership initially fell off slightly, but bloomed magnificently once the sexual narratives community got wind of his sexuo-literary prowess, and began to flock to his blog as only droves of sex-starved lit. critics can. His production rose, and with the distaste for his new habit on the part of his friends. Hector started spending hours, even days, hiding himself in nooks, closets, behind doors, whatever it took to snag just a taste of that voyeuristic thrill he got from articulating the explicit scenes of others.

The blog started to generate so much traffic that couples in Madison would check underneath their beds before copulation. Some, particularly those who already knew the cataloguer of sexual experiences, learned that by wafting the smell of marijuana around their domicile they might successfully draw out the lurking Hector, pass him a joint, and send him elsewhere. Others, the acceding masses who secretly thrill at the idea of being heard, of being documented, tried themselves to lure the writer by the place of their copulation and often expended themselves far more than ever before in the attempt. But he took no thrill in these easy finds, and continued to stalk the more elusive, the shier of his prey.

Before long, a publishing company picked up on Wisconsin's prodigal storyteller of nuanced, sex-filled romps in the capital. But there was no joy in producing such things for money, and it wasn't long before Hector ditched his contract and returned home with pen(is) in hand to turn the job back into a hobby. Years later, when he finally published a book, it sold worldwide and, as an old man, he would say that it was all thanks to Riley... and his sexually foolish young roommates.

-PB

Hh said...

Slow day at work, PayBay?
Glad it inspired you a little, keep it coming.

Patrick said...

No, YOU keep it coming (*rimshot*).

Slow as hell.

PB

Aaron said...

I would think many of your PoI readers have been in a similar situations. In part that's why this was a great read. That and your skill in weaving from present to past to present with a little sex thrown in for good measure.

It doesn't have to be about frisbee. It just needs to move from conscious to internet.

the chris a. said...

Excuse me,
But you are fucking me up by establishing a relationship betweeen dive bars and Man Show Miscreants. Please, tell these fools to slum somewhere else.

Anonymous said...

we need a good post on usa tryouts so that people don't read match's.

Anonymous said...

i love this blog, and always look forward to reading it! Thanks for bring'ing you and your talents to the world, no fear in sharing your brain, so refreshing Hh, the world needs more openess like this.

Anonymous said...

出会い愛知出会い秋田出会い青森出会い千葉出会い愛媛出会い福井出会い福岡出会い福島出会い岐阜出会い群馬出会い広島出会い北海道出会い兵庫出会い茨城出会い石川出会い岩手出会い香川出会い鹿児島出会い神奈川出会い高知

Anonymous said...

出会い熊本出会い京都出会い三重出会い宮城出会い宮崎出会い長野出会い長崎出会い奈良出会い新潟出会い大分出会い岡山出会い沖縄出会い大阪出会い佐賀出会い埼玉出会い滋賀出会い島根出会い静岡出会い栃木出会い徳島

Anonymous said...

福井出会いカフェ愛知出会いカフェ岐阜出会いカフェ静岡出会いカフェ三重出会いカフェ兵庫出会いカフェ大阪出会いカフェ和歌山出会いカフェ滋賀出会いカフェ京都出会いカフェ奈良出会いカフェ山口出会いカフェ鳥取出会いカフェ島根出会いカフェ岡山出会いカフェ広島出会いカフェ徳島出会いカフェ香川出会いカフェ愛媛出会いカフェ高知出会いカフェ

Anonymous said...

出会い東京出会い大阪出会い福岡出会い兵庫出会い神奈川出会い宮城出会い千葉出会い愛知出会い埼玉出会い青森出会い岩手出会い秋田出会い山形出会い山口出会い東京出会い鳥取出会い富山出会い和歌山出会い山形

Anonymous said...

出会い東京出会い大阪出会い福岡出会い兵庫出会い神奈川出会い宮城出会い千葉出会い愛知出会い埼玉出会い青森出会い岩手出会い秋田出会い山形出会い山口出会い東京出会い鳥取出会い富山出会い和歌山出会い山形

Anonymous said...

出会い奈良出会い滋賀出会い三重出会い和歌山出会い愛知出会い静岡出会い岐阜出会い広島出会い岡山出会い山口出会い島根出会い鳥取出会い富山出会い石川出会い福井出会い徳島出会い香川出会い愛媛出会い高知出会い福岡

Anonymous said...

セフレ奈良セフレ滋賀セフレ三重セフレ和歌山セフレ愛知セフレ静岡セフレ岐阜セフレ広島セフレ岡山セフレ山口セフレ島根セフレ鳥取セフレ富山セフレ石川セフレ福井セフレ徳島セフレ香川セフレ愛媛セフレ高知セフレ福岡

Anonymous said...

福井テレクラ愛知テレクラ岐阜テレクラ静岡テレクラ三重テレクラ兵庫テレクラ大阪テレクラ和歌山テレクラ滋賀テレクラ京都テレクラ奈良テレクラ山口テレクラ鳥取テレクラ島根テレクラ岡山テレクラ広島テレクラ徳島テレクラ香川テレクラ愛媛テレクラ高知テレクラ

Anonymous said...

福井セフレ愛知セフレ岐阜セフレ静岡セフレ三重セフレ兵庫セフレ大阪セフレ和歌山セフレ滋賀セフレ京都セフレ奈良セフレ山口セフレ鳥取セフレ島根セフレ岡山セフレ広島セフレ徳島セフレ香川セフレ愛媛セフレ高知セフレ