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PUTTING THE LIPS IN APOCALYPSE  by Hugo de Mare
So I had sex with a remarkably attractive Mexican cocktail waitress the other day. It was sex, too–not making love, not fooling around, just fucking.
I could tell because she kept using that word over and over again. ‘I want to fuck you.’ Subtle.
Who says that to somebody? Who says that to me?
And ‘baby.’ She kept calling me ‘baby.’ How ridiculous. ‘Baby.’
I’m nobody’s baby. I tell ya, it was the strangest thing. I’m at a
bar, hot girl looks at me, friends get angry with me for not doing
anything about it, I walk up, offer to buy a drink, suddenly we’re
fucking. And apparently I’m her baby. That’s how I’ve always
imagined it worked for lots of folks, ‘normal people,’ the ‘them’ that
forever haunt and taunt those of us who wouldn’t feel we belonged at
our own wedding. But it sure isn’t how it’s supposed to go for me. And
here’s the kicker–it’s the second time it’s happened this month! I
go for a drink in a hipster bar in Park Slope, really just a glass of
whiskey to make the hangover go away, and sex happens. I spot a girl I
decide to have a crush on to give the night a little zing, erase the
last bit of lonely the liquor can’t drown, and bam! She walks up to me
and soon enough there’s boobs everywhere. To be fair, I picked a
realistically attainable girl with ugly friends, not some Brooklyn
wonder hoe, but still. She even calls me. Weird.You would
think all this doing it would give me some confidence, some swollen
sense of masculinity. But it doesn’t. I’m not proud, and I’m
certainly not satisfied as a result of my dangerous liaisons. They’ve
threatened my very world view, for one thing. This whole hapless loser
shtick has long been the cornerstone of my empire of pointlessness; it
could all come crashing down around me. One more hook-up and I’ll have
to get a whole new routine. But more than that, gettin’ lucky
has filled me with dread, the sense that something really bad is about
to happen, like the earth has gone slightly off its axis and we’re all
spinning towards our doom, or some apocalyptic biblical prophecy has
been set in motion by my lip locking–and woman shall find
dysfunctional, self-loathing writers attractive, and molluscs shall
rise and overtake the land. This won’t go well for any of us. And
don’t think I go out to bars all the time trying to meet women, and now
that I finally have I just don’t know how to handle it. I made little
to no effort in both encounters. Surely that’s the key. Maybe apathy
is the new chivalry. Or maybe I’m just suddenly in season. Which
would explain the sitting duck feeling I get when I go out in public.
Baby. |
