I’d just wrapped up a busy day of aerial rope class, brunch with a friend (both of which are becoming part of a lovely weekly routine. Added benefit-friend is a goldmine of sexy material to impart with you later. We’ll even call her Goldie from now on for it) Then home for a quick bubble bath and a wank, back out for a theatre type meeting and delicious lychee-tini with a theatre type friend. I was done for the day, ready to go home, feed the cat, go to bed. Then I got a phone call from a friend. He lives in the Bronx, whilst I am in Brooklyn. He may as well be on Pluto. This night in was in my neighborhood, drinking wine, taking pictures of naked people, running around naked with said people. Come over, he insisted. You’ll have a blast, he proclaimed. When I got off the phone, my theatre type friend said “That’s how you know you’re an artist, when you have to ask if you HAVE to get naked before going to a party.” Bronx had assured me it was only if I wanted to.
I sploosh in the rain through nine or so extra blocks to get to the address Bronx had given me. He comes down to let me in scantily clad. I come up to find 4 young women in various states of nudity huddled around a computer you-tubeing 80’s music videos. There are magnum sized bottles of wine scatter about the room, some empty but many not. There are more bottles than people. I am given a large glass immediately by the only other man there, besides Bronx. He is wearing boxers and fairly drooling and the only thing I remember him saying that night is “It’s about time for that shirt to come off.” in reference to me. I am introduced to the girls, R, V, L, and E. L and I set our sights on each other immediately. She has a large tattoo on her chest, is wearing only girl boxers, smallish breasts and perfect thighs. Her hair is at least four different colors, all of them common to a fire or a sunset. Firehead kept my glass full and danced in a raverish way meant to be sexy but that only appealed to me in an awkwardly endearing way.
There was a photo-shooting area, a tripod aimed at a white wall with one studio light. We kissed against the wall Bronx took photos, both our exhibitionism inclinations rising, bubbling rapidly on our merging bodies. She took my shirt off. I’d been resisting, wanting to be the misfit in a pack of misfits. She choked me in the hallway, pressed so hard against the wall my feet almost rose off the ground. We paused to get more wine. She told me it would be so hot if she could shotgun pot smoke into my mouth. I thought one hit of second hand smoke wouldn’t do much.
Terrible mistake. My neck and ears went warm and tingly, a sure sign I am stoned. I whisper this to Bronx in an urgent way, but he laughs. He doesn’t understand the severity of this disaster. I can hold my liquor, I can stay up all night on coke, I can pop pills and wash ‘em back with whiskey, I’ve enjoyed acid, ecstacy, and mushrooms.
But one hit of marijuana, and I’m anxious, paranoid, panicked and guilt ridden. William Burroughs called it simply The Fear and he got it from pot too. The most famous junkie of literature and I are kindred spirits.
Firehead thinks it would be a good idea to take me into the bedroom to cuddle and calm me down. Instead we start a session of very hard heavy petting, rubbing through our panties while my head spins into another universe and I barely notice that I’ve come.
I stop to make a painfully heartfelt confession to her about her beauty, her youth, the power dynamic of what’s just happened. She says she needs to sit up, and leaning over from the foot of the bed, she vomits all over the mixed up pile of 7 naked people clothes in a make shift coat check.
The silver lining is that my fear instantly sstops as I kick into caretaker mode. Clean up the puke, get her to the bathroom, clean her up, get her some water.
Once she’s safely in bed witha friend to tend to her, though, I panic. I put on the clothes that don’t have vomit on them, or perhaps only very little. These are rainbow striped long johns, a peacoat and a newsie cap. No shirt, no bra, no pants. It’s only 11 pm in California so I call my ex-boyfriend and hiss/wail into the phone “I just got stoned and made out with a teenager!”
Side note-Born in 1990 folks, I’m not a pedophile. He even pointed out that she could have been 20.
He laughs as I begin to hyperventilate, but agrees to stay on the phone with me as I take my half dressed ass out into the wiles of Brooklyn at 2 am, find a towncar, and take it home. I thanked him endlessly for talking me through what seemed like hours, but I realized the next day of course was under 20 minutes.
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