Getting Sober 19
Drunk Sex
Last night Gina took off all her clothes and jumped my bones after like, 16 shots of Jameson. I’d only had 12 or so, so this was super unethical. My defense: use of the term ‘jumped’ was not uncalculated. She leapt upon me like an animal. Although jarring, I can’t say it wasn’t all that I ever dreamed of. Past statements not withstanding, the most arousing thing in the world to me is the unexpected.
I don’t know. Not much happened. I got drunk. Had sex.
I’m a Level 2 Slut now. Detachment and nonchalance are second-nature. This trait can be found in late stage Level 1 Sluts, but is an essential qualifier for a Level 2. Mastering the art of suppression, that is. Level 2 Sluts are at least aware of the fact that what they are doing is unhealthy according to Dr. Effective.1
Gina tugged on my pant leg. I was standing above her on the bed buttoning my shirt.
“Kiss me goodbye.”
I didn’t want to, but I went to my knees. Her breath was rank. Her lips were slightly chapped like when, if you get really close, you can see very small strips of dead skin sort of just dangling around, waiting for their time. Cracks in the hardened face blubber. A potent waft of whatever ecosystem evolved in her mouth over-night.
“Thanks, baby.”
I pretended to like it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Started poking around the bedroom looking for my wallet or a leftover shooter.
“What’s tonight?”
“What is tonight?” I asked more sincerely, scratching my head.
“Well, I just thought maybe I’d—”
“Oh yeah. No. Sorry. I’m hanging out with a friend.” It came out wrong. I got dangerously close to slapping myself in the forehead. I didn’t have plans to fuck anyone necessarily.
“Who?” and her face got meaner. I’d done this too many times with whoever. I tend to have a low tolerance for predictable dialogue. It always ends in some kind of “Maybe I should just go…” or a “No. That’s fine. I don’t care. What do you mean? No, I don’t! Seriously! We’re both adults, it’s fine! No. Seriously, it’s fine.”
“Is she pretty?”
I sighed. “What now?” I thought. “She’s going in on me. Alert. She’s never talked to me like this before. Do I need to disclose everything to her now? Is that what people in relationships do? Are we in a relationship? Her legs are shiny. I want to lick her thighs. Her feet? She needs to put pants on before I start eating her out.”
Panicked, I did the best with what response time I had. “She’s a lesbian.”
“So are you!”
“Huh?” I grabbed a half empty can of beer from the night before.
“You’re a lesbian, Jim!”
I drank the beer.
“Well, no. No. First of all, I’m definitely part man—”
“Lesbian.”
“Okay, granted. But I also like m—”
“Lesbian.”
She was right.
“Okay, but also look at me! I look like Bob Dylan—” I looked down at her expression. “Oh.”
“What’s her name?”
“Gina, I—”
“What’s her name?”
“Lyra.”
She scoffed. This reminded me of why I initially swore off love. The roles could just as easily be reversed. People being possessive and mean just because their bodies believe in the concept of owning another person.
“Jim, please don’t fuck her.”
“I don’t— I mean, I won’t.” Oops.
Gina screams into one of my pillows. I hold back a laugh, but it’s painful to watch. When her face returns, it is reborn. Partially veiled by sparse brunette strands. Incurved eyebrows, lips pursed just barely enough to accentuate her already sharp-ish cheekbones. Eyelids now indicating an authentic awakeness. Fingers gripping the comforter. Holding her breath. For a moment I wondered if she was planning to hurt me. She exhaled. Her shoulders relaxed so as to descend some quarter of an inch.
“I don’t care if you guys used to fuck, but did you?”
“I don’t know.”
“The fuck you mean you don’t know?”
“We made out and like, touched each other once.”
She didn’t say anything; she just looked away.
“Gina, I want to date you. Do you know how long it’s been since I felt anything like this for someone?”
She looked back at me. Still angry.
“Gina, to be honest, I don’t want to fuck anyone else, because I want to date you.”
“Are we not dating?” She stood up from the bed. “Are we not fucking dating, Jim?” She threw a shoe at my desk sending mostly-empty beer cans asunder.
“Oh shit.”
I was late for work. Gina posted something nasty on her story. White meme font against the pink background, to the score of Kesha’s Tik Tok:
“can’t have shit in kansas city why tf did i come back here”
My instinct was to slide up with a long string of unrelated emojis repeating themselves at varying rates, but I instead smoked a Marlboro Southern Cut outside the shop.
A Toyota Highlander parked hastily in the street. I strained to see the driver because I’m always curious about that kind of thing. You know, the age old who is in that car and the like. Immediately I made eye contact with the legend himself, Dr. Effective.
“Oh, holy fuck. He’s come to end my life,” I thought. Before he could step out of the car I threw the cigarette away and locked myself in the office. My coworker Justin gave me a dead stare.
“One of the ladies mad at you?”
“No. Yes. No. Yeah, but—”
“What the fuck are you saying?”
“It’s my therapist.”
Justin raised his eyebrows. “Therapist!”
“Yeah. I don’t know why he’s here.”
“Did you miss an appointment?”
I had to stroke my chin, wondering if technically I did miss a session. Maybe he was here to collect payment. I did cancel my debit card before paying for the first appointment. But I got the feeling that this move was not typical or really like, permittable behavior for professionals such a distinguished station. That’s why I locked the door behind me. Justin peeked through the window blinds. “He’s coming. You better run, Jim.”
I paced around. “Ugh. Fuck. I fucking hate this guy. Fuck.”
The doctor knocked. I slipped into the bathroom. Justin opened the door. “What can I help you with, buddy?”
“Hey, is Jim around?”
“Who’s Jim?”
“Sorry, Jim is my patient. I’m his counselor.”
“And?”
“I need to speak with him. Kinda soon, ideally.”
“Why?”
“Well, he’s my patient.”
“Yeah, I fucking heard you the first time, dude. But why do you have to speak to him?”
“I’m sure you know he’s a drinker. I’m afraid for his safety.”
“Look man, this is a place of business. You should probably just call next time.” Justin couldn’t close the door because Dr. Effective’s foot was stuck in it. Dr. Effective started trying to push the door back open. Justin resisted, then suddenly let it go wide open. The doctor sort of tripped over his own shoe and fell forward. Justin slammed the door onto the doctor, which sent him flying back onto the outside pavement on his ass, as indicated by the delayed thump that I not only heard from the bathroom, but also felt in the floor. I poked my head out of the bathroom.
Justin locked the door and kind of just looked at me blankly. “I hope you weren’t trying to talk to him, because now he’s pissed off.” Justin smiles deviously. His teeth are an almost dark yellow, many of them chipped.
I laughed. “Dude, fuck that guy. He says I have an alcohol problem.”
“You do have an alcohol problem, Jim.”
“Yeah.”
Thunderous wailings on the door made me jump a little and yelp like a very small dog. Dr. Effective yelled. “I have a black eye now, motherfucker! I could fucking sue you! I could fucking sue you and this whole company, motherfucker! Now let me talk to Jim and I’ll make this all go away.”
“You go away!” Justin yelled back.
“This is an urgent matter! Jim’s life is in danger!”
“Jim’s not here, man.”
“Jim’s car is here, sir. Plus I heard him giggling in there with you! Are you both drinking? You’re both drinking on the job aren’t you? Let me in or I’ll inform your superior.”
Justin turned to me, his face twisting into a grotesque hysterical dead-silent laugh. He then sort of tried to lock-in. “Hey man, actually I have a solution.”
The doctor was not interested in this conversational trajectory. “What?”
“How about this? I’ll let you talk to Jim if you suck my cock. But like not just some quicky. I’m talking bubbles on that shit, bro! If you ain’t choking you ain’t smoking if you know what I mean!” Justin cackled.
There was only quiet for some moments until a muffled, “I’m going to call the police.”
I laughed. Justin did not. “Yeah… well—” he looked back at me and shrugged his shoulders. “Jim seems fine to me, so I’d say you best be scooting before I get my motherfucking piece.”
Rapid footsteps faded out of earshot.2
Page 4, chapter 3 in Dr. Effective’s The Handbook to Pure Lifestyle:
“The problem with casual sex isn’t that it damages your dopamine receptors. The issue lies in the simple fact that you are powerless in a situation that you yourself created. It is without fail, always a hopeless situation. So maybe there’s nothing wrong with sleeping around, but once someone has reached Level 2, they’ve become what less learned men may call ‘damaged goods.’ Of course, I would never deploy this rhetoric, but the principle applies here on an emotional level. Man or women, once you have surrendered to the cycle of promiscuous living, it is only a matter of time before you realize that love is infinitely harder to feel. Even harder to express. Aside from the way this behavior alters your brain, this is a spiritual problem. Once you have come to see love as a threat, but refuse to give up intimacy, you have been promoted to the position of Level 2 Slut. This basic principal at play is nothing new, but I want to establish my views clearly to the reader. I’m not some Bible-thumping prude (although I have met some of those in my field,) but I’m certainly no hippie as it relates to matters of intimacy. Like with any drug or addictive item, sex will very quickly become your master, your why. This is a game where everyone loses. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.”
Earshot:
A vodka shot ingest through the ear.
A tight, difficult maneuver in which an AMAB person ejaculates in midair at just the right angle and timing, so that when they hit the floor, the semen falls directly into their ear. This ability takes years to master, and many allege it to be utterly worth one’s while in the grand scheme of things.