I was somewhere between point A and point B, as I had been for most of the decade in question. For most of my life, when it came to it. Wait, that’s not the way to start it. Let me try again.

I’ve never been as fascinated by sex as most people seem to be, but there was a lost few days that I remember….

No, that’s not how I want to tell this story either.

One more time.

There was this girl in high school. She was attractive, splendidly put together, but clumsy somehow. Unpopular, invisible. And smart. Too smart, and too interested in making sure that people knew it. Me, I was smart too, but I spent as much time as possible trying to rebrand it, at least to those elements of the cabal that didn’t appreciate that kind of thing. I was as kind to her as I was to most people, because I was a nice guy, especially when I was sober, even as I was limping unsuccessfully after other, unobtainable young women, stealth erection tucked down my leg.

Most of a decade after high school, I had decanted myself back into the Old Home Town after a time drinking and sailing in Mexico, skinny tan squinty pickled and worldy-arrogant, and we met again, and drank together, and she was magnificent. Gorgeous, and grace had replaced teen clumsiness. Apparently, she’d been in teenage love with me. Oh.

We screwed like minks on the floor at the foot of her parents’ bed after the bar closed. Her parents were in a nearby town dealing with the aftermath of her grandmother’s death, which was why she was also back in town. It was one of those things that happen, and it was nice, and fleeting. And hotter than hell, I tell you now.

Months later, and I was making my way back down to the big city. I’d saved a couple of thousand dollars working mill and was ready to buy a ticket out again, to wherever. Wherever had treated me pretty damn well before. She’d left an open invite to come and stay with her, anytime, and I decided to take her up on it.

That’s where the whole ‘I’ve never been dick-led’ thing that I mentioned comes in. I didn’t love her, sex was a thing that I liked but didn’t crave: I didn’t know what the f–k, but I was 20-something, and I wanted to walk through whatever doors opened up in front of me, on principle if nothing else. And that illicit carpet sex had been… good.

So I rolled into her town on the Greyhound, called her, and she picked me up, and we went to the liquor store, and she bought half a dozen bottles of liquor, and we went to her house, and we f–ked a lot.

We drank — or, mostly, I drank, at the arborite-and-aluminum table in the kitchen of her small, neat apartment — and then we f–ked. Mornings, she went to work, and I stayed, and wrote, and smoked, and waited until the afternoon to drink again. I don’t remember eating during those 4 or 5 days but I suppose we must have.

It wasn’t love driving the lust, which was a new thing, at least for me. It was an echo of love for her, maybe, a salute to an unrequited one a decade old. It was good for both of us, I supposed and I liked to think, in completely different ways.

The night before I left — and this was the memory that started me telling this story, this story I couldn’t figure out how to start, and now, having started, have reservations about telling its denouement — it was Saturday night and Canada-cold, we were drunk as lords, and I was going down on her, and her muscles were a-twitch and her transported. I was proud as hell that I was making her come. I’d never known a women before who had her own apartment and all.

As the orgasm rolled over her, she let a massive fart out on my chin. It was a ripper. I took it with aplomb — I had at least a bottle of scotch in me — and looked up after it had finished, over the smooth terrain of her belly. Staring at the ceiling, as the muscles on the insides of her thighs quivered and quieted against my ears, she said “I didn’t get to see my grandma before she died.”

We drank some more that night after we got dressed. I left the next day, and we parted friends.

I don’t know what this story means, but the memory came to me tonight as I drank my beer, and I thought I’d tell it, because I miss writing shit down sometimes.

Booze Glorious Booze, Reminiscences, Uncrappy
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Join the conversation! 13 Comments

  1. I miss you writing shit down sometimes, too.

  2. Stavros writes shit down!
    Stavros writes more shit!
    *more dancing*

  3. a sweet story beautifully preserved here, stav. those are the best moments of blogging/storytelling, when both mood and inspiration cum at the same time.

  4. A little Hemmingway n the mix here?

  5. I also miss you writing shit down. I would write shit down if I could, but my brain’s too full of holes; I need people like you to do it for me.

  6. What a gas!

  7. Wow. What a touching, human story.

  8. little Hemmingway n the mix here?
    You pay me a great compliment Phil, but no, not consciously. I was trying to tell the story as plainly as possible, without my usual garlands and streamers. As usual, I wrote it in one unedited pass, but very unusually, I wrote it when I was half-cut. Maybe the booze brought out the Papa in me. That and the fucking chronic pain lately.
    Don’t worry, though. No shotgun-smoking in my future.

  9. Yeah, i miss you writing shit down too. Actually, I miss me reading the shit you write down, which I seem to do all too infrequently these days.
    Great story and, once again, one that makes me both wild with jealousy at the full life you’ve lived and pissed off with myself for not taking advantage of opportunities along the lines of this one (not that there were that many, but a few) before it got to be too late. As I look down the barrel of 45-fucking-years-old in two days time, I feel this way more and more.
    Never mind, onward and upward or some such shit.

  10. See what happens when you get old? It’s 45-fucking-years-old in four days time, damn it!

  11. Happy birthday, dg, mate.
    Life can’t be too bad, living in Queensland, damn you!

  12. Well, what matters is not where, but how you live and I fail that one pretty comprehensively.
    But that’s OK, it’s my bed, I made it and now I’m lying in it. It’s all good. There are definitely worse places to be miserable in than Queensland, I grant you that.

  13. It took me a moment to remember how I got here..oh now I remember…I googled regret and you were the 12th result.
    I was searching for antidotes for my “regret demons” which raised their heads tonight demanding attention and making sleep impossible.
    The first eleven search results offered little comfort or inspiration save for one Turkish proverb:

    “No matter how far you have gone on a wrong road, turn back.”

    However your story was a refreshing and beautiful stop in my journey.

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