t’s Saturday night, and you can smell the desperation in the air. Two thoughts are going through the minds of the people at the party. One, I need to get toasted, and two, I need to get some action. The crowds of sweaty-fleshed twenty-somethings are pressed together in a melee of sounds and smells. When I had arrived at this party, a very drunk guy was waiting at the door shoveling out cash to buy the “ladies” a cup.
After I had on the feminine mystique earlier tonight, I had added a little bit of glitter on my eyelids. A slow sparkly wink was all it took to find myself the proud possessor of a bright red plastic cup. The party is in full swing by the time I arrive.
All over the furniture lay happily buzzed men and women, looking like sleepy little kids who had played dress-up and then gotten tired and fallen asleep still in costume. The harsh electric glow of 120-watt light bulbs has been oh-so-safely dimmed with nylon red clothes to set the mood. I can feel the tingles already.
I glance slowly around the room, looking for fresh meat. I’m not getting any younger, I thought. Might as well go for some solid beef tonight. And there he is, six-foot-four of prime muscle and big brown eyes. He is standing alone in a corner holding his stomach. Not exactly a hunk, but built like an ox. Oh yes, there is going to be some big happenings in the hot town tonight.
Many people wax poetical about having sex but I say, what’s the point? Being in love doesn’t make it happen faster or make you recover quicker. All love does is add a hazy glow on an animal-to-animal mating situation. Beer also does that — just faster.
I lick my lips and approach the guy whom I have aptly dubbed Big Boy Blue. His shirt is blue silk, and I can see that with brown corduroys, he must have been dressing in the dark. He looks lost as I saunter over to him and offer my cup. The boy thanks me and takes a gulp of my contraband Long Island ice tea. This works better than a roofy in my experience and tastes better too. Slowly his eyes begin to glaze over but I stop him from asking for another. Guys do not seem to perform as well drunk.
Looking around I can see that other ladies have moved in on their prey for the night. I bare my teeth at one who looks too close at my conquest. When he is positively purring under my supposed adoration and sly caresses, I take him back to my apartment.
We enter my place, and the boy looks around as if to ask how he got here. Slowly I turn around and tell him I want to slip into something much less comfortable but bound to make his head hurt.
Like the good little semi-drunk boy he is, he sits on my red leather couch with the stitched hearts on the side and waits. After stopping in the bathroom to check my condom supply, I come back in something positively sheer, and his mouth drops. I tackle him and we get it on like lemmings. Oh yeah.
For a few hours we participate in our own version of the bedroom Olympics and finally fall into an exhausted sleep around eight in the morning. When I awake at ten, there he is, Mr. Sparky himself all ready to tell me just how well his John Thomas is doing this morning.
Hurrying out of the bed, I say I have an appointment in like ten minutes and he has to leave, but here is a dollar and please have a bagel on me at Brueggers. Despite the crushed look on his face, I feel no guilt. After all, he was interested in me, too. I didn’t get him drunk, no one forced the drinks down his throat and he too participated with glee in our bedroom antics. Big Boy Blue leaves minus his shirt, which was shredded by the ceiling fan in one of our “events.” I take a shower and then watch Maury.
When I go to change the sheets, I see a green sock. But Big Boy Blue was wearing black socks, so I throw it into my lost-and-found bin. A watch from Friday’s guy, and a pair of gloves from Tuesday’s guy are still there. I have a veritable collection sitting in my closet.
The phone rings, and I let the machine pick it up. It’s him — Big Boy Blue wanting to know if we could go out sometime. I don’t pick up; I never do. Soon they learn and stop calling. Of course, soon they will also learn there are nice girls out there. Girls who want to date and get coffee. But just as I learned that only nice guys are suckers, soon they will learn nice girls expect commitment and love.
I never call back and instead, open a drawer. What shall I wear tonight? For this mating dance will go on. I will go on to the next and the next and the next. After all what is love really but sex disguised with fake emotion.
Dana Ruggiero’s column usually appears alternate Tuesdays. She welcomes comments at [email protected] letters to the editor to [email protected]
