Another party. They’re all the same, to me. Sure, some people vary apart from the inevitable regulars who inhabit my surrounding social circles. And the music. That of course depends on whose party it is, and the type of crowd in attendance – until everyone gets drunk and starts obnoxiously commandeering the speakers without even waiting for the previous person’s song to end. Otherwise: constants. Banal constants. Especially the almost total disregard for yours truly. If it wasn’t for Facebook, and its figuratively endless literal list of colleagues past and present, borderline strangers, and neglected relationships, I’d likely not be here. They’re laughing and talking about I don’t know what, and I might care if it didn’t seem to appear to them that I was but a beer by a wall occasionally being lifted up as if by a ghost or air current and poured, vanishing liquid, into thin air. Such a moment strikes, so I lift the last of my current drink and focus closely on the frothy amber liquid gurgling toward my lips. In the distance, a pretty blonde talking excitedly to a swaying drunk brunette. Just as my focus deepens she makes eye contact with mine as her friend turns to grab her drink. Then just as quickly turns back as her friend does to her. I know that it wasn’t an accident. I know I should go over to her. That I’m at least superficially attracted to her and if I would just say ‘hello’, who knows what might happen. But I don’t, confidence lacking. Another constant. Instead I put my drink on the nearest flat surface, manage at least to say goodbye to who I’m not even sure is one of the hosts, and leave. A rerun of a TV show I never enjoy but feel obligated to watch.
I like big cock porn the best. A friend of mine once said he didn’t like dick in his porn, like it was a homosexual line he couldn’t cross. But to me the point always lay in the nature of fantasy: that you could imagine it was your own penis mostly thrusting hard and deep or, less often, tenderly and measured into a shrieking, moaning or wide-eyed, impossibly beautiful woman. There’s nothing romantic in it. Similar to shaving, it’s merely a regular and somewhat necessary, yet pleasurable, bodily function quite quickly taken care of then, on with life. But now, to bed. I dream of high school. Of the time a tall, freckled frizzy-haired brunette talked to me for the first and last time by the school gate. Lazily twirling her fingers through to the ends of her hair, which would then bounce back toward her head – I understand now but didn’t then have a clue what she was thinking. Perhaps she didn’t either. It was hormones. At once innocent but pleasingly dangerous stirrings of what was at the time maybe ambiguous but now recognised in three throbbing fluorescent letters: S. E. X. So I took her to the toilets. (Not then, but in the dream.) In the fast forward way of dreams we were suddenly in a cubicle, and then our clothes were gone, we were all over each other, and then I wake up. Rude awakenings. Another mainstay of dreams. My alarm is sounding. It’s time for work. After the erection makes its slow departure I put on some around the house shorts and begin the morning routine.
When I get to work – the delicatessen at my local supermarket – I find I’m working with Courtney today. And my younger, taller, arguably better looking and more muscular brother, Tom.
The smiles and suggestive conversations and not-so-casual brushes, between Courtney and Tom, of course, make me cringe but the shift surely ends and I walk to my car.
‘Keen to head out tonight?’ Tom says, from the passenger seat.
‘Sure, why not?’ I rhetorically feign interest without averting my attention from the road.
‘Courtney’s coming,’ he adds.
‘Courtney?’ I can’t help turning to inspect him.
‘Yeah,’ he grins toward the windscreen at my not so subtle interest. ‘And Sarah,’ by whom he means her fuller-figured, plainer-featured friend.
‘Oh, ok,’ and I return my interest to the sallow suburbia slinking past.
Smiles and suggestions and brushes, instead among others at another party, again between Courtney and Tom. I stand holding another beer, as disinterested as ever, instead beside Sarah. And feel undeniably as if I’ve drawn the short straw. We must be at that point, between six drinks and 16, when consciousness blurs, when suddenly Courtney is in front of me or Sarah or both of us, saying something about ‘skinny dipping’. And Tom is beside her, grinning. Then we’re at the lake on a cloudless new-moon of late-summer. Tom and my clothes disappear and the girls’ all but their panties. The water is warm and Courtney is in Tom’s arms and Sarah must still be on the bank but then Tom’s gone and I’m holding Courtney then the water around us is frothing green with a strange fluorescent light reflected from the moon onto algae in the water. And she’s moaning: ‘Biggest cock. The biggest cock!’ All flashes green and black and pleasure, and voyeuristic silver crescent moon.
Then it’s cold and a little muddy, then dry and warm. I’m back at the party. Tom and Courtney are gone. Sarah’s talking about I don’t know what and couldn’t care less to a large bloke with flashing eyes and frantic hand gestures. A rock song plays, cut short by some electronic music, cut short by some reggae. I recognise some faces in the crowd but they don’t acknowledge mine, as I finish my beer and leave it on a coffee table on my way out. Another party.