I’m beginning to think that I’m at my saddest when I’m at my happiest.
A group of us – none of whom has the slightest inclination of each other’s souls – are sitting around the L-shape of a cream colored couch, our eyes fixated on the blonde slinking around in her eggshell blue underwear to a medicore imitation of Iggy Pop’s ’80’s work. The glass Ikea table, thoughtfully pushed aside for the spontaneous show, is covered with empties, coke frost and weed debris.
I’ve traded the purple arms and rotting wood of the desolate heroin class for the hipper, whiter and more affluent beer-grass-pharm-blow crowd. They dress nicer, their lives are sunnier on paper, and the self-esteem deprived women are cuter. But when you cut through the marrow, it’s all the same. It’s quite the tired conclusion, but it’s so freakishly true it scares the shit out of me. Gordon Gekko, the owner of a suburban Chevy dealership, the factory worker, the college student, the smack dealer, the crackhead – no difference. Just fucking chase it.
I stare at the girl like she wants me to stare at her — stone cold, like a hunter eyeing prey or someone who’s snapped and is about to off his co-workers — essentially someone who knows they’re going to dominate. But the truth is, I feel sorry for this girl. That’s something that’s supposed to happen when you get old and wise…sadly, it’s been happening to me since I was banging strange, shiny and new sorority girls at twenty.
She seductively draws down the jeans of the home’s owner, a mid-level cocaine dealer with blue eyes, a gym-built frame and a meticulously shaped beard. As she works his half-chub to health, the men trade stares to communicate a contradicting combination of ‘yeah, this is just another day’ and ‘can you believe this shit?’. His dick is slightly bigger than mine.
Seeing the non-existent reward of her friend’s behavior, the brunette with Kool-Aid red streaks and attractive cleavage picks up the dancing where her friend had left off before stopping to suck off a cat in a room full of his drug buddies. She slinks over us one by one, in an amateur fashion, and when she gets to me she breathes against my neck, her breath like a dragon’s fire.
I find this cheap and pathetic. The only time I find this attractive is when I know what makes her tick. I need to know who she is, what she really fears, and what set of circumstances cause her to just lose her mind and engage in hopefully-jaw-dropping hedonism. I need to figure out the reserved girl before I get to the whore. Otherwise, it’s just patronization.
The alpha and the blonde slip off upstairs, as if it’s no big deal, and a few inches from my eyes, the brunette’s tits pop out of their beige shield, slightly less tan than the rest her body, with nipples slightly bigger than expected. While it happens, I daydream about conversations with women from my past.
And I’m not trying to sound wise or proper — the very reason I remember those conversations is because I wanted to see the exposed breasts behind those conversations. But fuck it if their disposition, thoughts, faults and aspirations didn’t matter.
I am a goddamn loser. Winners don’t think. They just do. Losers wind up dissecting it, breaking it down, doing the right thing.
I can rigidly turn away her display of sexuality, pretend to get a phone call I just can’t ignore, or make a rare declaration of separation from public thought outside of trendy rebellion…or I can plant one on the scared girl gyrating on my lap, pull her upstairs and get my dome waxed, all because she can’t have the one she loves and is willing to settle for the acquaintance of an alpha blow dealer who talks said acquaintance up as if he were some going places, genius of an artist.
Fuck it.
I engulf her pale and bigger than expected nipple, fairly certain that I’ve got the most appeal in the room now that the alpha is gone. It doesn’t taste like I thought it would. I try my hardest not to think of women I’ve loved. I try to forget the fact that I’m a fucking loser.
