Another Party

Mel dragged me to a fundraising party for her coworker Pablo over at some rich guy’s house in the Franklin Hills. Pablo’s running in some marathon somewhere and was raising money for AIDS research or something.

The party was filled with a bunch of her teacher coworkers. Great, they’d be talking shop, talking about the kids, bitching about the bureaucracies of the job, yadda yadda yadda. I just wanted to get fucked up and see if there was anyone remotely worth trying to hook up with.

Thankfully I came prepared. Tuesday night I drove out to Encino to meet with Dealer and get a gram of coke. Driving out there through the 101 winding first through the Hollywood Hills and then through the blinking lights of the dread throughout the Valley, past the 405 noting my aversion of that freeway as I drive by. It’s just too much to handle at times. Of course I’m stuck in traffic, and I seriously think about just gunning it and hitting the silver Honda Accord driving in front of me.

It’s a great fantasy, really. I grab onto the wheel in a death grip, a maniacal look on my face as my right leg is fully extended jerking the car forward. And that delicious moment of impact a glorious second of catharsis as the front of my car crumples and my body bouncing violently coming to rest in a bloody heap with just a smile on my face.

But I’m goal-oriented, so I just sit there like the guy in the Beamer next to me in annoyed patience to get to my destination.

The actual exchange of cash and goods with Dealer is nothing remarkable. I knock on his door, announce my presence, hand him money and receive the baggie. It’s nothing exotic like you see in the movies. The only thing is the looming dirtiness of the whole transaction — it makes my iniquity tangible. But all of that guilt is erase as I test the goods with a bump taken out of one of my unused keys.

The drive back home is smooth. Amazingly I don’t have any dread of being pulled over. I just get home, take out the baggie and look in my medicine cabinet to get the ingredients for my cocktail. Vicodin will work. I think about Percocet, Viagra, Hydrochlorothiazide, Valium. I settle for Vicodin and Percocet — somehow they make such a good combo. I go into the kitchen and put two pills each on my cutting board and crush them. Add contents of the baggie, make sure there’s a good consistency and put everything back into the baggie. Take a bump, take off my clothes, go to bed and jerk off.

**

Almost on cue as I’m scanning the humanity at the shindig, up walks Pablo already halfway wasted towards oblivion giving Mel a sloppy peck on the cheek. The marathon training apparently has treated him well, standing just a shade under the 6-foot mark but probably taller had he not had the devil’s brew coursing through his body. She introduces me to Pablo, he takes a moment for his saucer-like brown eyes to focus on me, smiles a toothy bleached grin and gives me a hug. “Thanks man,” he slurred. “This is going towards something good.”

“Um sure man,” I respond. I’m a little taken back by the human contact. I hate it. I don’t like casual hugs. The only time I like being touched is when I’m being fucked. “So where’s the booze?”

He decided to escort me personally to the locale of every kind of middle shelf distilled beverage option one can imagine: Stoli, Bombay Sapphire, Makers Mark, etc. He has his arm around my back when he spots his much shorter boyfriend Mike. Apparently Mike is the designated driver, stone cold sober and is shooting daggers my way. I put on a smile, after all I can be charming or so I’m told, shake his hand and start making small talk. Of course none of that allays Mike’s annoyance with me, so I work my way through the crowd armed with my Sapphire and tonic.

I find this group that I settle in talking about my abhorrence of children, a popular topic when you’re conversing with teachers. Nothing truly eventful is discussed, and as time ticks on I’m finding the Sapphire and tonic just isn’t cutting it. I excuse myself to the bathroom.

Like a hippo with a tutu, Pablo came stumbling along to my side grabbing my waist. His hands start traveling down my pants as he whispers in my ear, “I want to fist your ass.” And right on cue his fingers find my asshole making me gasp and feeling reassured at the same time knowing that I cleaned myself out for moments like this.

Walking away from the group I ask him, “Your boyfriend? He seems a little overprotective.”

“Oh he’s such a prude. He never lets me fist him. Just plain old boring sex.”

The romance sparking between us would have had be swooning if for not my urgent need to go to the bathroom.

“Well, I’ve never even thought about being fisted,” I lied.

“You have such a perfect ass. I would eat that shit out, get it nice and loose and wear you like a glove,” he cooed as he started making out with my jugular.

Ah romance.

As Pablo’s tongue went up and down and side to side on the side of my neck, there I saw Mike across the way daggers in his eyes. Fuck. I really needed to go to the bathroom.

“Well when you break up with Mike, you know how to contact me,” I said as I disengaged, made a bee-line towards the bathroom and sniffed until my head convulsively shook letting me know that I had enough.

This dance between Pablo and I, more like a ballet with drunken hippos, went on throughout the night. Strippers came and went. People came and went. Drinks came and went. Bathroom trips came and went. At the end of the night Mel and I ended up at a diner trying to sober up.

“Mike hated you,” Mel informed me.

“Of course he did,” I replied. “His boyfriend wanted to fist my ass the whole night. Hell he was fingering my ass the whole time.”

“You’re such a slut and a homewrecker.”

“Fuck you. I didn’t respond. I actually followed my conscience and tried to get away. But what am I going to do with a guy’s finger in my ass?”

“Slut. Why were you in the bathroom all night?”

“Don’t worry. I ran out.”

I realize it’s a lose-lose situation for me. I’m misunderstood, and I have blue balls.