This was one day he wanted to celebrate. Secretly, he did. Always. Every year. Usually with a small gesture of thought crowned with a smirk, unseen to most. Often, it would arrive unsuspected, a sudden realization, in line at The Coffee Bean or on the Durham Freeway at the 501 junction, a wholly private commemoration. This day, though joyous to him, occupied only the dark, limited space of his recent memory. But in public, in the real world? He would never dare to do such a thing. To incorporate it into their lives, as an actual, living, breathing day of celebration would be an impossibility. Shameless, perhaps? That’s what she might say. Shameless, or shameful? Those are the same things, aren’t they? How are they the same things? How can something be so full of one thing and yet simultaneously embody less of the same? A quandary for sure, but for another day, not this one.
This day, he thought, should be free of calculating the nebulous morass of the modern English language. This day should be real. It should be drawn, perhaps kicking and screaming from the murky recesses of morality and privacy and other words ending in y and be exposed to the light of day. And yet again, he realized the insurmountable task it had inevitably become, as if the days and weeks since its passing had been arranged into an impenetrable barricade denying access to its very existence.
“It happened.” he would argue, unsuccessfully.
“I was drunk.” she would offer. “Very drunk.”
An excuse. Not an excuse. THE excuse. She always had THE excuse. As if her mortal whims and desires were predicated on nothing more than alcohol consumption, or lack thereof.
“Were you drunk when you touched Elaine Pomeroy’s stomach and asked when her special day was at the block party, when in fact, she had one of Troy Turner’s Megamargaritas in hand?”
Perhaps she was. It was a block party after all. Alcohol was consumed, although it was early in the evening. These questions, and all the questions he could possibly ask to nullify the excuse remained unanswered because they remained unasked.
He would often play them out in his head, as if he were an expert trial lawyer, and she were a difficult witness. No, not a witness. She was the plaintiff? No, the defendant. Defending herself. Yes. Defend yourself! He would effortlessly and sublimely make his case before a jury of their peers, not including one not pregnant but overweight Elaine Pomeroy.
But was Elaine Pomeroy actually one of their peers? The Pomeroys lived in a larger house at the end of the block. Significantly larger, not only in size but in grandeur. Twelve foot ceilings. A butler’s pantry. They also had a pool and a hot tub. They simply made more money and enjoyed more disposable income. Income Elaine Pomeroy did not evidently avail herself of a gym membership that may have helped to avoid the unfortunate incident in question. But peers? Perhaps, socially, if not economically.
“Always buy the cheapest house in a more expensive neighborhood!”
His father’s coarse voice suddenly and inexplicably crowded his already-congested thoughts.
And they did. They paid only $336,000 for a three bedroom, two and half bath home with 2,519 square feet of living space, sans butler’s pantry. The master bedroom featured a vaulted ceiling and an attached en suite, which is a fancy way of saying master bathroom that has now been made popular by virtually every HGTV production of the past decade. En suite. Is that real French, or a calculated misappropriation of French to make non-French middle and upper income English-speaking American (and Canadian, thanks to HGTV) home buyers feel richer and more —to use another French term—debonair than they really were? En suite. Was that with an ‘e’ or an ‘o’? He often recycled these thoughts during every shared viewing of House Hunters, House Hunters International, Income Property or whatever new scripted/unscripted house-buying show featuring either a pair of handsome, successful twins or an adversarial couple, one precise and logical, the other fanciful and naive that deep down probably both harbored a deep desire to fuck one another before killing one another. Not the twins, though. He wondered, too, if she had those same thoughts. Probably not. She probably knew how to spell en suite.
But enough about en suites. In said master bedroom is where the event had taken place, slightly on the bed, slightly off. The details, at this time, are hazy and somewhat unnecessary, outside of validating the actual event itself and the excuse proffered by his better half for its occurrence.
Better half? He was okay with this, he guessed. Even though he thought of her as his equal in nearly every way, the colloquialism had its charm, and seemed to delight other couples with a wink at its lack of veracity and a nod to casual chivalry.
Of course, Elaine Pomeroy herself would be excused from jury duty, peer or not. Not because she was not pregnant, but because she clearly had a stake in the outcome of the imaginary trial of the half-drunk, half-sober slightly lower class block party tummy toucher.
She would most definitely be a witness. A un-difficult one.
“Please show the jury where the obnoxious woman touched you.”
Anyways. He thought the excuse lazy. And unnecessary.
“It was an act of love.”
No, that would never play. Anything referred to in contemporary nomenclature as ‘butt sex’ was never an act of love. At least not in heterosexual circles.
It was spur of the moment. It was furious, in a sloppy, Caucasian way. It was not, however, unbridled, which is a uniquely terrible word. A word, that if he could, he would banish from any and all future utterances. Along with moist and panty. And perhaps lover, if he were granted the latitude to make such sweeping changes to the modern vernacular.
It was an act of sex, plain and simple. The unvarnished truth, lacking any gauzy veneer of romance … bereft of any hint of tenderness.
“So what if you were drunk? That doesn’t mean it’s not something that we can’t both, both look back on with a shred of fondness.”
This would, he imagined, be followed by a silent hand, as if she had suddenly felt the need to fend off phantom paparazzi. Or rather, by a hasty exit to fold sudden piles of urgently-needing-folding laundry. As if a pair of freshly-cleaned yoga pants were desperately vital to her survival. She wore, of course, some off-brand version of yoga pants, most likely from Target. He paid attention to her shopping habits, but not that much. He also imagined she pined for the par-excellence in yoga pants from Lululemon — which at one hundred eighteen dollars a pair at last verification, fell outside any justification or rationalization she could reasonably offer within the context of their budget. Especially for pants that she would either a) use for exercise and then sweat in, or b) feel comfortable enough to simply lay about the house on lazy weekend days. He thought Elaine Pomeroy could definitely afford Lululemon yoga pants, but it was doubtful they would ever look as good on Elaine Pomeroy as they did on her — despite yoga pants’ mystical and uncanny ability to mold the shape of the lower female body into an omni sensual presence that rendered genetics, workout routines, and dietary habits moot.
“Hannah. Where are you going?” he would probably call after her, as if she could somehow outrun her past, and then hide from it in the laundry room.
“I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it.”
She probably never thought about it. She was a woman, after all. They never thought about it, really. Not even the traditional position, let alone any extracurricular positions not specifically engineered for the continuance of the species. Sure, some women did, but they weren’t women who lived at 3999 Windswept Court. They weren’t women who were over halfway to a Masters in Business Administration from Duke University, even while holding down a semi-full time job in financial consulting. They weren’t women who were busy making plans about futures ensconced in suburban and professional bliss.
They had talked about the continuation of the species. Their species. It came up from time to time, usually during periodic binges of streaming television, wherein they would effectively lock the world out, and lock themselves in, saturated in the dim blue light of an fifty-six inch flat screen television, an Apple TV, and nine, no eight, well, make that seven more episodes of House of Cards. She was holding off, of course, for the right time. After the MBA. After the new job that came with the MBA. After the eventual elevation of position that came with the new job that came with the MBA.
“It was fun.”
That would, like most other lines of reasoning, if you could call them that, go nowhere. Was it fun? He dared to recall whether or not it could aptly be described by such a short, simple word. The entire evening that led to the event was, in its own way, fun. A somewhat chaotic mix of too much pasta, too much wine, Cards Against Humanity, a terrifying-yet-simultaneously exhilarating drive home, and finally: a haphazard cacophony of hands and tongues and sweaty impulses. Maybe he never truly realized the physical nature of it. The funny thing, really, is that he never longed to do it again. It never occurred to him in the few and fleeting intimate moments that slithered between two overloaded schedules that it should be attempted again. Maybe that’s why he cherished it so. Once, was indeed, enough. Actual, reasonable, “normal-people” sex had since been twisted into an awkward chore. A duty to maintain a physical aspect of their relationship. To even think that possible again was immensely foolish and unreasonable.
In fact, the entire discussion and even avoidance of discussion about the event had become a sore subject.
Wait a minute.
Sore.
It hurt. It hurt her. Not emotionally, well, probably not emotionally (who can really tell given the immense hormonal exuberances of the average woman compared to the extremely limited arsenal of feelings found inside the male emotive armamentarium.) But rather, physically. It was an entirely new experience for both of them. Two neophytes, shuffling about in an amateurishly amorous dance, ignorant to the best practices of the cult of that particular act. Rookie maneuvering that would certainly be frowned upon by the more-acclimated cultures residing most likely in Van Nuys, California. Van Nuys was a simply a guesstimate, as he became more and more removed from the province of pornographic consumption. The proliferation of the homemade variety within arms reach at reasonably low cost-of-entry had rendered the actual location of these acts pointless, really.
What was there?
Of course! Why had it taken him so long to see what now was so clear.
“I’m sorry if it hurt.”
(to be continued…)
I First in Mo’s honor.
❤️
“They weren’t women who were over halfway to a Masters in Business Administration from Duke University”
That’s not my experience. Well, not specifically an MBA from Duke, but some pretty top schools.
UGA >> Vandy >>> Duke > Buffalo >> Michigan > Smith > Texas >> SMU
but that’s mixing MBA, JD, and PhD
Nice. Smith is too far over the hot/crazy for me.
I got off of the freeway in Massachusetts and instantly got lost. I wound up on the Smith campus. I rolled down the window and asked a young lady, “Which way is the freeway.”
She drew herself up and said, “I don’t drive!”
I related this to my uncle who quipped, “Which way would it be if you were walking?”
Your uncle would fit in with this crowd.
Smith College should be burnt to the ground and the earth salted.
In its own way, that’s perfect for a Weds, after SugarFree. So many abstruse angles, projecting, with a seemingly hollow core.
A tongue in cheek style here. I like it.
I want you lads (and whatnot) to give due consideration for MM’s sharing of this sensitive, tender piece, with you lot. And I’m liking how respectful you all is, and stuff.
Don’t make me wade in with the old truncheon, cause you won’t like it none too much, you shan’t.
Tonio’s got his wood stick out, look out folks!
Threat or promise?
🤔🤨
Waxing philosophical about sticking it in the pooper.
Must be Wednesday.
I’m waiting for it to take a dark turn.
About 3 inches in.
*golf clap*
Black comedy?
The payoff is that it’s really not fiction, is it?
Has a real Phillip Roth vibe doesn’t it?
Philip Roth? I’ll take it.
^this times eleventy.
Obligatory: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=-zHVW7Zy_vg&pp=ygUKV3JvbmcgaG9sZQ%3D%3D
Right Place
Relevant
I was expecting this
That was great.
“male emotive armamentarium”
Heh.
It’s escaped my mind who it was that recommended Ari Shaffir’s JEW YouTube special a while back, but whoever it was, let us exchange a smirk and knowing glance on this day.
Also, I must be the only dude who has ever lived that is grossed out by butt stuff.
You’re not alone.
No, he’s not.
Wait, what?
Right? We (OK… I) exist.
Never saw the appeal. I have a couple of buddies who enjoy it*, according to them.
*with women
Same – the regular is pretty nice.
May be OK for some but the old fashioned way is hard to change. Generational thing maybe?
Variety?😏
I’m still not bored with the more conventional approach.
Cost(prep time, cleanup) not worth value received.
This is legit. There’s a trope in the fisting world, “Two hours of preparation for five minutes of sex…”
I see MST3K has retconned Gypsy to be named GPC since gypsy is a non word now.
First the Kardashians, and now this.
Noooooooooo!
Michael Malaise,
Despite the squick/taboo factor, this is EXCELLENT writing!
I am tumescent for part 2.
Thanks!
I missed the title and was slight confused for a bit.
This song came to mind.
Dark Entries
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=N8n6k8QcU3k
Currently watching WBC:
The Army commercials are straight up fucked.
Marketing to Gen Z who want to use their will to do good and change the world. Most shots are feeding hungry kids or helping refugee women type stuff.
The army is for exactly 1 purpose: defending America, not bombing the world to do good for others.
Seeing at least 60% of the crowd wearing masks reminds me that Covid was a worldwide ass fucking of epic proportions by the Chinese, and then virtually every government body in the modern world. A massive crime against humanity.
Army Slogan: The Next Greatest Generation.
I made an executive decision earlier today to stop watching a sport I like until they fucking de-politicize it. I do not appreciate having the Ukraine-Russia war pushed into my face when I’m trying to relax and get away from that shit but the purveyors of a so-called international sporting event want to push it into my face anyway so I say “No, thanks”.
TV of all kinds has been a minefield for a while now but this is getting ridiculous.
/rant
The broadcast has been very good about keeping it to the game, plus little fun facts about the countries and players (most of these guys in other countries have say jobs). It’s pretty much what you’d want a sports broadcast to be (for the most part). Definitely not woke.
But that fucking set of Army commercials….
Holy shit.
“We’re here to fix the world. Clean up the mess left by everyone else.”
Here’s one….
https://youtu.be/897DCZUtAlI
And another….
https://youtu.be/J67PcKwvHBk
1956- Basic Training-Fort Chaffee
“The Spirit of the Bayonet is to Kill”
We’re weren’t learning to be social workers, we were impressionable youths.
Oh fuck off – I had to tap out.
Another minefield: I like to watch old sitcoms or thrillers or gameshows.
Commercials are all Shriners kids and lung cancer victims and woke energy companies who are going to heal the earth and vid propaganda and and and. I’m just sick of it all.
I know, cut the cord.
I feel pretty fortunate.
I’ve done much to virtually eliminate the ads I see.
I’ve been using various ad blockers on browsers for years. I’ve cut the cord. I pay for an ad-less YouTube.
I only really am subjected to blatant advertising when I watch live sports over anything other than MLB dot TV. So pretty much only playoff baseball and the Super Bowl.
Soccer was great before they moved most of it to multiple separate pay-streams. No commercials.
But even still, I’m spending money on products made by people who piss over everyone but the woke. Disney, Netflix, YouTube, MLB. But if we were to shop based on a company’s politics, many of us would have to forsake living in the modern world.
Commercials are standard fare, except for 2.
The NG set of commercials proclaiming that the woke generation will be the next generation to bomb its way to a better future, and a much more overtly political message: Keep men out of women’s sports.
It’s singling out a particular politician. Contact, him, they say, and tell him to get his priorities straight. I’m a little surprised MLB allowed that in the WBC.
BattleBots, dude. I can’t help with the commercials.
Tonight is BattleBots night!!! 😃
I should also note that it’s not for the Army, but the Nasty Girls, as an Iraq vet once called the Nat Guard.
There is absolutely no fucking way I’m going to read about anal sex while I’m typing up penis deglovings and prostate tumors.
I’ll read when I’m done.
Hey, congratulations Moj! I am finally in the same time as you seem to be, so I figured now was a great time to let you know.
Thank yooooooooooooooooooou!!!
I missed something. Did you pass? Yay!
PS. Please stop talking about penis deglovings and prostate tumors kthxbai
Yes, I passed. 🙂
But but but but but…
But?
Butt
What?
Pretty pretty
Huzzah!
X2!
Eh, it’s not about anal (at least not this episode). It’s about a marriage between people with incompatible needs for affection.
What you’ll find is that it’s less about anal sex and more about practically everything else in the universe.
You People never cease to amaze.
Let me return the favor (NSFW)
https://twitter.com/JessicaVaugn/status/1633616290807160834?s=20
MS, this might make a good lead for the lynx!
I…uh…I…yeah…
You let SugarFree loose and then you’re surprised by what he inspires?!
Look in the mirror, maaan, look in the mirror!
I like the way you string words together.
That said, there are worse words than “moist,” “panty,” and “unbridled.” Behold I give you “orgasm,” “penis,” and “slacks.”
“slacks” LOL
for sure
“Nobody’s ever got a rock-hard penis for you – the word is ‘cock’!”
Coq.
See, France is good for some things!
Aussies putting a pretty decent beat down on Korea right now.
8-4 T8. A 3 run bomb in each of the last 2 innings.
Brad Williams is always funny on Adam Carolla – https://youtu.be/MJ_QmdibyCA?t=1449 – but talking about service-dwarves (vice seizure alert dogs) on airlines and traveling is an absolute riot.
Mornin peeps!
Good morning, Sean, Shirley, homey, and Roat!
I get to leave work early for a hair appointment, and then it’s BattleBots Night!! 😃
Good morning! Happy Weekend Eve Eve!
Thursday morning mashup: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=BvPqFbwYbq0
🎶🎶
☕
Mornin Sean
suh’ fam
whats goody
Spring break starts tomorrow instead of Monday for the local schools. It’s a weird calendar this year.
I don’t know about the local schools around here, but if tradition holds true at my alma mater, spring break will be next week in a vain attempt to prevent St. Patrick’s Day mayhem. And tomorrow will be Green Beer Day (which I never attended because invariably I had a midterm that day.)
It’s for primary schools and the community college. The local university had Spring break 27 Feb – 3 Mar.
Even next week seems early. When I was a kid, spring break was always the week between Palm Sunday and Easter, no matter when Easter fell. Guess you can’t favor one religion any more. At least not that one.
My spring break aligned with Easter but school was September – June instead of August – May.
I remember going to school… Several decades ago…
Good Morning All:
For some reason, this article does not have the breath and depth of comments i was hopping to read….
Oklahoma recreational pot went down in flames, i knew this when i voted. All i could see were people older than me. Lots older.
In other news, waiting for EPA to release MCL’s for PFAS. Just means i probably have to redo last two years of work and expand how far we have to look off-base for excedences.
FUN times.
So the olds deprived you of your ability to toke?
I don’t partake, i do not like loosing sense of awareness at all.
As i understand, tis painfully easy to get a medical weed card. And OK #2 cash crop is marijuana i have been told.
When I was a kid it was supposedly #1.
That was before the US congress pretending to care about Gaia had the EPA make corn based fuel & sugar substitute supplements the #1?
My drugs of choice are alcohol and women. Never have and never will do others. Just not interested. But I get that some people really like their mind bending stuff, and I feel sad they are not allowed to bake their brain as they see fit.
The whole prohibition on the devil’s grass leaves me feeling like the reason it is banned is some people just love to tell others what to do.
Don’t misunderstand. There are a LOT of weed stores out here. No one is lacking.
There was a ballot measure in Ohio in 2015 that failed. If I recall correctly, it really was a terrible measure that would essentially have created a monopoly or cartel (almost certainly for the deepest pockets/politically favored) so even a lot of proponents of legal MJ didn’t support it.
Yep, the gambling model instead of alcohol model. Although I guess the alcohol model in Virginia would be a state monopoly on the strong stuff.
It was transparently corrupt. It allowed like 5 or 6 growers that were supposed to supply the whole state. I want to say those growers had already been selected and were written into the law, but it’s been a while, I could be wrong. It was rightly slapped down.
Mornin’, reprobates!
Good morning, ‘patzie! Does progress continue to progress?
Mornin, GT. Staples come out today, another milestone. Youngest Patzer comes home tomorrow, Spring Break. I guess he doesn’t care for the ritual debauchery that takes place in Daytona and Ft. Lauderdale.
Sounds like a good kid. 🙂
That’s what he’d like us to believe.
This is good news.
Thanks. How are things in Texas?
Nice. Vacation starts tomorrow morning. I am heading to Florida.
Spring break? 😆
Yeah, I was the same way on spring break. You can only see/do so much drunken yelling and puking before it gets kinda boring.
This shit is attractive to the immature, has always been my take on it. I love to do a good party (work hard, party harder!), but this has never appealed to me, and that’s why I never partook despite all the opportunities offered.
Speaking of which, I remember some survey about what students that would get the unconstitutional Biden student loan debt cancelation at the expense of those that actually paid their loans or avoided them racket would do with the money had a very high percentage of them – mostly the studies degrees from what I recall – using the $10k or $20k to party hard….
I was too poor to go blow a bunch of money in Florida.
In related news, I was one of the few who didn’t leave college with a bunch of credit card debt.
I only read this post this morning, but I want to say, great work MM. Really like your style and language.
You didn’t think it was too much talk and prose to describe bad anal?
NA had it right above, it’s not about the anal, it’s about the relationship and the cracks and sharp edges therein.
The story has hidden depths.
“It never occurred to him in the few and fleeting intimate moments that slithered between two overloaded schedules that it should be attempted again. Maybe that’s why he cherished it so. Once, was indeed, enough. Actual, reasonable, “normal-people” sex had since been twisted into an awkward chore. A duty to maintain a physical aspect of their relationship. To even think that possible again was immensely foolish and unreasonable.”
Just wait until you have kids…
The Journal of Irreproducible Results captured it with the study “Sex as Heap of Smouldering Rubble.”
I have 2 kids, one an adult.