Tuesday, March 1, 2011

Oily Night Stand

I adore the art of the one night stand...well, not so much the other participant as the ideology beneath the sheets. One night stands are single-handedly responsible for the greatest social movements of our time: gay pride parades, Oprah Winfrey and the welfare system. Politics aside, this horizontal taboo really tickles my kitty. Earlier this year, I embarked on a night's sojourn to Williamsburg with a gentleman caller. He looked like "man-of-steel" Clark Kent, with black-rimmed glasses and a perky, half-cocked smile on a stellar face. SO my type. In the incredibly long taxi ride to his apartment, I squeezed in a quick Kegel exercise sprint to prep for the early morning's work. With the pungent odor of over-cooked bok choy and the musk of a teacup poodle in the car, I then reflected on a particularly painful hookup experience. Not painful like ass-splitting. More like just demoralizing. Nevertheless, I became firm...in my resoluteness to trudge ahead and not let this night go limp.

A few days before my twenty-fifth birthday, I needed to avoid a lonely bedroom, so I did something I never do: I ventured to a bar by myself to hang out, yet I had no intentions of filling that bedroom. Flying solo mixes bravery with desperation, so I cannot clinch the appeal of that hunt. At my usual spot in Atlanta, Blake's, I perched myself against a mirrored wall and drank, as the lighting was most flattering in that spot. I make it a point to never make the first move, so I was relieved when a few minutes later a potential mark ambled his way up to me and introduced himself. He offered me a shot of tequila, and I hastily accepted and requested a double as a drag queen began to serenade us with "It's Raining Men." Before I comprehended my dwindling sobriety, I found myself in a booth with him, ferreting various appendages like teenagers in heat. Within a few short breaths, he asked me to come back to his friend’s place - he was "in town on business." Of course he was.

I didn't pose any questions or concerns about this random apartment or invisible friend. Just as I was both thanking and cursing the tequila, he lunged for my left nipple, stripping my shirt off. A Dyson vacuum cleaner could not produce the amount of suction as this guy. I could not detach him from my nipples no matter how hard I tugged his hair. You can ponder my horror as this human breast pump continued to search for something around that sensitive area. I was almost ready to yell "I have no milk you asshole" when he released his grasp, reached for the nightstand and introduced a bottle of olive oil. I sighed, relief washing over me. He wanted to take a break from sanding my areolas and eat some bruschetta.

No. He brought no bruschetta. I was the crouton.

The substitution of olive oil for Astroglide really bewildered me, but I welcomed the distraction from the nipple rape. Yet again, he proved me wrong. With newly moistened lips, he latched onto me again and began to suck, tug and plunder. When he came up for a quick breath of air, I sneaked a peek at my chest and noticed blood speckling beneath the surface of my nipples. I'd often imagined what Twilight's Edward Cullen (my hero at the time) in the sack would be like, but no daydreams prepared me for this onslaught of gratuitous, Italian vampirism. I cannot bear repeating the epic events of the next half hour, but I eventually wangled out of his clutches, sopped up the oil dripping from my body with my clothes and dashed out the bedroom door. I’m not sure how I strapped on my shoes as I hurled myself down the apartment stairs, but I did.

My nipples and mouth were raw and bruised for the next three days. I employed heat compresses to reduce the purpling of my lips, as I needed to be camera-ready for my birthday. Although, pictures do exist that display the faint bruising of my lips, and my eyes have a little less sparkle. I blotted Vaseline on my nipples and walked hunched over for that time period so my shirts would not rub against my chest. An aromatic hint of Little Italy followed me around as well, and I immediately discerned how lucky I was not to have been an extra on the Sopranos.

When we arrived in Williamsburg, Mr. Kent led me to his apartment. I knew he, this new one-night-hero, could easily emancipate me from vampires and Tony Soprano should the situation arise. I slid the glasses from his face and lamented, "oh, Superman, where’s your steel?"

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