- ACT I -
OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- Watching drunk college students fuck in public is not very entertaining. Startling, but not entertaining.
The windows were down as I walked by the car, a little sports car that I assumed, given the Greek sorority letters in the back glass, belonged to the female participant.
A white male ass, whiter than mine, bounced up and down inside, male grunts and female sighs and Oh Gods and Fuck yeses.
"I'm coming! Shit!"
In the time it took me to first notice the college romp, walk past, and get almost out of earshot, the whole thing was over.
I had to bite my tongue, had to keep from turning around, from being tempted to try to put a face to the white ass.
"A new speed record," I said to myself.
As I climbed into my truck, less than 10 feet away from the vehicular love nest, I looked back. The guy had pulled himself out of the tiny little car, was down to one lone flip-flop for his feet and an inside-out shirt across his back.
Didn't know the guy. Thank God.
But I did, however, recognize the young woman.
She climbed out of the car, too, gave the guy one of those staged, I'll call you embraces, and then scurried off into an alley to continue adjusting the remnants of her skirt.
"Oh for fuck's sake. If you're gonna crashfuck, at least get something out of it!"
Crashfuck. As in, find some random unlocked car, climb in, and get busy. These sorts of PDA fetishes are supposed to be executed quickly - but not that quickly. It's the adrenaline rush that goes along with the possibility of getting caught. Adds to the excitement, the drama, the sheer eroticism.
Tried it myself when I was younger. Still prefer the simplicity of the hood of my truck. At least, then, all of the heavens can watch, can judge.
I only thought I shared my unsolicited criticism with myself, quietly.
Nope. Said it out loud, through my pickup's open window, 10 feet from the uni-sandaled Quick Dick.
Hit the gas. Squealed the tires, in fact. At two in the morning, 100 feet from the police station.
And I was back to my apartment in less time than it took Mr. Missing Flip-Flop to realize that he'd risked jail time for a rather pointless ejaculation exercise.
I feel sorry for the young woman.
Especially for having the misfortune of being spotted, by a certain blogger, in Oxford Fucking Ohio.
- ACT II -
Which, while on the subject of friends and lovers, bizarre sexual fetishes, the overlap between offline and online lives, and other normal, everyday clusterfucks in the world of The Zenformation Professional...
For the first time ever, I have four very different women (three former lovers and one female friend) pissed off at me, simultaneously, for - Gasp! - either posting or not posting certain events in my sexual history, about not sharing certain intimate details.
Great way to check up on me, this ol' blog. Or so some folks think.
For the first time ever, I've had women who used to be very good friends, two very different pairs of women in two very different American cities, fight over me - and this stupid blog.
Long story. I've spent days trying to figure a way around the fact that all four women are going to read whatever I post, each one expecting me to trash the other, each pair just now learning that I'm experiencing, er, double the so-called fun.
And I'm NOT flattered. I'm NOT amused. And I'm so far from anything even remotely resembling pride, arrogance, or other stereotypically male emotional responses to such things that it's almost comical.
I am, however, annoyed, angry, and fed up.
I fucking hate pointless displays of melodrama, hate worthless petty bickering, and I hate being objectified down to nothing more than an excuse for friends to fight.
* * * *
In GirlFight No. 1:
An ex, an adult entertainer with whom I had an open relationship, just figured out that one of the women I've recently posted about just happens to be a former best friend of hers.
This woman was on the ex-lover's so-called "safe list" when we were together, a friend of hers that she would've had no problems (so she said) with me sleeping with in the event that I suddenly felt the need to exercise the my end of the open relationship. She had the other boyfriend, plus a few women to satisfy that side of her bisexuality.
And occasionally, there were a few extra women in my bed, friends of hers, to satisfy her bisexuality - just to set the record straight. I'm no boy scout. I tried to have some fun with it. But I still don't get why, exactly, heterosexual guys get so worked up about threesomes and foursomes and sex with multiple women at once. Damned tiring.
Why one of her best friends, you ask?
Well... this ex was convinced that I'd eventually cheat on her with a Local U. student, catch one of those dick-rotting STIs that undergrads tend to carry like badges of fucking honor, was convinced that I'd eventually get tired of the openness. And she had another boyfriend and other lovers, so why shouldn't I have someone to fuck on the other guy's weekends?
But here's the thing. I didn't want to continue the open relationship. I wanted to move on. And the best friend was cleaning up her shit after years of self-abuse. Neither of us wanted, necessarily, to be on the "safe-list." She even turned down a threesome with a certain whiny fuckhead librarian from Ohio.
So we hung out, once, in Santa Monica. I left it off the blog, because, well, for a woman who thought I was a whiny fuckhead, and a guy who thought the woman was a narcissistic skank, we did seem to have a lot in common. Both former addicts, both into zombie movies, and both fans of obscure 80s cartoons. We spent a whole afternoon...talking.
And then she flew into Cincinnati one weekend, after the ex and I broke things off.
And she ended up staying for a whole week.
And free of the dreaded "safe-list," we both went a little crazy. And we broke my last headboard, almost got arrested for lewd behavior in public, and we utterly destroyed the hood of some poor Trustafarian undergrad's Hummer. I cooked these amazing Vegan dishes, she made me do Yoga with her in the mornings (a born-again morning person, like myself.)
And we left it at that.
And again, I didn't blog about it. Instead, I blogged about (I think) politics and all sorts of things. And she left cute little comments anonymously, posted from my laptop, an inside joke. She even suggested that I date other bloggers...
And then, sometime last week, the two ex-lovers of mine accidentally ended up in the same little diner in Ventura. One was wearing a Local U. sports tee shirt that I'd bought her. The other went ballistic, threw a glass of wine, and, according to witnesses, started yelling something about...
Lee Blanchard. A fucking character from a fucking James Ellroy novel. And from a blog post.
I now understand the comparison, having finally finished reading The Black Dahlia. Trust me. Partly flattering, but, well, mostly not.
* * * *
And in GirlFight No. 2:
Two college roommates from a certain Great Basin University were having their final post-graduation, off-to-the-real-world party, in good ol' Sin City, before their lease expired.
One of the women, the baby sister of an ex from my own undergrad days, was apparently drinking heavier than the rest of the folks at the small get-together, drinking and completely ignoring her best friend and roommate.
The roommate, upset that her best friend in the whole world was ignoring her, pulled my ex's baby sister aside. She figured that it was a guy, or just post-college depression, or...
It was, in fact, a guy.
"Did you fuck Jason ________ when you were in Indianapolis at that fucking conference?"
The roommate, from what my Colorado ex tells me, denied it at first, then copped to it when her best friend, a woman I've known since she was 15, threatened to call me.
For two years, I'd assumed that, well, when _____ and I not-so-accidentally happened to be in the same hotel in Downtown Indy, then accidentally ended up drinking too much wine and dancing a little too slow and close...
____ had said she would tell her, be honest about it. And I believed her. I actually was naive enough, at 27, to believe a 21-year-old when she told me that she'd take care of breaking it to her best friend in the whole wide world.
______ never did it, figured she'd let a silly one-weekend thing go, one of those don't ask, don't tell moments for the good of both of us. But her best friend was my ex's baby sister, my almost sister-in-law. I held up my end of the post-fling damage control, told my ex about it, just in case baby sister needed some support, a surprisingly neutral party.
My ex, herself struggling to stay out of harm's way, apparently told her mother in confidence.
Dear ol' sexually-liberated Madre then, at the party, made a comment about how she and I had had dinner in Cincinnati a few weeks ago, how she was surprised at how well her youngest daughter had maturely accepted the fact that the boy she'd once had a crush on had slept with her best friend in the whole wide world.
Everyone but Baby Girl knew.
A very nasty public shouting match. Hair, yes, pulled. One woman has a black eye, the other required stitches.
And apparently, it's all my fault.
If it'll stop the stupidity, then, well, I'll take the full blame. Hell, at this point, I'll cop to just about anything.
- ACT III -
Back in Oxford, I was feeling like a man out of time, the universe having cast me out unto the plane of Bad Fucking Timing.
As I was walking back to my pickup from the Uptown clubs and bars, on the last weekend before the kiddies arrived back from their summer vacations, I was in anything but what most folks would consider a festive mood.
I was brooding. Brooding over things that I cannot change, perceptions I cannot change...
"One day, my libido and I are gonna have a nice, long talk. Might be time for a divorce."
And then I see a bare white ass bouncing up and down inside of a car, the faint sounds of probably the quickest quickie in Ohio undergrad history.
And I laughed the moment I realized who the woman was, didn't even think about why.
* * * *
I started writing the first part of this blog post in the truck, mentally, mapping out ways to tell a true story, a common but sorta uncommon sight here in Oxford Fucking Ohio. And, at the same time, I was trying to figure out creative ways to hide a person's identity within the narrative.
I write the first draft on the ol' laptop. _______ becomes the woman and some probably very embarrassed guy becomes Mr. Missing Flip-Flop. I take out as many physical references as possible, without cutting into the meat of the story, to specific alleys, nearby businesses, and even the make of the sports car.
And as I get ready to hit that Publish Post button, my brain freezes up. My fingers twitch.
"Dude, why the fuck are you blogging about seeing to drunken undergrads crashfucking in some stranger's car? Man, you've got all of this drama surrounding you, eating your goddamn soul with every goddamn angry voicemail, text message, and IM. You're even screening your work calls. Are you that much of a goddamn pussy?
"Are you too afraid to say what you really need to say? Isn't that the point of a blog?"
So I start adding a center to the post, something completely unrelated, stream - of - consciousness sutras and space cadet librarian fluff. I wanted, in the event that the woman from the car should read this, to let her know that there's no way in hell I could blame her for hooking up with...
And it hits me, why I found the whole drunken car sex thing both humorous and tragic.
I'm That Woman. And Mr. Missing Flip-Flop. All rolled into one, with additional fuck-ups, mistakes, flings, and bad fucking luck thrown in for good measure by Satan himself.
John Fucking Milton ain't got shit on me - I built my own Hell with only my brain, my penis, and a keyboard, once or twice a week, on average.
And I don't have to wait for somebody else to gossip about it, to load it onto a MurdockSpace page, to add the photos to a Facebook account.
I'll end up, regardless, doing it myself.
Tragic, but funny.
- # # # -