Sunny's

I've never been a Casanova. The opportunistic surges of urges I've endured since I was eight (when I discovered the sacred Penthouse found street side) have only made me shake hands--firmly and indefinitely--with hesitation and self-defeat. Getting pantsed in elementary school, wearing floods and a buzz-cut in middle school (Thanks a lot, Mom), and being the quintessential acnefied brace-face in high school all pointed to: loser. All pointed to: virgin. All pointed to: wait for college.

So I tried on patience and it seemed to fit, so long as I could bounce my legs in class and hide my cumrag at night. When college came, I was invigorated by the independence and irresponsibility that would soon take over. I had convinced myself then that all my New Year's Resolutions to talk to girls, talk to them confidently, make something happen, would amount to all I'd figured out prior to my arrival on campus. Thanks Jason Biggs.

I had heard urban legends of collegiate sex. Panties off, no sweat. Kiss on the cheek, at least a handjob. Kiss on the lips, piece of cake cunt fuck. Bite your ear? Her face'll be clown mouthed, spider eyed, with spit and cum drizzled in no time. But I wasn't ready for all this yet. I'd leave it up to Ron Jeremy and Frats to immediately corrupt the innocence I once recognized in my female peers. These experiences slapped down the reality of my own premature ejaculation, if not a solid limp-dick incident.

Instead, I merged into the collegiate female territory. Each step quiet and precise, regimented and documented.

1. Pre-shower downwind, post-Axe bodyspray, "waft away, ladies." What man wouldn't want to smell like "Dark Temptation," "Recovery," or even the number "3?"

2. Girls like stronger guys (except for a few on Craigslist looking for their tenor Jack Skellingtons), therefore there were mornings spent wheezing through five push-ups (I was never particularly athletic). The high school hairy, wheyshake drinking smallballers rolled their eyes with perturbation while the mulletdyke coaches sighed at the overshot androgyny I so illustriuously exuded.
"C'mon Smith! A few more! Get that Testosterone pumping!"
"Ms. Humphrey, you've got more testosterone pumping than I do."
"What was that?"
"I said 'Lou gets bored testing on a throne jumping Xanadu!'"
"...You're a weird kid, Smith."

3. Nights dancing naked in front of a mirror to Ricky Martin (shut up).
"She bangs, yeah, she bangs!"
Yes she does, Ricky Martin, and so will I.

So the other night, I realized I wasn't twelve anymore, that my balls had dropped, and that a night downtown would do me good. That night was the night that the fuzzy VH1 Pickup Artist's tips and tricks of chivalry and gentlemanliness were gonna fall from my sleeves with majesty and grace.

"Hey."
"...Hi."
"You're fat."
"OMG I totally want you!!!!!1!"
"I know, right?!"

I went out to the one and only barslashdanceclub in town: Sunny's, 43 Water St. I remember the address just because I thought it was such an odd number to follow 35 Water St. This address belongs to the infamous Club 35, the only topless-only dry-bar strip club within a three town radius. Known well for its scantily clad Pillsbury doughboys and a patron in the back who wears a neckbeard and yips at the girls from time to time.
"Yip! Name's Elvis, sugar. What's yerrs?"

I met a girl named Thera. She couldn't believe I pronounced her name right the first time. "No one ever does," she said. I didn't either. I called "Karen?" But the pulsing music and alcoholgulping company were raucous inside, and I was having difficulty paying attention to the words slingshot from her glossy pink pout.

We managed to understand one another in that moment, however. With the heat of the major chords clogging our earseyesmouthnostrils and the sweet sweat scent sensed, we embraced our novice parentless autonomy in the mutual desire to go home unalone under a Friday 2 A.M.

I was shy and she was tipsy. She smiled at me and--God bless her--walked through perverts, cologne, and whores to initiate something. A rather strong first encounter, she took me by the neck with her cunt stuck out. I played passive ("Let the dolls come to you, man" said the fuzzy-hatted dude). She had gum to cover up the rum. She thought she knew what she was doing.

And she hadn't noticed the mustard stain on my jeans under the blacklight yet.

"Yip!"

She smiled and chewed, coming close to my ear to shoutwhisper "ooh!" and her rendition of the song's lyrics. I wondered who she was and who she had come with. She wondered what song this was and asked me what my name was again.
"Schtick?! Is that like a Jewish nickna--"
"No; Nick!"
"What?!"

We grinded no matter the tempo or mood of the playlist because we wanted that touch. I tried not to appear too white and to utilize those Ricky Martin rhythms I felt in my hips earlier (shut up). We wanted that overt sensuality without the embarrassment or shame of touching strangers known for less than an hour ( and within the confines of the reality that it would be an otherwise solitary solitaire night).

I would later experience similar occurrences, touch the backs and waists and necks and breasts of nameless girls. They were girls so incredulously vulnerable to my anonymous hands, fingers licking and palms pressing. My left and my right were my pioneers creating maps of seas of skin, complexions and smoothnesses expansive and varied. I could never grasp that comfort; where did the readiness to have their straps and strings snapped, their charcoal/mahogany/strawberry strands combed into a sexed-up disarray, come from?

She thought she was being cutesy and flirty when she'd bend forward dropping her head--snap!--and fling her moussed and fingercurled hair back while craning up and leaning back into me. When she came up for air and feminism, her delicate fingers grabbed my hair and neck, and I tried to muster a smile. My thoughts were telling me two opposing notions simultaneously at this critical junction in time (resulting in my mere mustering):

1. Right shoulder: He-Man: "HE-MAAAAN! MASTER...OF...THE UNIVERSE!!"

2. Left shoulder: Steve Urkel: "Ooooh, cheesedoodles! Don't blow your load yet, son!"

But she was petite and all that slithering and snapping ended up amounting to was a dick digging into her back and hair spouting from my mouth.

"Hey."
"Who are you?"
"You're stupid."
"What? I don't even know yo--"
"Shut up and let's suck mouths, female."
"Wha--! But-and I am not stupid!"
"Sh, jus' rub my Jamiroquai hat."
"What are you--"
"Slap my ass. Call me 'Sally.' C'mon, Sugartits."

When this shitty bar in this shitty town was closing at a shitty hour, I thought she could clean us up. I offered my place for a movie (maybe some shite she'd adore like "Must Love Dogs"). I had a shag in mind of course. But she came with friends. Both Barbies and barbacoas. They didn't know me, and that meant each smirk was met with a grimace. So with the same enthusiasm that cubicle colleagues retaliated against their bosses at company picnic tug-o-wars, her friends pullled her arms with zest and zeal.

She said her goodbyes, remembering my name as "Dick." Incorrect again--even in her bornagain sobriety--but I, like so many young men just looking for legs, did not care. "Close enough," I called out to her hips jiving away between her friends' legs furious. And it didn't matter either way. I went home sneering. She went home giggling and telling me to call her without having given me her number.

"Yip!"