Mando Saw My Dildo

I’m still suffering the embarrassment of the maintenance guy for my apartment, Mando, seeing my dildo on the kitchen counter when he stopped by to change the broken light fixture in the adjacent dining area. It’s not one of those discreet, little, rocket-shaped dildos, either. It’s one of those that resembles an actual cock, eight-inches or so, complete with veins and a circumcised head that looks like one of those old time motorcycle helmets. That morning, I called the leasing office about the old light fixture that was only half attached to the ceiling (because me and Jamie were always unscrewing it from the ceiling in order to hide our MDMA and sheets of blotter acid up there so that randoms we invited over for after-bars wouldn’t find it). After a long winter of after-bars, the threads on it were worn so thin that it was hanging only by the thin electrical cord in the ceiling.

Two Year Anniversary of My Abortion

I was blowing him while he sat completely naked on my desk chair, and all I could think about was whether the BJ would undo the whitening done by the Crest whitening strips earlier that day.

Little did I know that stained teeth would be the least of my worries. The next morning in the headache and regret-inducing daylight that unforgivingly blanketed my studio, I saw that he left a shit stain on my desk chair. It wasn’t so much a skid mark as it was a penny-size stain of anal leakage. I set the chair next to the dumpster in the parking lot and someone took it within 15-minutes.

What if I had left the bar with Kilby that night? He was going to the Uptown Diner for after-bar pancakes, but I feared the late night carbs and resulting food baby, ironically. So I stayed…alone…alone, comfortable and on a mixed high of vodka and Ecstasy. It was the bartender’s first night. He was a five, but he had perfect-10 teeth. When he smiled it looked like an upside down crescent moon.

When my doctor confirmed my fear, I didn’t want to draw from my trust fund to pay for the abortion and related costs. I didn’t have a choice, though. This guy…this bartender…this random with roommates didn’t have any money to contribute. My female trust administrator understood. She had empathy and listed it as a urinary tract infection on the monthly accounting to my parents back in New York.

El Camino

I felt the initial rush of the Ecstasy as me and Jamie walked into Lowry Hill Liquor. Every bottle was bright, pulsating and they all looked like little funhouse mirrors. I loved it all and everyone in the store, even the haggard hipsters and Liquor Lyle’s losers. Jamie grabbed Parker’s beer and I stood in the middle of the store lightly running my fingers along a row of wine bottles. In my head, each bottle made a different pitch of sound as I touched it, and I was trying to find a melody.

The store was crowded…filled with guys, girls, men, women buying liquor to feel numb from something else other than another Polar Vortex creeping up on the city. The green carpet was dirty with salty footprints and squishy from snow in certain areas. There was a collective perverse pride, like we were picking up our race numbers before competing in an Ironman.

Jamie grabbed my sleeve as I winked at a bearded Seth Rogen-type guy. Ecstasy doesn’t make me horny, but I love the way it makes me flirt. My gay upstairs neighbor who doesn’t have a car, but suddenly came up with a borrowed El Camino when I told him I would give him four Adderall to drive us to Parker’s in the pounding blizzard, was waiting in the parking lot. Jamie tossed the case of Lone Star in the open cab and we crawled down Hennepin deeper into south Minneapolis.

With no back seat, Jamie sat in the middle and I had the window. She was determined to get gay neighbor hard because he always says that girls do nothing for him. She had been rubbing his crotch and when we stopped at a light, she unzipped him and I saw her head disappear from my peripheral vision. I had my window down and was watching each individual snowflake fall at me. Each flake had a face and was making angry, frightened and happy faces as it crashed to the ground…some had maniacal, cackling laughs, like a witch.

Around some time of the night or morning…it was dark and the muted television was the only thing illuminating Parker’s bare and spare living room. A podcast interview with Chelsea Handler was coming from Parker’s computer speakers somewhere in the apartment.

I was sitting in a corner on the living room floor nodding in and out. I could feel the freezing wind on my temple whistling through the built-in mail slot to the left of my head. I wasn’t wearing pants, but my butt felt warm on the hardwood. My black knee-high socks and Vans kept my lower body comfortable. An empty bottle of wine sat to my left.

I wanted to take an Adderall more than anything, for no other reason than to stay awake for another 24-hours. I tried moving my mouth to call for Jamie, but I wasn’t sure if any sound was coming out. Shifting my head to the left was a laborious movement, but I did it and saw Jamie…sitting on the floor next to Parker. There was an argyle patterned fleece blanket over Parker’s legs.

I curled my knees up underneath my chin and pulled my long sleeve Gap thermal over my legs. I grabbed my shins and rested my head on my knees and turned to watch…watch Jamie kiss Parker’s neck as he rested it against the wall…her left hand underneath the blanket by his groin, lazily going up and down like a Texas oil well…Parker would occasionally turn to the right to kiss Jamie’s lips…Jamie’s hand never breaking its slow rhythm under the blanket.

The television went dark in-between commercials, casting the room in pitch black for a second or so. When then the room returned to short duration light pulses, Jamie’s head was underneath the blanket. I heard her start to hum as Parker was nearing climax (something she learned from me). Parker’s upper body began to convulse, like he was seated in an electric chair and receiving the initial jolt. I could hear my pulse in my ears. I had a fleeting thought of masturbating while I watched, but in my altered state, my hands felt like kettle bells and my pussy was raisin dry.

I Hate Elizabeth Wurtzel. My Hip is Sore

I woke up this afternoon on my pillow-top mattress, which lies atop my faded hardwood floor. Sober but pissed. My shit fuck editors chose someone else for the N.Y.C. Fashion Week job, so I used the money saved on a plane ticket to buy some acid and MDMA, which I’ll take tonight when Jamie gets here.

Shiner and Keith are bartending at Turf Club. We’ll head there around 3am for after-bar drinking…no reason to be up in the morning. The up side is that I got assigned the SXSW coverage, which means a couple of weeks in Austin next month crashin’ at Kilby’s and having great sexual tension with him…again.

But I woke up today and alternated between reading a few paragraphs of Elizabeth Wurtzel’s online New York Magazine article and clicking on another open browser window displaying various lesbian videos on PornHub because I planned on masturbating before going to the gym.

Wurtzel is a fellow New Yorker, but I don’t admire her. In fact, I despise her…a lot. In podcast interviews she says “I mean” and “ya know” far too much, she reached a career peak in her 20s and no one should peak that early in life. It’s like reaching middle age 20-years too soon. The first time I heard her speak, I was crushed because this literary anti-hero now sounded like an Upper West Side jaded Jewess…like the ones my dad would bring around after my mom died. Drink wine and whine.

My right hip was still bruised and sore from slipping on the ice outside my building. It sucked. I stared at the ice as I approached it…it looked menacing…about half an inch thick. It was like I had no choice but to fall, an initiation I was not going to escape. I gave into the fall – both legs up in the air and a hard landing on my right side.

Sex Then Pancakes

My iPhone started to ring as he was fucking me, gentle thrusts unbecoming of a love-less, sober-less second date experience. With no intentions of a third date on my part, I began ordering top shelf vodka during dinner and swallowed the MDMA that Jamie left on my dresser and swore she would be stopping by later to pick up. I took it at the dinner table and told him it was a Tylenol.

Sex on MDMA is all about the act itself and nothing about the feeling of pleasure for me. I never cum or moan, instead I just wrapped my legs around him, looked around and listened…the framed but cheap art on his walls, the basketball in the corner, canvas tote bag hanging from the bedroom door knob and the dust build up on the ceiling fan blades that spun above us like a slow moving helicopter blade. The squeaking bedsprings were rhythmic and served as the backbeat to his breathing in my ear, like Charlie Watts’ barely-there but reliable drumming underneath Ronnie Woods’ lazy strumming.

When he was done, I went to the bathroom and looked in his medicine cabinet for anything but there was nothing. He was still lying naked on the bed, breathing heavily when I started to pick up my clothes from the floor. I held my underwear up to the streetlight coming through the bedroom window blinds to make sure they weren’t inside-out. He asked if I was leaving even though he knew he was my ride to begin with. I told him I was just going to go smoke a cigarette in front of the building.

I walked through his kitchen and past the dishwasher, which was flung open with clean dishes still unloaded. I grabbed a blue coffee mug to use as my ashtray. The missed call was Parker, no voice mail.

The thick green carpet on the building’s stairs leading to the lobby felt plush under my shoes. I reached the lobby and scanned the silver mailboxes as I buttoned my coat and searched my clutch for my Zippo and Marlboros. The guy who was just inside me was now a name on a narrow, silver mailbox in an old apartment lobby. I was fine with that.

I stepped outside. The night was cold but quiet, no wind. My thumb scrolled my contacts list for Rainbow Taxi and Dan the Dispatcher picked up in one-and-a-half rings. I said hey, and he immediately recognized my voice. He asked where I needed to be picked up, and I grabbed a piece of discarded tenant junk mail for the address. He asked where I was going and I said I would decide by the time the cab arrives.

The dirty blue taxi pulled up halfway through my Marlboro. The MDMA was nearing its peak, and I didn’t want to go home, but my options were limited at 2:54am. I told the driver to take me to the Uptown Diner, and I texted Parker to meet me there.

I nodded off in the backseat of the cab. My head lurched forward when the driver stopped in front of the diner. He was mid-sentence when I opened my eyes, and I thought he was probably talking to me for the entire ride. I don’t remember how much I paid or tipped him. But I remember leaving the blue coffee mug containing half a Marlboro worth of ashes on the back seat.

Pasta and Kettle Chips

It’s dark. It was dark when I went to sleep, it’s dark now and I don’t know how many hours passed in-between. Jamie came over two days ago after buying some MDMA from a guy her mailman knows. We took it then went upstairs to my gay neighbor’s apartment and ate a lot of pasta and kettle chips. At some point, I remember calling Kilby in Austin about Jason’s engagement. I only know that because my outgoing call list tells me so.

I feel the typical post-trip groggy, but nothing out of the ordinary. I just woke up and grabbed my Mac to e-mail some freelance work to an editor who’s calls I avoided the past two days. I only know that from his pissed off text messages. Jamie is in a heavy breathing slumber in her sleeping bag on the floor, next to the hissing radiator.

I Should’ve Taken MDMA

I chose to lie in bed scrolling through my Tumblr and Twitter, waiting for the Adderall to take effect. I was reading a Gawker tweet about the black girl hired by SNL when I regretted swallowing the Adderall. I should’ve taken MDMA. I needed euphoria, not focus.

My pillow smelled like my one-night stand from two nights ago, but I didn’t mind this time. He had fresh, clean hair and he didn’t drool on the pillow in the few hours he slept here. I met him at a house party in a so-so house in Linden Hills. Before the party, me and Jamie took MDMA (one dose each), which always makes me feel like my eyes are set far back into my skull, and that every time I swallow I’m going to swallow my eyeballs.

At the so-so party, I felt glamorous in an unglamorous place. The house looked like a career housewife lived there. There was a pilates machine in the basement and books by Jonothan Franzen in the living room set out like literary trophies. Jamie drank a light beer and threw up in the bathroom. Out of fear of swallowing my eyeballs, I didn’t drink anything. I held a glass half filled with vodka and spit into it whenever my mouth filled with saliva.

He came into the bathroom while I was checking on Jamie. When Jamie left the bathroom, he stayed. We started kissing and his right hand crept up my skirt – knee length over black stockings. He started rubbing my pussy with his knuckle. I told him I was going to leave. He offered a ride, but I said I wanted to take the #6 home because the buses are instantly warm.

I swiped my metro card and smiled at the driver because we recognized each other. He didn’t have exact change or a metro card, so he slipped a five dollar bill into the paybox for the $1.25 fare. We sat on the left side of the bus, third from the back. He squeezed my upper thigh under my dress every time I started to nod off.

My voice sounded like it was on a time delay when I told him I need to stop at Kowalski’s to get something to eat. I pulled the cord to light up the “stop requested” sign at the front of the bus, and the ding resonated like church bells in my head. We exited the bus onto seemingly giant pieces of salt on the sidewalk in front of Super America.

I had a crushed Adderall inside a folded up Target coupon inside my purse. I slid the powder down my throat while standing on the corner with two cop cars at my back in the S.A. parking lot. He stared at me like he had made a mistake by following me onto the bus.

He paid for the house salad and bottle of Orangina that I grabbed inside Kowalski’s. I lied and told him the buses stopped running, so that if he wanted to come back to my place he would have to call a cab. I picked at the salad with my fingers inside the blue Rainbow taxi. I left the Orangina on the seat when we got to my studio.