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They called Him… part 2: The Sex Everybody Saw and Nobody Had

  Ego-nursing clichés are sometimes handy. I will use one now: I was perhaps fool enough to think myself in love, but even at my most foolish, I don’t think I really believed it. I suppose I kept waiting for the big conversation – not the one about our feelings and the use of the ever dangerous ‘L’ word that never came, thank goodness, and even if it had, it would have been months away. No, I was waiting for the fabulous intellectual conversation, an exciting variation of the one I had had with my first love. Of course that never happened either; ASBoy was, after all ludicrously stupid, but at this point I wasn’t old enough to know better. In the meanwhile there was always great sex and gossip, so I was plenty distracted. Dear and gentle reader, let this story be a warning to you. Let it prepare you for the horror that will await you if you virgin slay a natural, nay, a truly gifted fuck. Know now that you will pay, not in blood but in blushes, for no man or woman deserves that kind of good karma payout, not if they single-handedly prevent World War III, not if they save a thousand orphans from a thousand fires. Freaking Santa doesn’t deserve that kind of karma. Retribution was swift and obnoxious, repetitive and mortifying.
  So ASBoy and I are invited to a party. A party with a bedroom. There is drinking in the kitchen, smoking on the back porch and some sort of psedo-goth-metal head banging session in the living room. He gets drunk, I get high, and we both head bang. Now this is long past the golden age of Metallica, even a tad post-grunge, so nobody has long hair anymore but me. Hell, even James Hetfield (lead singer of Metallica, now in group therapy, mwaha,) has short hair. They lament their lost locks, I gloat, smoke some more and try to ignore the host.
Poor Crankers (clearly not his real name. What kind of moron would name their child Crankers? Also, despite being a completely lame name, it’s not the sort of thing he would have picked up. His real nickname is something horrible and mean, the sort of thing that seems kind of cute but implies zitty marshmallows.) Crankers is a big, slow-thinking, sweet and perpetually horny fellow. He’s goth-identified, but he’s wearing the wrong kind of jeans. You can just tell his mother dresses him, because his evil black-goth shirt of doom has a small collar and a pocket and looks like it just came out of a Wal-Mart six pack. This is the sort of social group in which most of the men are wearing eyeliner. Crankers is not cool. He is a big zitty marshmallow of not cool. He sits down in his mother’s living room and nods cautiously to Ride the Lightning before heading back through the kitchen to timidly beg the smokers to stop talking loudly about sex on acid (apparently all the best parts melt.) He even takes the Percher (name withheld here to protect me from the big spooky Percher’s lawyer-daddy) aside and has a little chat about how no one is to go into Crankers’ ma’s room. The Percher nods gravely and spreads the word.
   A pair of massive pink panties are mysteriously removed from ma’s dresser. They are said to be involved in a complex scheme involving the kitchen sink, an empty bottle of coke and the Y2O. Y2O is a variation of Y2K, the big threat to computers and banking that threatened the world when the eternal codes changed from 1999 to 2000. Now, this is a large group of goths, punks and nerds: nobody is worried about the end of the world because they’re either planning to command armies in the new world order, or they’re spiritual and political anarchists, or they simply know better. The O stands for ounce. In the end it was only one ounce, but even so, it took weeks of engineering. Several people probably owe their understanding of physics to that joint. Ahem. I’m wandering here. While the colossal pink panties are being moved from one giggling group to another, ASBoy and I take the opportunity to sneak away. You must understand, we were not trying to be cruel, but the temptation was irresistible, and there was only one unoccupied room in the house.
  Crankers’ ma’s room: the room belonging to Crankers’ ma. Possibly it was the room in which Crankers’ had been conceived, although it actually smelled of old maid and clearly hadn’t seen a man in the past fifteen years. Everything was covered in details and designs. Nothing was made of wood, but if you squinted really hard after drinking ten or twenty times the legal limit, you might be persuaded that it was, if, say, Jesus and Plato were swearing that it was and your parents were standing there nodding with your best friend. The ‘wood’ was orange and it was peeling off the furniture in thick clumps in spots and appeared to be boiling and black in others. The room looked exactly as if the nineteen fifties had puked up every conceivable shade of murky pink and green, orange and mustard. This is what I said:
      “Oh my fucking God. GAWD. This is the temple of kitsch. EEeew. Look at the flowwwerrrs. Oh my God, it’s covered in dust. Ah! The dust doesn’t move. It’s glued to the table. Oh my God, look at this flower - there’s even tiny fake plastic dew.” And then I laughed for a while and jumped up on the furniture, pointing to various oddities. This is what he said:
       “So, um. There’s a bed.” Oh! Actually, come to think of it, maybe karma was doing me a favour. Maybe karma was letting me off the hook a little here, because if we had gotten into that bed, if Crankers hadn’t started banging on the door, then I probably would still be having nightmares. Sometimes, even with the best lovers, you get caught up in looking at something… totally fixated on a lamp or wallpaper or something. A friend of mine reported counting the number of tiles on a ceiling once. What if I had locked my gaze on the mould seam of some hideous little plastic reindeer? Or, God protect me, on one of those insanely creepy smiling baby figures? I’d probably have turned to hard drugs or suicided or something. But as it happens, Crankers was banging away in no time.
       “Come on guys. Come on. Come on. Get out of there. No one is allowed in there. Come on.” Crankers was one of those guys whose lard gargled out in their deep, fat voices and then steamed up in a whistle, like puberty hadn’t just hit him, it had given him a guy-smiley. Poor, poor Crankers.
       So we didn’t have sex in Crankers’ ma’s room. It took a while to get us out of there, but we were just being difficult. The Percher had a long talk with us through the door about how Crankers was threatening to bust it open, and we walked out a few minutes later rather less sheepishly than we should have. Come to think of it, that’s probably where the karma kick came in. Poor, poor Crankers.

Description
They called Him… part 2: The Sex Everybody Saw and Nobody Had

  Ego-nursing clichés are sometimes handy. I will use one now: I was perhaps fool enough to think myself in love, but even at my most foolish, I don’t think I really believed it. I suppose I kept waiting for the big conversation – not the one about our feelings and the use of the ever dangerous ‘L’ word that never came, thank goodness, and even if it had, it would have been months away. No, I was waiting for the fabulous intellectual conversation, an exciting variation of the one I had had with my first love. Of course that never happened either; ASBoy was, after all ludicrously stupid, but at this point I wasn’t old enough to know better. In the meanwhile there was always great sex and gossip, so I was plenty distracted. Dear and gentle reader, let this story be a warning to you. Let it prepare you for the horror that will await you if you virgin slay a natural, nay, a truly gifted fuck. Know now that you will pay, not in blood but in blushes, for no man or woman deserves that kind of good karma payout, not if they single-handedly prevent World War III, not if they save a thousand orphans from a thousand fires. Freaking Santa doesn’t deserve that kind of karma. Retribution was swift and obnoxious, repetitive and mortifying.
  So ASBoy and I are invited to a party. A party with a bedroom. There is drinking in the kitchen, smoking on the back porch and some sort of psedo-goth-metal head banging session in the living room. He gets drunk, I get high, and we both head bang. Now this is long past the golden age of Metallica, even a tad post-grunge, so nobody has long hair anymore but me. Hell, even James Hetfield (lead singer of Metallica, now in group therapy, mwaha,) has short hair. They lament their lost locks, I gloat, smoke some more and try to ignore the host.
Poor Crankers (clearly not his real name. What kind of moron would name their child Crankers? Also, despite being a completely lame name, it’s not the sort of thing he would have picked up. His real nickname is something horrible and mean, the sort of thing that seems kind of cute but implies zitty marshmallows.) Crankers is a big, slow-thinking, sweet and perpetually horny fellow. He’s goth-identified, but he’s wearing the wrong kind of jeans. You can just tell his mother dresses him, because his evil black-goth shirt of doom has a small collar and a pocket and looks like it just came out of a Wal-Mart six pack. This is the sort of social group in which most of the men are wearing eyeliner. Crankers is not cool. He is a big zitty marshmallow of not cool. He sits down in his mother’s living room and nods cautiously to Ride the Lightning before heading back through the kitchen to timidly beg the smokers to stop talking loudly about sex on acid (apparently all the best parts melt.) He even takes the Percher (name withheld here to protect me from the big spooky Percher’s lawyer-daddy) aside and has a little chat about how no one is to go into Crankers’ ma’s room. The Percher nods gravely and spreads the word.
   A pair of massive pink panties are mysteriously removed from ma’s dresser. They are said to be involved in a complex scheme involving the kitchen sink, an empty bottle of coke and the Y2O. Y2O is a variation of Y2K, the big threat to computers and banking that threatened the world when the eternal codes changed from 1999 to 2000. Now, this is a large group of goths, punks and nerds: nobody is worried about the end of the world because they’re either planning to command armies in the new world order, or they’re spiritual and political anarchists, or they simply know better. The O stands for ounce. In the end it was only one ounce, but even so, it took weeks of engineering. Several people probably owe their understanding of physics to that joint. Ahem. I’m wandering here. While the colossal pink panties are being moved from one giggling group to another, ASBoy and I take the opportunity to sneak away. You must understand, we were not trying to be cruel, but the temptation was irresistible, and there was only one unoccupied room in the house.
  Crankers’ ma’s room: the room belonging to Crankers’ ma. Possibly it was the room in which Crankers’ had been conceived, although it actually smelled of old maid and clearly hadn’t seen a man in the past fifteen years. Everything was covered in details and designs. Nothing was made of wood, but if you squinted really hard after drinking ten or twenty times the legal limit, you might be persuaded that it was, if, say, Jesus and Plato were swearing that it was and your parents were standing there nodding with your best friend. The ‘wood’ was orange and it was peeling off the furniture in thick clumps in spots and appeared to be boiling and black in others. The room looked exactly as if the nineteen fifties had puked up every conceivable shade of murky pink and green, orange and mustard. This is what I said:
      “Oh my fucking God. GAWD. This is the temple of kitsch. EEeew. Look at the flowwwerrrs. Oh my God, it’s covered in dust. Ah! The dust doesn’t move. It’s glued to the table. Oh my God, look at this flower - there’s even tiny fake plastic dew.” And then I laughed for a while and jumped up on the furniture, pointing to various oddities. This is what he said:
       “So, um. There’s a bed.” Oh! Actually, come to think of it, maybe karma was doing me a favour. Maybe karma was letting me off the hook a little here, because if we had gotten into that bed, if Crankers hadn’t started banging on the door, then I probably would still be having nightmares. Sometimes, even with the best lovers, you get caught up in looking at something… totally fixated on a lamp or wallpaper or something. A friend of mine reported counting the number of tiles on a ceiling once. What if I had locked my gaze on the mould seam of some hideous little plastic reindeer? Or, God protect me, on one of those insanely creepy smiling baby figures? I’d probably have turned to hard drugs or suicided or something. But as it happens, Crankers was banging away in no time.
       “Come on guys. Come on. Come on. Get out of there. No one is allowed in there. Come on.” Crankers was one of those guys whose lard gargled out in their deep, fat voices and then steamed up in a whistle, like puberty hadn’t just hit him, it had given him a guy-smiley. Poor, poor Crankers.
       So we didn’t have sex in Crankers’ ma’s room. It took a while to get us out of there, but we were just being difficult. The Percher had a long talk with us through the door about how Crankers was threatening to bust it open, and we walked out a few minutes later rather less sheepishly than we should have. Come to think of it, that’s probably where the karma kick came in. Poor, poor Crankers.