Toys “R” Us

I have to get drunk before I set foot inside a Toys “R” Us. It’s a just a matter of fact. Some things in this world are more terrifying than one can handle sober. Every man has his limits, and Toys “R” Us is beyond mine. Five minutes inside a toy store is enough to make me want to cut my nuts off with a spoon, just to ensure that I’ll never accidentally reproduce and commit myself to even more time inside those kinds of places. With two days until Christmas, we still had to get a gift for my cousin. He was three years old, a great kid. I like getting him stuff. I’m just not good at understanding what kids like. I’m really not much good at gift giving until the recipient is old enough that I can buy him music, literature, or alcohol. Regardless, we were inside a Toys “R” Us, and I had a good buzz. Most of the women whom you see in a toy store are moms. It’s not a bad place for looking at women, because you do know for a fact that these women put out. They’re definitely kind of scary, though. The younger ones generally look angry. It seems like most of them really didn’t plan on being mothers at their current stage in life. They don’t really have the resources or patience to be parents yet, but they’re dutifully shopping for their kids. That’s love. They smell strongly of cigarette smoke and speak tersely at the men who accompany them. It occurred to me that they’re much stronger people than me. They might be ten years younger than me and they’ve already suffered more. My buzz was still holding me together, though not as well as I’d have liked. We looked at godless, battery-operated toys that had blinking lights, motorized parts, and made horrible noises. We looked at a fantastic-looking box full of drums, tambourines, bells, shakers, and other miscellaneous percussion instruments, and we both laughed out loud while commenting that this would definitely be the perfect gift to get my cousin if we wanted to really irritate my aunt and uncle. Ultimately we decided that we’d like for them to still speak to us after Christmas, so we kept looking. I noticed the older women too. It’s clear that most of them have surrendered any ambitions of maintaining their bodies into middle age. I can’t imagine what that must feel like. It must be agonizing when life breaks your spirit like that. It must hurt to give up completely. Age doesn’t necessarily have to destroy the shape of your body. I’ve seen stunning-looking women their age and older. Men can sustain it, too. I’ve seen older guys at the gym who lift heavier than me. I know it takes lots of vigilance. You have to have time for yourself to get to the gym, and discipline to diet properly. I’m sure it’s incredibly difficult, if not impossible, with kids. I really began to feel like a selfish, vain asshole, and my buzz was dwindling. I think kids are great. I’m just terrified of them and the responsibility they bring. I felt like I must be the weakest thing under this particular roof, and I just wanted another drink. Eventually we found a thing that looked like a complicated, updated Etch-A-Sketch. It had lots of extra junk on it, and I guessed that toymakers need to add that sort of crap to remain competitive in the marketplace. It’s one of the reasons that I hate the marketplace. The purity and singularity of a good idea gets trampled under the goose-stepping boots of short attention spans and profit margins. The soul of this thing looked like it was still intact, though. It seemed like the best option in the store. As a child, I had loved my Etch-A-Sketch, and I became an artist. It seemed like the most fitting gift that we were likely to find, so we got it. The line at the register was enough to make me want to die. My buzz was almost completely gone. A pimply-faced adolescent male rung us up, and I could see the pain on his face. I wanted to tip him. It must have been a long night. When we got home, I thanked my wife for not wanting kids. Then I fell asleep on the couch.

The Floridian

We found a new single bisexual female online and met her for drinks on Friday evening. Conversation was pretty safe and polite. Nobody got drunk. My wife was on her period, so nothing could happen anyway. Everybody knew this beforehand, so there were no expectations to be dashed. We sat and talked and drank in a very crowded restaurant. The topic of sex never even arose. She was a very good-looking girl, very curvy. She’s got some very cool, well-done tattoos on her legs, left arm, and the back of her neck. We had to call it a night pretty early, because it had been a very long week. My wife and I were both falling asleep at the table. It went well, and we promised to see her again.

The next day there was a message from her, and we didn’t have any particular plans. My wife was still on her period, but we agreed that there would be no harm in hanging out for beers again. We promised to broach the subject of sex this time. The evening started out at the Lava Lounge. That might have been a mistake, because we know way too many people there who don’t know that we swing. We were, however, able to get a booth and speak freely about whatever subject needed to be discussed. The Floridian is a fantastically dirty girl. She talked a wonderful game, and left me anxious to determine the accuracy of it. We shared nearly every gritty sex story we had in that booth, at least all the ones we could think of on the spur of the moment. Once the bar began to get crowded, we headed down the street to the Tiki Lounge, and found a semi-hidden little room downstairs. We told more stories, and I began to get buzzed. The tension was incredible. She was showing a great deal of cleavage, and I couldn’t look away from it. Eventually we decided to call it a night, before anybody got too worked up. My wife had to hit the ladies room one last time before we left. As soon as she departed, leaving us alone in this secluded room, the Floridian and I locked tightly, groped, and kissed deeply for a few short moments. It was nice. It was brief. It was just a sample. We composed ourselves just in time for my wife to return. Then we walked outside, down to the corner, and parted ways for the night, with solid plans to get together when everybody could fuck. During the car ride home, I told my wife about the brief interlude that the Floridian and I had had back at the booth and she seemed generally amused.

Two weeks elapsed. The following week, I had a few paintings in a group show that was opening in a Boston art gallery, and I was going to be there for it. We had plans to meet up with her on the following Saturday evening for whatever might happen. As the date approached, my anticipation grew. My wife didn’t really speak of it. I knew that she wasn’t quite as excited as me. She and the Floridian didn’t click especially well, but they certainly didn’t clash either. I thought that if she had any serious reservations that she’d voice them.

That Saturday morning, my wife told me that she wouldn’t be having sex with the Floridian. She said that she just wasn’t into it, but that I could still proceed if I wanted. We’ve never swung that way before. We’ve always swapped evenly. Any time that we’ve had sex with a single woman, we’ve done it together. Any time that we’ve had a single man involved, I’ve always been present and participated. The only times we had ever slept alone with other people had been with our friends from State College, and that had been a strange and unique arrangement. I explained that it had never been my desire to fuck the Floridian alone, and would never agree to my wife sleeping with another man without me present. I wanted to make certain that she understood that I hadn’t planned on such an arrangement, and would not be able to make the same concession that she was making. She insisted that she was fine with it. I explained that if she didn’t want me to have sex with this girl, then I wouldn’t. I double- and triple-checked to confirm that she meant what she was saying. She did.

That evening we met the Floridian for drinks. My wife didn’t waste time explaining the change of plans. She faked illness to avoid any bad feelings, and told the Floridian that she’d still like her to fuck me. She asked if that would be okay. The Floridian replied that she would. After a couple beers, we left the bar and headed back to our place. The Floridian had never been there before, and had no idea where we lived. It was December, and the roads were terrible. It wouldn’t have been easy for her to simply follow my wife and me the whole way home. One of us needed to ride with her. Since my wife drove that evening, we had her car. Thus, it would be me who rode with the Floridian back to our place. When we got to her car we groped and kissed heavily for a few moments, then drove off. We did this each time we hit a traffic light.

Back at our house, we all sat in the living room downstairs and talked and drank some more. After a while, my wife excused herself and went up to bed, betraying no indication of misgiving. She even took the dog with her so we wouldn’t be disturbed. As soon as my wife had ascended the top step and turned the corner, I was upon the Floridian. Things escalated quickly. Clothes were shed in an instant. Remarkably, none were ripped in the process. We fucked aggressively and in every way that a man and woman imaginably can, for about an hour and a half. She was even more dirty than I’d anticipated. We were done around 12:30am, and the roads were getting worse with the mounting storm. The Floridian dressed and left. I had given her directions back to roads that she knew. I agreed to leave my phone on and beside the bed in case she got lost or had any trouble. I went upstairs to bed. My wife asked if I’d had fun. I replied, “Yes.”

In the morning, I awoke to go to the gym. I still smelled like the Floridian’s perfume. Interactions with my wife seemed a little tense. At one point I hugged her and asked her if everything was alright. I could see her hesitate. I suspect it was the smell of the other woman on me. We talked about the previous night, sparing the gritty details. It was somewhat strained. I felt bad, but I hadn’t done anything that I hadn’t had explicit permission to do. I did nothing wrong, aside from taking my wife at her word when perhaps I shouldn’t have. We came to the conclusion that we wouldn’t be sleeping with any more singles in the future. We decided that couples were the only fair and balanced way to go.

Second Boston Trip

We took a second trip to Boston. We flew this time. I had a few pieces of my work in a group exhibition at the Bromfield Gallery, in Boston’s Back Bay area. The flight from Pittsburgh to Boston is pretty brief. When my wife and I travel, we normally rent a car (to spare our vehicles the mileage) and drive. Only this time did we finally realize that the cost of a rental car, gas, and toll roads exceeds the cost of air fare. Neither of us excels at math, though even we can figure such things out, in time. We don’t mind flying. We’ve flown before. The time saved, in contrast to driving, is wonderful. It’s convenient. The only aggravating aspect of the flight was the couple in front of us. They looked very affluent, sophisticated, white, and faux self-effacing. They looked like the sort of people who had generally decent taste in music, literature, and movies. They most likely drive some sort of European import luxury car. Perhaps a smaller BMW, as a larger one would be so obnoxious and overbearing. Their clothes were unassuming, but peppered with very expensive logos in subtle, tasteful places. They sat down and began to flip through the magazines and catalogs in the back of the seats in front of them. That particular flight had no first class section. We were all riding in coach. It was incredibly confining. The couple in front of us each reclined their seats as far back as they would go. It crushed my knees. I gently pushed back, to give polite indication to this guy that I’d been compromised. He paused, then pushed back again with equal force and distance. He didn’t budge again for the duration of the one hour flight. No big deal. It wasn’t hard to let it go. As we flew over the city at night, I looked down at it through the window. Everything man-made glowed. It was beautiful and hideous, all at once. The patches of development looked like luminous scabs, or lesions weeping light instead of infection, into the quiet inky black of the landscape. We landed without incident, and arrived at our hotel via a shuttle bus and two subway trains. We checked in and slept.

At 6am, we awoke to the sounds of loud young men returning to their room, the one next to ours. They were excited, alive, and probably drunk. I can admire all of those things. They had likely been out all night, and were simply not quite ready to end their party. I understood, and appreciated their right to that. They spoke very loudly, badly, and about very dumb things. It was piercing. It was aggravating. Sleep had ended. These young men were in every way the opposite of the couple from the plane. Both the couple from the plane and the group of young partiers returning to their room were apes, from my perspective. None of these people had any courtesy, regard, or consideration for their fellow man. None were cognizant of their surroundings or the people they were affecting with their behavior. Very few people are actually civilized. Most just try to look that way. At least the young partiers had youthful naivety as an excuse. The couple from the plane didn’t have that. Our trip had gotten off to a bad start.

Later that day, we found our way across town to the Bromfield Gallery. It was a beautiful-looking place, sandwiched between two other galleries. Two of my paintings were displayed up front, on the right wall. They were easily visible from outside through the giant glass front wall. They must have really liked my work to display it that prominently. It’s an artist-owned and -run gallery, so everybody working there is also an artist and a member. I’m 29 years old, and all of the other members appeared to be at least ten years older than me. We entered and I introduced myself to some of the women working in the back. They looked at me like I was insane and on fire. I told them that I was the new National Member of their gallery, the guy from Pittsburgh. They still didn’t seem to get it, and I gave up trying and just went and stood by my paintings in the front area, somewhat flustered, waiting to answer any questions that anybody might have. My wife and I walked around to the other nearby galleries which were also having openings that evening. We returned to the Bromfield a few times, dreading it each time. Every time we walked through the door, they looked at us like we were radioactive and stricken with leprosy. I noticed some new women on our third visit, and thought that I’d try introducing myself again. This time I was immediately identified by my name, and this woman took me around re-introducing me to the other women who had previously been confused by me. Their look of recognition was a relief. They apologized for not recognizing me the first time. All was well. We made idle chit-chat about the art world and the struggle involved with showing. It’s interesting to hear other peoples’ philosophies on it. I always pay very close attention when I’m talking to somebody 15 years my senior who’s still hanging in there, regardless of whether or not I like their work.

The opening was scheduled to run from 5:30 – 7:30pm. Our friends John and Kiarna, who both live in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, had said they’d come down to Boston to see the show and hang out for the evening. We hadn’t seen them in about two years. I was really looking forward to seeing them. At about 7:15, I got nervous that they wouldn’t make it. At 7:30 we assumed they weren’t going to make it, and that the opening was about over. My wife and I each had our phones on, and John and Kiarna have each of our numbers. So we figured if they were going to make it out, they could call us. We left the gallery and went to get some dinner at a restaurant about two blocks away. I was really getting bummed out, thinking that they weren’t going to make it. At 7:45, my phone rang. They had made it to the opening. Apparently it was still going on, and they had just gotten there. I explained where we were, and they came over to meet us. We hugged them as they entered the restaurant and promptly rushed though the rest of our dinner. The rest of the evening was spent at Bukowski’s Tavern. We walked over. It wasn’t a great distance, and it wasn’t insufferably cold. We sat and drank and talked for a long time. It was magnificent. My wife and I have known John for almost ten years, and I love him like a brother. It was good for me to see him. After a while, they walked back to their car for an hour’s drive back to Portsmouth. We jumped on a subway back to our hotel. The rest of our long weekend in Boston was cool but generally uneventful.

The Handmade Arcade

This was my wife’s third craft fair. It’s the biggest one in Pittsburgh, and it happens once annually, always in November. Just like the last one, it started early on a Saturday, and I didn’t want to miss my morning workout. So she went early, and I followed up as soon thereafter as I could. I took my time. I had to pick something up at the mall, of all places. The giant protein bucket that I use for my post-workout shakes had run out. I needed a new one. The mall is one of my least favorite places on Earth to go. So while I was there, I decided to really embrace the experience, and also grab lunch. I got a giant plate of Chinese food and pounded it down. I bought my protein bucket and stopped at the coffee place. I got the biggest cup of straight black coffee they were legally allowed to serve me without signing a waiver. Then I hit the cigar shop. My wife hates it when I smoke cigars. It’s something that I do maybe two or three times a year. It’s not frequent. She’s convinced that I’m going to get some sort of cancer from it, even though I do it so infrequently. Without her in tow, there would be no objections. I don’t really know much about cigars. All I know is that I’ve never had a bad Montecristo. The best one I ever had was in the Bahamas. They get them from Cuba. In the States, we have to get the South American varieties, which aren’t quite as good but still aren’t bad. I got a Corona Serie-C and drove off into a beautifully cold, gray November afternoon with my giant coffee, sweet tasting cigar, Queens of the Stone Age on the stereo, and the window halfway down. It was gorgeous. I was completely satisfied and singular. The only thing that could have improved the experience would have been a beautiful naked woman in the passenger seat beside me. It was great until I hit all the traffic on the parkway. Even then, the experience wasn’t ruined. I weaseled through the congestion, using every tricky little side street to get through Oakland and East Liberty, and still got mired in traffic. By the time I had arrived at my wife’s booth, both the cigar and the giant coffee had been exhausted. I took over for her for about an hour while she hit the ladies room, grabbed some food, and walked around. She returned in good spirits. I had brought Factotum with me to read in any downtime that might come up, so I sat down to read and let her work the table some more. She looks much better and more inviting than I do, and thus sells better. If a big crowd came over, I’d get up to help. Otherwise, I sat in relative silence trying to be inconspicuous. Most of the clothes that my wife makes are geared towards women, specifically younger ones. Her stuff seems to appeal mostly to high school and college aged girls. So the scenery from behind the table was generally pretty nice. At one point, two girls who looked like they were probably of legal age approached the table, looking at the shirts and corsets. The girls were both quite fit and developed, and liked a few of the shirts, but weren’t sure if they’d fit. They were wearing tank tops, with their coats stuffed into the bags they were carrying. They asked my wife if she would mind if they just tried them on over their shirts at the table. She said, “Sure.” I pretended to continue reading while looking up over the top of my book. It was a cheap show, but a good one. They wriggled into the tight-fitting shirts, and even though there was a lot of cloth involved, their forms were clearly defined. I had my Nikon with me. I leaned over to my wife, who quietly chuckled at my approach in expectation of what she knew I was about to ask, if it would be okay if I got my camera out and started taking pictures. She smiled and said, “I’ll kill you.”

The Ballad of Jake

It had been almost a month since we hit the Lava Lounge, and consequently a month since we had seen our friend Greg. He was overjoyed at our return. As we entered the bar he began to mock us loudly, in faux irritation. He’s wonderful. We explained our hiatus. It’s remarkable that we’re there so frequently that our absence requires explanation. His ex-girlfriend was there too. She’s always there, and I can never remember her name. She’s cool. They have the most amazing relationship. I understand they were an item for quite a length of time. They broke up, and she hated him for quite a while. Now they hang out at this bar every Saturday night. They’re best friends. The dynamic is odd but cool. There was also a very drunk older-looking fellow named Jake sitting on the other side of her. He was quite drunk, and loud, and flirting with anything female that will listen to him. Unfortunately, this included my wife. He was trying to talk to her through, over, and around Greg’s girlfriend, whom he’d given up on. My wife is occasionally struck dumb with inexplicable politeness. This night was one of those occasions. I kept suggesting that if she would quit looking down that way and obliging him, he might leave her alone. Instead, she just suffered though it, and complained to me sideways. Eventually he learned that she was a teacher, and he blurted out, “I wish I had a teacher that looked as nice as you.” Immediately afterwards, feigning embarrassment, he said, “I’m sorry! That wasn’t right. Let me buy you a drink.” Greg wasn’t helping. These sorts of bizarre situations amuse him. He likes to fuel them. Jake is basically harmless, and just seems to like talking about himself. He’s got an endless love for the sound of his own voice. It’s kind of touching, in a strange way. He talked about his service in Vietnam, the strange white streak that he’s developed in his mustache, volunteering at the animal shelter, how he knows all the Pittsburgh Steelers, and how the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette wants him to write some sort of column, or book, or essay, or something on some subject that only he is qualified to write…but he won’t because he’s too busy, or it’s below him or something. He’s endearing, irritating, charming, and annoying, all at once. He claimed to be 47 years old. It’s 2007. If he’s 47, then he was born in 1960. The Vietnam War took place from 1965 to 1975. That means that he would've had to have entered the service before he was 15. That seems difficult to swallow. My guess is that he’s not really 47. Eventually, my wife and I decided that we needed to eat something. So we walked to a Thai place down the street to get some take-out to bring back to the bar and eat there. We hoped that he would be drunk off his stool or would have left by the time of our return. This was not the case. We sat down at the other end of the bar with our fried rice, chicken, and tofu. It was incredible. Eating in bars is wonderful. Jake was aware that we’d returned and he was still shouting inane stories down to my wife and laughing at his own jokes. A new girl walked into the bar. She was cute and young. Greg said her name is Claire. She plopped down right beside Jake, and we all cringed. He started back at the beginning. All the same stories. It was punishing. His bullshit was difficult enough to endure the first time. The second time around it was even worse, though kind of amusing now that we could anticipate the punchlines before they come. At one point, my wife turned to Claire and asked if she’d like to escape down to our end of the bar, to come sit with us. She smiled, and said that she was doing all right. The unexpected turn came when he announced that he was a libertine, and Claire asked if he really meant that he was a libertarian. It was genuinely funny, and we all laughed hard. And Jake said, “I’m sure the teacher can tell us all the difference between a libertine and a libertarian!”