Coffee and Gasoline

Coffee is wonderful. It should be consumed in great volumes, without cream or sugar, undiluted, and in the presence of a strong smell of gasoline. It’s best accompanied with a three-pack of Zingers and some beef jerky. A long car ride, a book of Charles Bukowski’s poetry, and loud music are also helpful accompaniments.

Aftermath

The only clean thing in the room is the window. Everything else shares our guilt. Everything else was an accessory to what we all did. The window was the only thing in the room that tried to betray us. It tried to let somebody know. It’s 4am, and everything is quiet. Everybody has had their fill. There isn’t a drop left in anyone here. We’re all done for the night.

Mustang Sally’s

Mustang Sally’s is a bottle club. You bring your own beer and the girls get completely naked. Weird state laws prevent fine establishments such as this from selling alcohol when the dancers are totally nude. Most of the time you find clubs where they either sell alcohol and the girls wear pasties or you bring your own alcohol and the girls get completely naked. On our way there, on the winding narrow roads whipping through the backwoods, my girlfriend’s husband was driving us at seventy miles per hour. It was terrifying. I was in the backseat with all the windows open. It was making me chilly. Normally I enjoy being a little chilly, but this was just a little too much, just enough to be uncomfortable. The air was roaring.

When we arrived, the parking lot was full of trucks, men, and coolers. The building looked new, with a huge, impressive neon sign. Upon payment and entrance, you are given a plastic cup. They come in a few different colors. Mine was fluorescent orange. Neon pink and green appeared to be the only other options. It was also screen-printed with the black outline of a sexy-looking, cartoon cowgirl standing between two galloping horses, all in front of giant flames. The logo sat beneath, drawn in rope. Below that was the phone number of the club and its web address. The main stage was big, and lit dramatically. It looked like every other stage I’ve ever seen in a strip club, only newer. The spot where the brass pole met the ceiling looked like it had been peppered with buck shot. The little holes from where the girls’ heels had punctured the drop ceiling formed a halo in the panel around the top of the pole. Bad, radio-friendly metal from the late '90s throbbed over the PA. The girls were all in good shape. Many were quite athletic, and did things that made me dizzy. They smiled a lot, and looked cute and occasionally innocent in the neon glow. At other moments you could see their detachment. I watched a girl get on her hands and knees, point her ass at a man, spread her legs and pump her cheeks and crotch in his face, which was just inches away. He stared into her vagina like money was going to fall out of it. While she did this, her face was pointed away from most of the patrons. It was apparent that she didn’t think that anybody was looking at her face, as she looked utterly disinterested with what she was doing. Not uncomfortable, just disconnected. I generally feel disconnected from what I do for a living. How was this any different? It didn’t spoil the experience for me. I actually felt more intimate with her as a result of it. I felt like I had actually seen something that I wasn’t supposed to see, and that’s the very reason you go to a strip club anyway. I felt like we had something in common. It was humanizing. Later, the same girl came over and pressed her breasts against my face—a nipple in each eye—and shook them for a few seconds. I tipped her.

Eventually most of us got drunk and we all decided to leave. My wife’s boyfriend resumed driving duties, as he hadn’t been drinking. I got blown in the backseat on the way back to their place. He drove with no less abandon than during the initial trip, which made the experience that much more exhilarating.

Hiding

I’m not supposed to be here. So I’m hiding behind the bed, below the window. I am a large grown man, hiding like a child. Her father and brother are here. They’ve dropped by unannounced. They don’t know that I exist, but I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want me here if they did know. I’ve got nothing to fear from them, but I am hiding myself simply as a courtesy to her. I am a large, naked, embarrassing toy with a hangover, nipple rings, tattoos, and a retreating erection. They are walking around outside her house, gathering up some assorted things they need from the shed. Tools, wood, a can of gasoline. They don’t know that she is also here. She is hiding with me, also naked, behind the bed. We are mischievous children. My wife and her boyfriend are both out walking around in the woods or something, and the only way this could get any cooler would be if they return from their date as her father and brother discover us hiding behind the bed. There’s a nihilistic part of me that just loves that sort of calamity and dysfunction, even if I’m a casualty of it. After about five minutes, the men outside get what they need and leave. No event. No consequences.

The Weird Egg-Shaped Porch Swing

I drove into the woods with my wife and a trunk full of booze. We drove deep into the middle of nowhere. She was a mirror. I was all cream, froth, foam and insanity. I was overflowing, spilling out the car doors onto the road, leaving a trail. The sky was vibrant, plum purple. Everything that was not the sky stood neutralized, in humble contrast to it. We went far. We were running from everything behind us, though nobody was giving chase.

When we arrived at their place, they were happy to see us. The sun descended the rest of the way down. We fell right in. My wife went inside with my girlfriend’s husband, and I stayed outside with my girlfriend. We talked on their porch. They live on eight acres, surrounded by nothing but woods. Beautiful. It was a cool night, and the air got moist. It began to drizzle, and we retreated back under the overhang, though we didn’t want to give up the outside air and didn’t want to interrupt what was most likely going on inside. They had a weird porch swing. It was made of white tubular steel with one spring suspending the weird egg-shaped chair, just under the overhang. It was meant to seat one person. She sat me back on it, and pulled me out through the zipper of my pants. She lifted her skirt, pulled her panties to the side, and sat back on me. Neither one of us is very heavy, but nonetheless I was relieved to discover that the swing held us both without any problem. The drizzle picked up a bit, and the air smelled beautiful. Not a drink yet or any weed. We were just bouncing gently in the weird egg-shaped porch swing. We both came, her and then me. Then we remained right where we were for a bit. Neither one of us wanted to move. I had forgotten about everything I had been running from earlier in the day.