Not a very interesting way to spend a Saturday
You know you are too horny when...
... a dog licking the back of your arm results in an erection.
I helped A. move out of H.'s house (and back into his parents' home) yesterday. Now, "helping A." consists of him directing you to what needs to be moved and then watching as you move it. In one particularly masterful bit of planning, A. lured myself, V., V.'s girlfriend, and L. with the promise of dinner (to be fixed by A.'s parents) and then, upon our arrival, departed to go pick up the U-haul truck. We were left with explicit instructions on how to move the five or so large, heavy pieces of furniture he actually owns onto H.'s front lawn. I swear, the boy has a little Cartman in him, perhaps he is channeling.
I had foolishly arrived early and thus spent a good half-hour or so working up a little sweat on my own, which was just as well because three is really a crowd; When V. and L. arrived, they began moving all the remaining pieces themselves as I supervised (read: criticized). For reasons that are not entirely clear to me, V. is under the impression that L. is stronger than I am, an assertion that made me desirous of some sort of toughman competition (Greco-Roman wrestling was suggested, but L. fears my martial arts prowess). Instead, I chatted with V.'s girl, M., for a while. It seems she attended a second performance of Hedwig and has arrived at my original opinion that the director of the film made superior choices in certain key scenes.
Once everything was out of the lawn, the four of us basically had to kill a good half hour or more before A. returned with the truck. Some annoyingly pretentious yet charmingly offensive discussions took place as V. and M. debated the core of the Anal-Expulsive Personality (the less common result of fixation in the second of Freud's Psychosexual Stages). I built an altar out of loose table legs with a disgusting towel retrieved from A.'s basement as the centerpiece ("Yeah," he said, fertively placing it into a basket and handing the container to me, "this will need to be washed."). As time passed and boredom grew, I tried to call S. so I might erotically describe how sweaty I was, but couldn't even get his voicemail. Instead, V. and I reassembled A.'s wargaming table on the front lawn and I lounged seductively on its surface (or as seductively as is possible when lounging on corkboard).
Eventually, the truck arrived. There was loading. There was driving. There was unloading. Then there was dinner.
A.'s parents adore me and actually chose the meal based on my preferences (his mother makes a marvelous barbecue chicken). Consumption and chatting ensued. Sometimes I grow quite weary of A. and V.'s bullshit though. Their capacity for discussing obscure historical and political movements about which I am absolutely certain they are only half-informed both bores and annoys me.
I was happy when S. called. At the same time, I was uncomfortable because all dinner conversation stopped as everyone stared at me. I have yet to discuss our relationship with any of those in attendance and, while I have no intent of keeping any secrets, it nevertheless was awkward for me. The top it all off, I receive no cellular signal in A.'s parent's home, so I could only understand every fifth word. He was getting on the bus and the conversation ended abruptly. Too abruptly. I then preoccupied over it for the rest of the meal.
I am entirely too neurotic to be in any sort of relationship. I kept thinking, "what if he thought I was blowing him off because I didn't want the people at the dinner table to know we were dating?" Such a thing would seem two-faced and remarkably cowardly on my part. He called me before heading off to his performance that night and I didn't even bother to excuse myself from the table and give him my full attention. That seemed pretty inconsiderate. On and on my little brain can putter. Until I end up spending a good portion of the after-dinner socialization wandering off with my cellphone attempting to get signal.
Our next stop, unfortunately, was V.'s parent's home, for no purpose other than provide A. with a suitable locale to smoke pot. This I see as one of the biggest stumbling blocks in the coming weeks. There is no way A., who now indulges in weed at least once per day, can survive in his parent's home without locating an adequate hidey-hole for substance abuse. His motley collection of bongs, pipes, hash and weed is currently sealed up in a ziploc bag and stored in a manilla folder labeled "work papers" along with his work-related papers. There is a certain high school aesthetic to the entire thing that is more than a little sad.
Not that I can talk. Pathetic little creature that I am, I wandered about V.'s parent's backyard like a reject from the cast of Star Trek, my cellphone flipped open in my hand, waved about in a vain attempt to locate adequate signal. They really need to implement a tricorder sound to accompany changes in signal strength.
I resigned myself to a rum and Coke and listened to V. and A. banter on about Trotskyites. The entire time, A. puffed away on the ass of a gray ceramic turtle, the symbolism of which I am sure was lost on him.
I finally managed more than the intermittent one or two bars on my Sprint service during our drive to this guy Mike's house. V. had been regaling me with tales of Christmas parties where S. would come over, play the piano, and serenade V.'s grandfather with A Horse With No Name. I called S. and left a voicemail message while V. was in the car in some sort of not-so-clever attempt to demonstrate that I was not hiding things from my other friends. Obviously, I overthink this shit.
The rest of the evening was spent in front of the television. We watched the Beatles' Magical Mystery Tour, which was pretty damned entertaining. We watched a tape of commercials for children's toys from the Fifties, which was really fantastic. We watched a tape of Grammar Rock, which was very nostalgic. And then we watched a tape of The State skits, which was moderately amusing. Some sort of synchonicity was in effect as this particular tape contained the very sketch that S. had so animatedly described to me the Sunday after the Absinthe Party. His overexcited performance was one of the things that really endeared him to me. Oddly enough, I think his version was more amusing (or at the very least far cuter) than the reality.
Maybe I was thinking about S. as I stroked the chest of Mike's dog. The sad old fellow was languidly licking the entire length of the back of my arm (I suppose I was salty from the afternoon's exertions). Much to my embarassment, I developed a hard-on.
Happily, things broke up quite early. It seems as though lifting furniture and then consuming alcohol results in general exhaustion. We went our separate ways and I returned to a cold, empty apartment. I left S. a second message, telling him goodnight and how disappointed I was that I could not hear his voice before bed.
I was curled up beneath my blanket when he called.
... a dog licking the back of your arm results in an erection.
I helped A. move out of H.'s house (and back into his parents' home) yesterday. Now, "helping A." consists of him directing you to what needs to be moved and then watching as you move it. In one particularly masterful bit of planning, A. lured myself, V., V.'s girlfriend, and L. with the promise of dinner (to be fixed by A.'s parents) and then, upon our arrival, departed to go pick up the U-haul truck. We were left with explicit instructions on how to move the five or so large, heavy pieces of furniture he actually owns onto H.'s front lawn. I swear, the boy has a little Cartman in him, perhaps he is channeling.
I had foolishly arrived early and thus spent a good half-hour or so working up a little sweat on my own, which was just as well because three is really a crowd; When V. and L. arrived, they began moving all the remaining pieces themselves as I supervised (read: criticized). For reasons that are not entirely clear to me, V. is under the impression that L. is stronger than I am, an assertion that made me desirous of some sort of toughman competition (Greco-Roman wrestling was suggested, but L. fears my martial arts prowess). Instead, I chatted with V.'s girl, M., for a while. It seems she attended a second performance of Hedwig and has arrived at my original opinion that the director of the film made superior choices in certain key scenes.
Once everything was out of the lawn, the four of us basically had to kill a good half hour or more before A. returned with the truck. Some annoyingly pretentious yet charmingly offensive discussions took place as V. and M. debated the core of the Anal-Expulsive Personality (the less common result of fixation in the second of Freud's Psychosexual Stages). I built an altar out of loose table legs with a disgusting towel retrieved from A.'s basement as the centerpiece ("Yeah," he said, fertively placing it into a basket and handing the container to me, "this will need to be washed."). As time passed and boredom grew, I tried to call S. so I might erotically describe how sweaty I was, but couldn't even get his voicemail. Instead, V. and I reassembled A.'s wargaming table on the front lawn and I lounged seductively on its surface (or as seductively as is possible when lounging on corkboard).
Eventually, the truck arrived. There was loading. There was driving. There was unloading. Then there was dinner.
A.'s parents adore me and actually chose the meal based on my preferences (his mother makes a marvelous barbecue chicken). Consumption and chatting ensued. Sometimes I grow quite weary of A. and V.'s bullshit though. Their capacity for discussing obscure historical and political movements about which I am absolutely certain they are only half-informed both bores and annoys me.
I was happy when S. called. At the same time, I was uncomfortable because all dinner conversation stopped as everyone stared at me. I have yet to discuss our relationship with any of those in attendance and, while I have no intent of keeping any secrets, it nevertheless was awkward for me. The top it all off, I receive no cellular signal in A.'s parent's home, so I could only understand every fifth word. He was getting on the bus and the conversation ended abruptly. Too abruptly. I then preoccupied over it for the rest of the meal.
I am entirely too neurotic to be in any sort of relationship. I kept thinking, "what if he thought I was blowing him off because I didn't want the people at the dinner table to know we were dating?" Such a thing would seem two-faced and remarkably cowardly on my part. He called me before heading off to his performance that night and I didn't even bother to excuse myself from the table and give him my full attention. That seemed pretty inconsiderate. On and on my little brain can putter. Until I end up spending a good portion of the after-dinner socialization wandering off with my cellphone attempting to get signal.
Our next stop, unfortunately, was V.'s parent's home, for no purpose other than provide A. with a suitable locale to smoke pot. This I see as one of the biggest stumbling blocks in the coming weeks. There is no way A., who now indulges in weed at least once per day, can survive in his parent's home without locating an adequate hidey-hole for substance abuse. His motley collection of bongs, pipes, hash and weed is currently sealed up in a ziploc bag and stored in a manilla folder labeled "work papers" along with his work-related papers. There is a certain high school aesthetic to the entire thing that is more than a little sad.
Not that I can talk. Pathetic little creature that I am, I wandered about V.'s parent's backyard like a reject from the cast of Star Trek, my cellphone flipped open in my hand, waved about in a vain attempt to locate adequate signal. They really need to implement a tricorder sound to accompany changes in signal strength.
I resigned myself to a rum and Coke and listened to V. and A. banter on about Trotskyites. The entire time, A. puffed away on the ass of a gray ceramic turtle, the symbolism of which I am sure was lost on him.
I finally managed more than the intermittent one or two bars on my Sprint service during our drive to this guy Mike's house. V. had been regaling me with tales of Christmas parties where S. would come over, play the piano, and serenade V.'s grandfather with A Horse With No Name. I called S. and left a voicemail message while V. was in the car in some sort of not-so-clever attempt to demonstrate that I was not hiding things from my other friends. Obviously, I overthink this shit.
The rest of the evening was spent in front of the television. We watched the Beatles' Magical Mystery Tour, which was pretty damned entertaining. We watched a tape of commercials for children's toys from the Fifties, which was really fantastic. We watched a tape of Grammar Rock, which was very nostalgic. And then we watched a tape of The State skits, which was moderately amusing. Some sort of synchonicity was in effect as this particular tape contained the very sketch that S. had so animatedly described to me the Sunday after the Absinthe Party. His overexcited performance was one of the things that really endeared him to me. Oddly enough, I think his version was more amusing (or at the very least far cuter) than the reality.
Maybe I was thinking about S. as I stroked the chest of Mike's dog. The sad old fellow was languidly licking the entire length of the back of my arm (I suppose I was salty from the afternoon's exertions). Much to my embarassment, I developed a hard-on.
Happily, things broke up quite early. It seems as though lifting furniture and then consuming alcohol results in general exhaustion. We went our separate ways and I returned to a cold, empty apartment. I left S. a second message, telling him goodnight and how disappointed I was that I could not hear his voice before bed.
I was curled up beneath my blanket when he called.