Writing Blog!: February 2008

Dear Blog,

So, it's been a while since I've posted. Maybe I'll try to post more regularly now. Maybe. I went to a Super Bowl party today. It was OK. I hadn't seen the Super Bowl in several years. The food was good but I tried not to snack so much. Ian and I just left and watched The Truman Show.

On a related note, how is a dude supposed to get to know a lady when they only see each other in a large group of people in very public spaces, for a couple hours every other day? I'll tell you that I don't know the answer and that this college is severely wearing on my mind.

I spent all of today writing this story. It's a good one, I think. WARNING: It's very sexually graphic. So, if you don't want to get grossed out then don't read. However, it's not an unreal graphic, I've tried to keep the dialog faithful to what it was like to be fourteen. For some reason though, when I want to deal with the topic of teenage sexuality, people get creeped out. Also, it's pretty long, close to 5000 words.

Whores of the Babylon Theatre
By Benjamin Morgan

I.

Do you remember those late summer nights at the movie theatre, when the schools had just started back and first romances were blooming out, the air humid with teenage hormones? Everyone running back and forth in front of the theatre’s glass doors. All the little groups huddled together talking and laughing on the pavement. The vans and SUVs go back and forth, slowly picking up and dropping off their little social experiments. The older couples, sometimes in letter jackets, are walking tall through the adolescent crowd, thumbing their noses at the kids they were one or two years ago. The middle-aged and elderly crowd tentatively approach, wondering if they should’ve picked a less crowded night to come see the newest flick with that devilishly handsome George Clooney. But, it’s really too late to turn back now, isn’t it? Some smile at the children, remembering what it was like, if not the exact same situation or time period, the feelings that are rich in the air are too familiar to ignore. Oddly enough though, some thumb their noses with credulity, not unlike the older children. For some reason they can’t seem to remember their childhood or they choose not to. Swallowed by adulthood, they feign ignorance and stew in their anger and pragmatic hopelessness.

Much is to be won on these nights, but much is to be lost. The dirty tens and fives folded in jean pockets are sub-divided into smaller and smaller increments. Popcorn and candy for all are won though, at this expense. With riches won, the conquerors go in search of a place to camp. Their laughter resounding on the walls, lined with posters of alluring stars and warnings about filming in the theatre.

Rushing into the theatre, the first game is on, who sits next to whom. You can sit next to that best friend and whisper the whole movie away in mocking tones. Or maybe, just maybe, you sit next to that girl, the one with the red hair, you’ve had your eye on. But, be quick about it for Christ’s sake, because if you don’t hurry you just end up sitting on the end, next to that bitch that no one invited. She makes awkward comments, maybe even hits on you with a glaring lack of subtlety. She even pops her gum like some eighties throwback that just hopped out of the DeLorean. It’s an island, uncomfortably stranding you from any inside jokes or first glorious hand holds (or dare I say, make-outs). Once seated, the real battles begin to play out and social roles and expectations take their deadly tolls.

The lights dim and the previews start in. There is still time to silence the cell phones and chitchat about goings on. If tonight was the lucky night, you’ve got that ideal middle seat. Right in front of the screen, comfortably wedged in-between your best friend and your most high hopes, daydream queen of a crush. She’s smiling and getting some gum out of her little purple purse. It shines like the fake leather it is undoubtedly made from. Your friend, also seated next to his “maybe girlfriend” (they’ve made out once or twice), is making it difficult to look cool. He’s already stolen his girl’s phone and is dangling it in the air. A familiar adolescent game, done to show affection and maybe get her pressed up against your body. It’s really anything to get some attention and press those acceptable social and sexual boundaries. But, you don’t have the balls for that kind of a stunt. Not yet my man, but someday you’ll learn that it’s the jerks that get the sluts. Right now though, you just hope you don’t smell like shit, chew a piece of gum, and pray that your instincts, luck, God, or any other fate controlling device will bring you to the lips of the lady to your right.

The film rolls, a regular teen comedy affair, a ridiculous portrayal of relationships and partying, set against a high school background with actors in their mid twenties. But, you don’t know, you’re still naïve enough to believe that this may be a mirror of how things can go. You’re wrong, someone should probably have told you that, maybe they did, you didn’t listen. As the action in the film plays out, so does the action in the seats. Your friend immediately starts in on the spit swapping he claims to love. Later, he’ll tell you how good she said he was and how he touched her tits. They felt great. Maybe he’ll even tell you that she grazed his crotch with her hand and he doesn’t think it was an accident. He might be lying but it’s probably only a little while until he sits on a pubescent throne in the land of hand jobs and plenty. He only stops tonguing her tonsils to lean over and whisper something to you. “Go for it bro!” You smile and nod and he goes back to his business. He makes it look so casual and damn right you’re jealous.

Meanwhile, the sweat is pouring from every orifice of your body. Your stomach is upset and you’re trying to hold several gases in your body. Sitting on your haunches you wait for the perfect time to strike. You decide that perhaps slow and steady will win this race. Your hands both go to your thighs. Slowly, like someone sneaking across an enemy’s borders, you move your right hand towards hers. It’s a terrifically nerve wracking process but if it pays off, then what next? This would be so much easier, you think, if she just turned to you, looked you straight in the eyes, and dove at you like a wild animal. Your passion would be powerful and you would meet like sexual animals in the wild, free from what you would call societal restraints, if you knew that term. Rationally, some part of you may know that this may never happen. But, with what’s on the screen fueling your ideas, it seems so possible that you can almost reach out and grab it, that moment, to have for your very own.

But, it’s not happening tonight “champ”, so “go get ‘em tiger!” and whatever the hell else you need to hear. Your hand is moving so slow that you get angry with yourself. “Move it you asshole! The movie is half over dipshit! What the hell is your problem!?” The anger does nothing to change your actions. That’s still a girl you’re moving towards and she’s scarier than anything this theatre has ever put up on that screen. Which at this point, is showing two partially naked “bros” tied up and under the control of a dominatrix that they had earlier been trying to seduce. The reversal of roles has the crowd howling. It seems like a bad sign to you, or it might if you were thinking about it. You’re not thinking about much though. Finally, it’s one big breath and the arcing violins play to the tension. You reach and grab her hand; it melds to yours in human triumph. Flesh on flesh, her delicate hand in your warm, waiting one. A quick glance to the side, a smile, and your eyes lock onto hers. The trumpets play and you learn what victory really tastes like. That sweet euphoria grabs your head and screams you into a smile, twisting your boyish features.

That victory gives you an edge now boy, so think it over before you do anything rash. Oh never mind, you’ve already leaned in for the kiss and gotten it. Next time you might not be so lucky, but it’s going to take a next time for you to learn that. Maybe it’s fruitless to give some advice to the kids, especially when it comes to the affairs of the flesh and sometimes of the heart. They’re mostly going to do whatever they want and justify it however they wish. Maybe some fucked up stuff is going to happen regardless.

Now that you’ve kissed her, the floodgates are open and pouring. You’re soaked with the realization of her lips on your lips; the tender exchange of a simple act of heat and passion. This is the best thing that has ever happened to you and you’ve never been surer of anything in your life. This isn’t your first kiss but it’s the first one that’s lasted longer than five seconds. Both of your eyes are locked closed, so when she puts her hand on your side, it’s a big surprise. Your eyes pop open and you break the kiss for a second. Her eyes come open too and you know that you just made a big mistake. So, like you’ve seen Indiana Jones do, you grab her and kiss her hard right on that round, ruby mouth. It looks pretty comical though, you’re only fourteen and you look younger. The couple behind you laughs but you don’t hear them.

The “anti-sex” bar in the middle isn’t helping though. It juts out, into you, and in-between the two of you and you’ll be sore tomorrow from pressing your side on it too hard. You’ve overheard your brother talk about this bar before. That’s why you know what to call it. Now you realize that he was right, it does “fucking suck.” He’s in college now and you don’t realize that he probably went through something like this at some point. You may have gained some sense of relief from that thought. But, maybe not, people can be funny sometimes.

The simple kisses are great and you feel like Hugh Grant, although you can’t remember his name (you just picture a suave Englishman). The power that courses through you is unstoppable. Before you know it, your tongues are dancing together. You shove yours in like a sandworm searching to kill Boba Fett. But, her tongue teaches yours and guides it. Soon, you fancy yourself a pro. Finally, you think, you have reached the night’s plateau and you are loving it. The movie has another good twenty-five minutes to go and that means that you get to exist in this alternate dimension where a girl’s tongue is in your mouth and her hands are on your side for that much longer. Merry Christmas and Happy Birthday, you wish you could celebrate this day as a holiday. You’re going to write down the date when you get home.

Suddenly, her tongue is gone and she’s saying excuse her; she’ll be right back. You’re immediately shot right back down into reality. It’s a bit of a system shock and it all seemed to happen so fast. For a brief second you are taken out of the clouds and driven down into the cold, unforgiving Atlantic. Your breath is taken away. Once breath is struggled back into your body though, a warm wave of realization rushes over your body as you watch her leave the theatre, straightening her Saves the Day shirt. It’s a realization of what you’ve just done; of what you’ve just accomplished. That big smile is cracked again and you look like that creepy-as-hell cat from Alice in Wonderland.

You’re friend turns to you, pausing his hormonal festival of activity, to comment on how you are now a true player. You both high five, bump knuckles and exchange a handshake you have assured each other is only for the wickedest of pimps. Your friend’s parting words dwell on keeping your pimp hand strong. He turns back to his business at hand, practicing exactly what he preaches, or so it seems to you.

After only a minute more of sitting in silent bliss, barely watching the far-fetched ending sequences of the film, you begin to grow cold. Your head is playing through the events of the last fifteen minutes over and over again. You finally realize that you have popped a solid hard-on and adjust to avoid possible awkward comments. Once of your friend’s brothers once had a girlfriend who laughed every time he got a boner. You have an off-hand thought about taking care of that at home. You know your friend would say that you should get her to take care of it for you. You laugh a little out loud. Your mind wanders again and you look around aimlessly, wondering when your girlfriend (is she your girlfriend now? Does this mean you’re dating?) will return. Luckily enough, she returns right then. You watch her slowly ascend the steps up to the level that your group of chums has inhabited.

She makes her way down the aisle as people pull their feet in to let her pass. You’ve never realized how beautiful she was until now. Her long, red hair dangles and caresses her face, the face of some goddess, one with cool powers certainly. Her breasts swell with her breath. As you stare, you believe that God’s greatest invention must have been these orbs that now control your fancy. You only take your eyes off of them when you realize that she might notice you looking. Then, in an effort to save face, you try to look into her eyes and learn their color. Something you can use to write a song or poem with. Maybe something like, “She has green eyes that mystify,” and so on and so forth. But, it’s too dark to see and she’s still a little far away for that. You are clearly not thinking very rationally; although, it’s understandable.

Another one of your group, a guy with a Coors Light cap that looks beat up (bought that way at Target) and a T-shirt with some eagles and a fish on it, checks out your girl’s assets. You instantly steam up and rage with righteous anger. A mental note to beat the shit out of him later is made. You remember that you’ve always thought that guy was a jackass. As your beauty sits back down you try to ease your nerves by rationalizing. He doesn’t have her, you do, and he just has to masturbate alone in his bedroom. You remember that he doesn’t even have his own computer in his room and chuckle deeply. These sinister thoughts are driven away though, by a redheaded girl of fourteen, one you’ve been acquainted with earlier this very night, leaning in and blowing your mind wide open again. If you were in a Romero flick, you’d be headless and down from the impact. No longer would you roam a post-apocalyptic landscape hungering for brains. Although, you do hunger for flesh of a kind, as your lips and hers press deep and thick against one another.

II.

The movie is almost over and you can here the final thoughts being expressed through the ridiculous filter of teen comedy. The audience obliges with their laugher. Right then, a hand is on your hand. You’ve never heard of holding hands while kissing, thinking them to be two separate entities entirely. But, now that it’s happening you think that it’s a perfectly reasonable and rational idea. Why not hold hands and kiss, it seems more romantic maybe? How stupid of you to think it strange, everyone knows that girls love romance, especially you, now a ladies man. However, that is not exactly what is going on here. Her hand slowly guides yours and you reach that swell you dwelled on so reverently earlier. A chorus of angels strikes up in your head and a blood vessel in your head comes close to bursting as it throbs in surprise. Your hard-on, which you had only recently noticed, strikes front and center, no longer cleverly hidden. It sings as a raging tower of defiance to everything you ever thought was impossible and to the glory you have somehow achieved, by no doing of your own.

By her guiding hand you caress and stroke and love every minute of it. She moves her mouth and moans into your ear, before starting to neck you like a champion. You sit in teenaged awe with your mouth agape and your nerves on fire. This feeling has reached the indescribable. You have ascended to Mount Olympus and sit on top looking down on the people below, who know nothing of the godly, golden feelings that now grace your form. You must have done something right, you think, as she returns to your mouth and the heavy make-outs continue.

Too soon though, the black screen comes up and the credits start to roll. The lights slowly shine brighter and everyone begins to rise from their seat. Now in a state of panic driven by your earlier euphoria, you try to grab a few last kisses. Your hands immediately removed themselves from the breasts when the lights came up. The skittishness will not fade as quick as you want it to or even as quick as you would think. Eventually, your whole party stands up and begins to exit. You grab the hand of your new partner in everything glorious and hold on tight. You mean the whole world to know what goes on between the two of you. Not in specifics but in a passionate feeling someone may be expected to get when looking at how you desperately grasp your hands together. Everyone is talking and joking, laughing and collecting what things they need. Left behind is a whirlwind’s worth of trash for theatre staff to handle.

As everyone drifts into the lobby of the small town theatre you look around. The dirty, gritty halogen lights that put a glow on the dirty, blood red carpeted lobby look brilliant. The whole place shines like Christ’s birthplace. You sigh in some sort of idle remembrance of previous pleasures. Even the concession stand, which only has two cash registers and looks greasier than an auto mechanic’s hands, looks like a quaint place to grab cheap eats.

Everyone heads outside to wait for their parents to chariot them away. But, the two of you are the last left inside. You turn to get the door and go outside but she pulls you back. She tells you to follow her in a tone of voice you will later recognize as sultry. All you know now is that you want to follow her more than anything. Quickly she pulls you to the ladies restroom, a small one-room affair for a small four-screen theatre. You’re confused and taken aback, societal restrictions and all. You’re brain screams that guys are not to enter here, but there is a feeling in the back of your head like you’re about to achieve a holy grail of sorts. She looks around for anyone’s prying eyes. The door squeals and you swing into a dark room that smells like piss and air freshener, a smell you won’t be able to forget until you’re twenty-eight. A light switch flips a few seconds after the door closes and you look around, still very worried.

The next ten minutes are a blur. She explains how she got a condom from her parents’ drawer and how she’s always wanted to try certain things. She tells you how much she likes you and how she though about who to share this with for a long time. Later, you will be able to remember that she never said she loved you, but you’ll try to remember that she did. You will fail and those words will always taste strange in your mouth. You don’t remember if you enjoyed yourself or not. In fact, you can barely remember the specifics of what went on at all. You know that you got blown and you know that you are not a virgin now in any sense of the word. The only thing you can really recall when you think back to it, which isn’t very often, is that, under the cheap bathroom sink light, her hair didn’t look red anymore, it looked strawberry blonde. Afterwards, she runs out, her cell phone ringing with another call from her increasingly impatient mother.

You slowly gather your things and walk out. A theatre manager sees you come out of the women’s restroom. He yells at you, in a loud, authoritative voice, clearly offended by your actions and getting off through his position of power. After grabbing your ear and shoving you out of his doors, promises of remembering your perverted ass ringing in your ears, he retreats inside, presumably to make good on his other promise, to call the cops if you’re not gone in five minutes. You see what would now be your wife in some sub-cultures, religions, or cults getting into a blue SUV. The car screeches away as a woman with a lopsided perm smokes out the window.

You walk home; it’s only a few blocks away anyways. Your parents are asleep because they trust you. For some reason, that hurts even more and you almost break down crying right there. But, you hold it back, knowing you could never live it down. You get the same feeling later that week in the middle of the Sunday morning church service. But that time, it’s easier to push it back down.

You walk defeated up the stairs to your room and get in the bed with all of your clothes on. Touching your clothes or thinking about getting undressed makes you want to vomit. You almost forget to call your friend, like you promised, with the details, but at the last moment you remember. So, you dial his number slowly, like someone plodding to the gallows. He picks up immediately and goes off on how great his night turned out. You don’t say much and he assumes that things went sour. He’ll never know and when you don’t talk again after high school, you won’t care that much. He says that he’ll probably give it to his girl pretty soon. He says he’s going to give it to her until she begs for more and then not give it to her. He laughs and says that’s how a man holds it down. You don’t know what that means but this really does make you vomit. A long slow arc of puke hits the trashcan, followed by another and another. He yells into the phone for a little while and then hangs up. Later, you’ll tell him the phone died. You don’t even wash your mouth out before going to sleep. The taste feels right in your mouth, like colors matching up.

Last night, you had a dream where you chased your girl around and through dark rooms. When you got to the room she was in, there were only Legos and you were supposed to build something. You could never see her exactly; only a shadowy outline, but you always built the Legos. She promised things would happen in the next room. That night, when you go to sleep you dream the same thing, but with a dirty, bathroom light illuminating all of the rooms and everything that she promises is delivered to you.

This entire story was written while listening to Queen. Dedicated to Ian, who has money in the bink.

02/03/08

Copyright 2008 Benjamin Morgan.

Yours,
B Morgz

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