Upon meeting him my first thought was, “How do I fuck him?” My friend’s brother, Danny. He was visiting for a week. It seemed doable. My deadline was August 1st. My glimmer of hope was when we were discussing HUMP!, Seattle’s disposable porn screening, and he seemed down to make a disposable porno. Granted, this was after a group discussion about how the new era of gangbang should feature multiple guys fucking fatties’ folds, so I’m not sure how seriously I could take his dedication to my cause (Call Japan).
My glimmer of hope coincided with the highlights in his hair. I could swear that he had a little red in him. Strawberry blonde. He even winked at me when I said something about red heads. I wondered: Is this really my friend’s brother? I thought: If only I could make a disposable porno with a partial expression of a red gene.
But I sort of forgot about it. Because there are many people to fuck in this expansive and dispersed world of ours. Until we met again. At which point I had approximately twelve hours to seal the deal. Until he was ready to be shipped off the Anytown, USA, back to cornfields and corndogs. At least that’s how I’d like to picture it.
Recently I stopped in for a last-drink-of-the-night at a bar I remember fondly from my collegiate days, and I thought, “God, I might be too old to fuck anyone here. For me, this is just, like, fun: It’s the end of the night and people are paired up. If pick up a guy, I don’t even have to talk to him. He doesn’t even have to buy me a drink. We can just cut to the chase and pretend like it had been a night. For them, this is their real lives.”
With Danny, I felt like, “Get it, get it while I still can.” The novelty fuck of my old age. When else would I ever have the opportunity for this to appeal to me again? When I’m old and a cougar I doubt I’ll be into fucking a guy with a Midwestern drawl and a side of beer.
And then there was the progression of the day. The actively not getting off because what a fucking chore, and can’t I just go out and fuck?
It was slated to be the dumbest, frattiest fuck of the post-collegiate era. Maybe my last chance. Except he wasn’t even dumb. Just a victim of Middle America and the fratboy thirty. At some point during the evening I found out he was 27 years old and making arrangements for when he graduates from law school, and I was shocked. All this time I had assumed he was my friend’s younger brother, in town for his last hurrah after graduating, before being whisked away into the real world of Blue Collar America and complacency.
It’s not that he seemed dumb or unmotivated; it’s just that he is so unsophisticated, such a ubiquitous prototype—a jolly good ‘ol boy. And I’m too ignorant to recognize what form ambition would take in a world without blatant, unrepentant, materialism. I don’t want to sound like a snob like Jessie from NYC prep, but you can tell when someone’s not from New York, and he is so authentically Montana. I bet he drives drunk and shoots squirrels. That’s what people from Montana do for fun, right? Oh, god, what a novelty. I felt like such a tourist in my own town. I was giddy; it was too easy. But I let the night take its natural course. The one that ends in attractive people fucking.
I was telling Danny and my best friend this random college hook up story, trying to prove some point about how once upon a time I hooked up with a guy and was legitimately concerned that he was too drunk for it to be consensual or at least too drunk to not regret it and I never want to be anyone’s mistake. My best friend replied with some story about how two of her male friends in college would talk about how they should make shirts saying “I consent,” in case there was ever any ambiguity. Signed and dated.
Danny cut in with something entirely off topic: “Can you squirt?” Shock. Disbelief. Doubletake. Um, does he read my blog? That could be the only plausible explanation. Squirting isn’t exactly a common topic of small talk, an allusion to the weather, the hip new alternative to “Do you come here often?” And he directed the question only at me, not my friend, not that she is exactly sexually riveting. But if he had gleaned this information from my blog, he would have to be a devoted scholar, not a mere dilettante.
On the walk between the first and second bar, I stealthily whispered to my best friend, “What’s her brother’s name?” as to avoid any miscommunication in the event that he were to request, “Say my name, bitch!” And, besides, I think you should know people’s names before you have sex with them. That’s my one official prerequisite.
In the second bar, he disclosed that he had stupid tattoos, which he got drunkenly on two separate international vacations in countries where the natives are apparently barbarians who allow foreigners to be stabbed with needles while drunk. I suppose stupid tattoos are to Montanans what architectural coffee table books are to New Yorkers: conversation pieces. He obliged my contrived request to sneak a peak, although one was on his ass, we were in a bar, and I specifically asked to see them later in private (wink, wink).
Upon ordering more beer, we started making out and he let it slip that he had keys to his sister’s apartment to which we could sneak off. I’m not sure how sneaky we were, considering we had to walk by his sister and friends to exit the bar, but we left nevertheless and made way for The Promised Land.
The trek consisted of bouts of stumbling, touristy small talk, and uncoordinated making out.