Somehow, the three of us – the Metabolic Miracle, the Gorgeous Goth and I – ended up going out on a Friday night. This never happened, or happened since, that we went out together in this combination.
We went to a Chinese restaurant somewhere in northeast Scarborough, one of those dime-a-dozen restaurants in a dime-a-dozen commercial strip. I can’t even picture the seating arrangement or topic of conversation. I was probably doing that talk-fast-and-loud-before-awkward-silence-settles-in thing that I did back then.
After dinner, we climbed into her white Suzuki Sidekick with black soft-top and drove to Bluffer’s Park, which back then was an innocuous, picturesque public park before turning into a haven for punk high school kids drinking around bonfires –
(Which was us, which we started: we burned everything in that park, from picnic benches to lifeguard stands. When we ran out of fuel, we would steal sacks of firewood – and cases of pop – from nearby gas stations, just grabbing shit and booking it to our car parked around the corner. I once grabbed four jugs of windshield washer fluid for no reason other than I didn’t want to be empty-handed. A few years later, the real thugs took over the park, selling drugs and playing loud music in the parking lot like the showboating idiots that they are. The cops came, shut everything down, and that was the end of the good times.)
We sat on the rocks along the shore and talked. We were there for a few hours, until the sun completely set and I could no longer make out their faces just a few feet away from mine. One of them, probably the Gorgeous Goth, brought up casual sex.
“Would you have casual sex with a friend?”
“Uh, no, sex should be with someone special,” I said.
That’s what came out of my fucking goddamn stupid mouth. Granted, at that point I was a virgin so that opinion still stands: you should at least fuck someone special the first time, right? Then after that, who gives a shit. But the first time –try to make it count, man. (Unless you’re like in your 20’s. Then get a hooker before you develop a complex. But then don’t go and develop a hooker-complex.)
“Yeah, but it’s just sex. Don’t you think that friends can just have sex, casually, secretly?” She kept stressing casual and secret. I was absolutely fucking terrified. I kept fidgeting, kept munching on the Chinese leftovers that we brought from the restaurant.
“What if it was two friends?” asked Metabolic Miracle. “What if it was two girls, casually, secretly – what do you think about that?”
“That’s the same thing.” My mouth was now saying things without running them through my brain first. It was adamant on getting out of this night, sex-free.
“But twooooo girls? That’s not something you’d do?”
“I don’t know, maybe in a few years.” Whatever that meant. Then I probably said some shit like, I want to focus on my art.
I knew what I was asking, but I was so scared that I played it dumb, played it off like they were asking hypotheticals about characters on a TV show. No, I don’t think Jerry should sleep with Elaine and Kramer because they’re just friends. They dug at my wall and I stood firm, winning nothing but standing firm. At one point they looked at each other, one shrugged and the other sighed, and the conversation was over, and we were quiet until she dropped me off at home.
(Shit, that wasn’t an almost-threesome at fucking all.)
Months later, we were at my friend’s house across the street from mine. Gorgeous Goth was having a fight with her long-term, on-and-off boyfriend who treated her like shit. We smoked on the front patio. She sat, sad-angry, in a white plastic lawn chair with her legs crossed, wearing a white button-up with a black lacy camisole underneath. She was voluptuous, more developed than most, and her breasts would always squish upwards creating that upper, top-level cleavage at the collarbone.
“Why don’t you come over?” I asked. “I’m right there.” It was mere months after the Bluffer’s Park debacle, but I was centuries older, bolder.
“No,” she said. “I can’t, I have to go back inside after this cigarette.”
“No you don’t. He’s a dick, you don’t have to take that shit.” I was standing over her with my body angled towards the direction of my house to show assertiveness. “My parents aren’t home.”
“Well, what would you do to me?” she asked, seductively. It was known within the few guys that slept with her that she was kinky. Horny. More sexually advanced than any of us. She did things like give blowjobs.
“I would kiss you on the mouth and then I would nibble your ear. Then do stuff to your neck, I guess.” I had no idea what the fuck I was doing.
“Oooh. What else.” She tilted her head and looked up at me, took a drag of her cigarette. How does she know how to be this sexy? Where did she learn this shit?
“Then I would take your shirt off. Lick your boobs, all up and down.” What?
“Then I would grab your ass and make circular motions with my hands. Alright, let’s just go.”
She thought for a moment. She looked at the ground in front of her, smirking and probably thinking, I can fuck Alex and stick it to my boyfriend at the same time, this is a good idea.
In the half-second before she stood up, I said, “We can’t do this, let’s go back inside,” and walked into the house. I anticipated her move. I watched her body, waited to see tension in her legs her hips, and when she was about to thrust herself out of the chair, I shut down the entire operation. I just wanted the yes, you see. I just wanted the win, the validation that we could’ve had sex. It was just as good as actually going through with it, but without all of the anxiety.