Read Online My Life in Heavy Metal by Steve Almond - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steve Almond
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her snits, wants out of here, away from the depravity, and even though Brisby is probably my last link to common sense, to my not doing something marvelous and stupid, Iâm ready for them to ship off into their goddamn bloodless duet of a life and leave the rest of us to gobble each other up. What it is: I donât like the look on Brisbyâs face, so glum and smug that I want to walk over there and slap him, though before I can even take a step in that direction, heâs gone. Of course.
I turn back to the party and thereâs Lancelot, launching into this exuberant B-boy Pentium Chip dance routine, which is sexy in a Tourettesy sort of way, and highly effective as a herding strategy. He backs me into this dark, quiet corner with his goddamn sensational cock of a cock, away from the music but still in plain view, and I can feel the booze thickening my tongue, my resistance going to pudding.
Whereâs your date? I say weakly.
He looks around. Who? Marcie? Yeah, she looks cool, huh?
Very escort service, I say. Very STD.
I donât see your partner in crime, he says. Whatâs his name? Bixby?
Which almost makes me laugh, because Lancey obviously thinks weâre a thing, heâs that out to lunch. But before I can make the next crack, he takes a step forward so that heâs actually, um, against me.
Youâre cool, he says. You know that? I like you.
For just a second I step back from the situation and look at this dumb brute in what amounts to cut-rate lederhosen and try to figure out whatever happened to subtlety, restraint, courtship, the wise gentle dance of desire against its tether. Then Lancelot leans down and presses his mouth against mine, and his lips are soft and wet on the inside and I can taste the Geek Player Binaca on his breath as he nibbles his way into my mouth, and his body grinds against mine, warm and hard. We start macking right there, in front of more or less everyone, so that I am magically reduced from Prepubescent Catholic School Girl to Office Slut and whatâs more, Iâm
happy
about this, because I can feel his complicated grid of back muscles, his thighs, the silk of his armpit hair and I realize that even though this experience is total bullshit, itâs also absolutely perfect, like in the movies, one of those deals where our differences are actually complementary and everyone goes: Oh, of course, why didnât we see it all along? Theyâre
soul mates.
As opposed to real life where they say: You let him put his tongue
where
?
Here in the veiny arms of Lance the Computer Boy, Iâm ready to surrender the idea of the perfect guy, someone I can talk to about anything on earth, because, really, in the end, isnât talk sort of over-rated? Isnât talk just a way of pushing some romantic agenda that never works anyway? And besides, I could learn to speak computer, all those ones and zeroes, and I might even be able to train Lancey to burp with his mouth shut and not say
skank
so much, and having kids will settle him down; I sense heâll be a good father, because I can feel already how much he appreciates the maternal role, just by the way he keeps kneading my hips, like a Lamaze coach.
Then thereâs this loud
pop
and a fuzzy static sound and the music goes dead and the entire room turns on us, like we somehowdry-humped the music into silence, which, as it turns out ⦠that little ledge against which I was seeking added pestle leverage seems to have been, in fact, an outlet. Nay, the very outlet into which DJ Dennis (DJ Dennis?) plugged his suspiciously karaoke-compatible DK2 Partymaster system.
Reentry into the world of the dwindling party would be shitty enough, but old Lancelot just has to complete the show by calling out, Thanks for the dance, babe! before ducking behind the appetizer table in an effort to conceal his
raging shaft of manhood.
On the plus side is the fact that Marcie the Production Ho has taken X, rendering
I turn back to the party and thereâs Lancelot, launching into this exuberant B-boy Pentium Chip dance routine, which is sexy in a Tourettesy sort of way, and highly effective as a herding strategy. He backs me into this dark, quiet corner with his goddamn sensational cock of a cock, away from the music but still in plain view, and I can feel the booze thickening my tongue, my resistance going to pudding.
Whereâs your date? I say weakly.
He looks around. Who? Marcie? Yeah, she looks cool, huh?
Very escort service, I say. Very STD.
I donât see your partner in crime, he says. Whatâs his name? Bixby?
Which almost makes me laugh, because Lancey obviously thinks weâre a thing, heâs that out to lunch. But before I can make the next crack, he takes a step forward so that heâs actually, um, against me.
Youâre cool, he says. You know that? I like you.
For just a second I step back from the situation and look at this dumb brute in what amounts to cut-rate lederhosen and try to figure out whatever happened to subtlety, restraint, courtship, the wise gentle dance of desire against its tether. Then Lancelot leans down and presses his mouth against mine, and his lips are soft and wet on the inside and I can taste the Geek Player Binaca on his breath as he nibbles his way into my mouth, and his body grinds against mine, warm and hard. We start macking right there, in front of more or less everyone, so that I am magically reduced from Prepubescent Catholic School Girl to Office Slut and whatâs more, Iâm
happy
about this, because I can feel his complicated grid of back muscles, his thighs, the silk of his armpit hair and I realize that even though this experience is total bullshit, itâs also absolutely perfect, like in the movies, one of those deals where our differences are actually complementary and everyone goes: Oh, of course, why didnât we see it all along? Theyâre
soul mates.
As opposed to real life where they say: You let him put his tongue
where
?
Here in the veiny arms of Lance the Computer Boy, Iâm ready to surrender the idea of the perfect guy, someone I can talk to about anything on earth, because, really, in the end, isnât talk sort of over-rated? Isnât talk just a way of pushing some romantic agenda that never works anyway? And besides, I could learn to speak computer, all those ones and zeroes, and I might even be able to train Lancey to burp with his mouth shut and not say
skank
so much, and having kids will settle him down; I sense heâll be a good father, because I can feel already how much he appreciates the maternal role, just by the way he keeps kneading my hips, like a Lamaze coach.
Then thereâs this loud
pop
and a fuzzy static sound and the music goes dead and the entire room turns on us, like we somehowdry-humped the music into silence, which, as it turns out ⦠that little ledge against which I was seeking added pestle leverage seems to have been, in fact, an outlet. Nay, the very outlet into which DJ Dennis (DJ Dennis?) plugged his suspiciously karaoke-compatible DK2 Partymaster system.
Reentry into the world of the dwindling party would be shitty enough, but old Lancelot just has to complete the show by calling out, Thanks for the dance, babe! before ducking behind the appetizer table in an effort to conceal his
raging shaft of manhood.
On the plus side is the fact that Marcie the Production Ho has taken X, rendering
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