(This is a selection from my book Hot Naked Tits, which you can buy here.)
This is what I remember. I went back in to tell the crazy black chick with the fake blue eyes: come on, just give us a fucking ride two exits up the freeway. You promised you would drive us back, I said. I knew the whole time she would Welsh but I thought she could be reasoned with. She could not. She got angry, very angry, she was yelling at me to get the fuck out of the house and take that crazy ass bitch with you and I said all right, all right. And I’m pretty sure she popped me one. I have no marks on me but I remember laughing and telling her that if she was going to hit me she ought to put some body into it. When in fact it hurt, she had put plenty of body into it. She was African American and a “top” type Lesbian so even though she was a chick, you know, demographically she had the ability to punch. I went back out to the parking lot to find you and go. Figured we would split a cab, which would have taken up all the money I had left, but, we had to get out of there.
I went back to the parking lot to find you and you were gone. You had been lying on your face in an empty parking space against a cinder block wall one minute and then you just disappeared. The crazy black chick with the vampire-y blue contact lenses followed me out, yelling, motherfucker this, motherfucker that, nigga you better get the FUCK out of here RIGHT NOW and I was like, look, let me wait till Astrid comes back. We gotta get a cab. She kept yelling. So I thought: fuck it. I asked her to open the gate so I could go. She wouldn’t open the gate. She was calling the cops. She was telling them I was menacing her and wouldn’t leave when in fact I was prevented from leaving by the giant electric metal gate to the parking lot, which had no way of being opened without some remote of hers. Yeah, he has a plaid shirt on, she was saying into the phone. I was pleased I wasn’t wearing my distinctive blazer and pocket square or lavender cardigan. I imagined blending seamlessly into a sea of plaid shirts. Eventually I just jumped the wall.
Now I am in fucking Tarzana late at night, stumbling drunk, no idea if they even have buses this far out and not enough cab money to get to my house. But I was more scared for you, because you were doing that thing you do when you get drunk and you just shut down. You become this floppy corpse who only stirs for a few seconds at a time to slur a couple words and grind your pussy against whoever’s trying to hold you up, the way a dog in heat drags her crotch on the carpet. And you were out there somewhere wandering around this weird deep valley neighborhood and maybe you would pass out in a bush and choke on your own puke and die. Walking down the street I thought I saw you and I was thrilled and relieved. But when the figure turned around it was a different chick with strawberry blonde hair and all white on, seeing a drunk hollow-eyed stranger rushing toward her.
Then I turned a corner and there you were for real and I thought: great, this is finally over. We can go home. But you tried to run right past me. I was pissed. I grabbed you and said listen: let’s just call a ca– and you bit me. I kept trying to grapple you and you kept biting me. I think I threw you on the ground. Or maybe I just dropped you and you couldn’t stand up. We were in a patch of grass in front of an apartment building and a man was sitting on his balcony watching. I figured he would call the cops; I knew the crazy black chick had called the cops, now here I was, a serial psychopath violently terrorizing women all over this sleepy community. But no cops ever came. You got up and ran away from me and I chased you.
You wearing all white, so it was easy to chase you even down streets where there were no street lights. And it seemed like you kept slowing down so I could catch you. I think that’s what you wanted. You wanted to drag out this whole domestic violence type hell as long as possible. Some part of you needs to escalate everything, bring it to its worst, see how awful you can make people act. You would slow down seeming to think you’d lost me and look back and there I was. I felt like the Terminator.
You ran into traffic. I saw you get a car to stop and a guy to roll his window down and you pointed at me and were clearly telling him that I was a violent miscreant bent on killing you. He didn’t do shit. The other guy who saw me putting you in a headlock clearly hadn’t called the cops either, there were no cops on the streets. The good people of Tarzana would hear you screaming like Kitty fucking Genovese and just turn up the TV.
Eventually I lost you. There was a patch of woods with a big fence around it. The fence continued for a long way in one direction, and I realized it must contain some kind of train or busway. Miraculously, you had led me to the Orange Line, which I could take to the Red Line. On the bus a girl was yelling at a guy about some other girl who had been texting him. The girl was hot. I bet the other one was too. Five guys in the world get all the pussy.
It took hours to get home. The train stop is three miles from my apartment. Good thing I was wearing sensible shoes.
One of you had a fishy cunt. I can still smell it on me. The same hand with your bite marks on the wrist. Souvenirs.
The girl with the eyes was actually a good host before she went crazy. She gave me a bullet vibrator to fingerfuck you guys with so I wouldn’t feel left out. Meanwhile she was wielding this weird loud salmon colored device with two menacing looking sci fi heads and the cute one was stabbing you in the pussy with two fingers while you were bent over. Do you know how to use this, she said as she handed it to me. What was I going to say, no? In reality I had no fucking idea. Turn it on and put it on someone’s pussy I guess. But it wasn’t about me anyway. I was baggage. The point of the party was for you to get laid and it was a courtesy for them to even allow me in the room. And I was too drunk to get hard. Blue eyes had a whole fucking retail display of Muscat grape wine lined up in her kitchen. It went down too easy.
In a perfect world I would have mounted up on the cute one and filled her full of mulatto babies I would never know about. But orgies make me uncomfortable. Even a multiracial four way with three hot women. The white girl is a redhead and the black girls are nice and dark; just watching your skin rubbing together should have been something but I couldn’t bring myself to give a shit.
Still. They were a nice find. We were at the downtown Standard. Pool party. The day looked like a lost cause; four guys for every girl and those guys were plumb ugly. We were both screwed. But then you came up with this black Lesbian couple and suddenly the day turned around. The cute one wanted my Adderall and the weird one, the one with the fake blue eyes and the titanium plate bolted on to her skeleton so she could have metal studs poking out of her skin– the weird one wanted your pussy. She wanted to take us back to her place in Tarzana. The drugs were at my place and I figured once we got high we’d forget about this ridiculous plan to go to the valley, but no. She insisted. She drove fast and she played dubstep music so loud it put my neckbones out of place. She was embarrassed about her Honda, had to explain that she’d had a BMW and a Ferrari before she’d crashed them into walls. She had been married to a rapper for years. Had kids by him. Before she turned gay. She was studying to be a lawyer. She wouldn’t shut the fuck up about it. Before the fucking and then after when you passed out and scared them and she kicked us out and was calling the cops. Somehow her legal knowledge would make them come faster, punish me harder, she was telling me. As I climbed her fence I thought: you got that and I got racism and let’s see who wins.
The night turned to shit when you started gurgling and flopping around like you do. You drink and drink and it always hits you all at once. The girls got spooked. Maybe you said something. Maybe I said something, I can’t remember. For some reason I’m only seeing myself as the hero in all this. I promised the cute one I could get her into porn. This was so I could get a picture of her tits. It’s been less than ten hours and I’ve masturbated to it five times.
When you ran away from me I called you and called you. Of course, your phone wasn’t working. I texted you that if you didn’t answer we would never speak again. When I got home I unfriended you on Facebook. Then I went to block you on Twitter. But I saw that I had exactly 400 followers and didn’t want to fuck with the number. Such is my commitment to principle.
That morning you had made me a nice breakfast. A perfect plate of eggs and an English muffin with jam you made yourself. The day before that we’d taken the kids to a barbecue at someone’s grandmother’s house in Sherman Oaks. Tasteful home artfully decorated with Chinoiserie; people talking about their families and jobs. Kids playing Marco Polo in the pool. It was some Norman Rockwell shit and it felt good and safe. Like we were grownups.
But there was that thing hanging over us. It wasn’t going to be a weekend until we got drunk, until we got high, until we fucked somebody new and dirty, until we fought and maybe beat each other up and made strangers scared of us and did shit that might make us die. Something that would make a story.
Even so you didn’t want to come out. Pool parties make you feel fat, for one thing, and for another you have a job and a family and you need to hold your shit together now. But I have these speed pills, I said. We’ll have a good time. Come on honey– how bad could it be.
UPDATE: Astrid’s version of events is in comments.