Friends of the site are probably already aware of this, but for the rest of you, Ben Corman and Dr. Rob “Dr. Rob” Dobrenski decided to do a creative writing exercise. Basically, Ben’s fan complained that he needs to do more creative writing, and Dr. Rob decided now would be a good time to pop his fiction cherry. Long story short, they invited other people to participate as well, and my combination of free time and fanboydom meant I didn’t have much of a choice.
[Click here to read Dr. Rob's entry.]
The rules were simple; 850 (1000?) word limit, open ended as for subject matter and style, and a little better than a week to write it in. So, here you go, some amateur fiction to distract you from work:
The woman comes out from her bedroom, wearing a black garter, black leather stiletto boots, carrying a riding crop. The man is on the couch, just finished tying his shoes. He makes for the door.
“You’re leaving?” the woman asks. “I thought you said you were in to really kinky stuff.”
“Hey,” the man says, “I fucked your dog, I shit in your purse. I’m outta here.”
At least, that’s how I’ve heard the punch line. Never quite goes down that way though, does it? Consider last Tuesday.
Week night, no date, and the only TV shows I cared about aired on Mondays. That only left one leisure activity, the consumption of large quantities of alcohol.
I went to my regular bar, a popular spot for people who lived downtown, but not trendy enough for the over-moneyed happy hour crowd.
When I walked in I spotted one of the other regulars, a gorgeous twenty-something redhead. Just a shade under professionally good looking. I had talked to her maybe twice before. Nothing memorable, other than the unequivocal indication that she would rather drink alone than hear me prattle on. Who could blame her? I’d rather not have drinks with me, but I don’t really have a choice. I mean, it’s not like I can give up drinking. I took a seat at the other end of the bar.
There was no one else around, just me, red, and the bartender. He knew I’d want a Guinness, didn’t need to ask. Before it got to me, red’s friends showed up. Three banker-type guys, and another girl, a blonde, maybe as pretty as red, but I don’t know. I didn’t get a good enough look as she came in.
The guys where good looking as well, but in an obnoxious way that made me want to punch them in the ear. Not good looking like Brad Pitt. I’d let Brad Pitt fuck me if I wasn’t so worried about feeling ashamed of my own mediocre body. No, these guys were good looking in a douchey way. They’re good looking the way a 1989 Corvette is good looking, because it’s a Corvette. Not the way a 1969 Corvette is good looking. Colin Farrell good looking. I don’t get what girls see in them.
I wonder if girls don’t get what I see in red.
I wonder if girls care what I think at all, and that thought gets me to the foamy bottom of my first glass. I looked to the bar tender to order another pint. Sometimes, when he sees I’m getting low, he’ll go ahead and start the next one, so the bubbles will have fallen and the drink and I will be ready at the same time.
At that moment he was busy. One of the banker guys had ordered Patron shots. This is what they ordered when the bar was empty. If there had been a crowd, they would have ordered Johnnie Walker Blue, and done so loudly enough that everyone heard. It’s overpriced, but that’s the point. At the end of the day, there’s no currency like currency.
Eventually their little group left. I think I was four drinks in. Or five.
“Fucking asshole,” the bar tender said.
He went on to explain how one of the guys had an attitude, like he was above saying “hi” or “thanks” to a lowly bartender, a member of the servant class.
“He wouldn’t act so smug,” he continued, “if he knew every bartender in this place had stuck his girlfriend.”
And then I had another drink, and another. The conversation turned to sports, and the other sorts of things guys talk about when there’s nothing else to discuss. Craft beer, The Godfather.
Maybe a dozen other customers cycled through during the night. Mostly guys stopping by after getting off work late and wanting a quick unwind. Two women in their late thirties, maybe early forties, the type who are unmarried for a reason, order Cosmos, and pretend Samantha Jones is sexy.
There’s one last round, then a shot of Jameson with the bartender, and another last round, because the bartender reminds you that you really don’t have anywhere else to be. And, you don’t want to be rude by running out after a free shot.
You down the last drink without seeming like you’re in a rush to leave, pay your tab, and wonder why so few girls go out on weeknights. Are they drinking at home alone? Or just not drinking at all?
You know they never wonder what you spend your Tuesday nights doing.
That’s how it goes. You stagger home drunk enough that this night will blur into the last, and then the next morning you find yourself in bed, apparently passed out in the middle of masturbating. You get a shower, go to work, and spend all day staring at a computer screen displaying text you don’t give two shits about, wondering if your apartment would be a little less depressing if you got a dog.