When I turned 9, my little kid cuteness vanished. My perfectly straight dark brown hair and adorable tilted smile got replaced with an ugly, awkward-looking girl whose winning features included frizzy curls, braces, and overly large glasses. Needless to say, these aesthetic charms weren’t bringing all the boys to the party. Unfortunately, I, as far back as I can recall, have had an off-the-charts libido. So because I was too physically unappealing to get any guys, my constant crushes, daydreams about boys, fantasies about getting down with them all went unfulfilled and instead stayed within my brain (and maybe a finger or two.) At the end of the day, that was eleven long years of pent-up sexual frustrations I had no way of releasing. At least, not until I hit the big 2-0. That’s when I finally shed my hideous skin and morphed into, comparatively speaking, a goddess. And finally, finally I was able to unleash these feelings I had been holding inside in both my mind and my vagina. The delay of man-on-girl action, combined with my better-late-than-never blossoming of my looks (i.e., puberty) was like opening the goddamn floodgates. I had years of un-had experiences to catch up on, due to my prolonged puberty preventing me from having the ability to act on my feelings of desire. The result of this man-eating marathon was a vast amount of, um, "interesting" experiences that only increased in number as I got older. Generally with these stories any one of my good friends, or even people I’ve just met, will say, “Elena, this only happens to you… this does not happen to anybody else.” The reactions to this one in particular were no different. After my first threesome had ended up in an emergency room, people were rather surprised when I willingly (all right, and drunkenly) gave it another go. But I have never been one to give up, especially not when it comes to my ever-expanding sexual curiosity. So when something that in my mind could be so good goes that badly, and the opportunity comes along to try it again with a new pair of penii, I was game. It couldn't be any worse than last time… right? But clearly the Gods of Ménage do not like me, or simply enjoy having a laugh at my expense. Or maybe it's just my childlike naiveté to think that my two-on-ones would be as magical as they are on the big screen. But like Mama always said, "Life isn't like the movies." Oh well, I guess I gotta keep searching...
"Roof" was a college guy I picked up during my senior year of high school. It was a sort of two-night-stand, except once was during the daytime. Post-park picnic, and on a make-shift bed on a Brooklyn brownstone rooftop (hence his nickname.) We embarked on a 3-hour love-making sesh that left me with very strange tan lines. A couple of nights later, we hung out again before he went back home for his final year of undergrad. Suffice to say, we didn't keep in touch. Then one random day, after I had graduated college, I jokingly looked him up on Facebook and there he was! I sent him a message, we wound up talking a bit, exchanged numbers, met up in the city a couple of times, etc., etc. He had gotten an amazing job straight out college that had him travelling all over the world seeing clients. Whenever his job sent him to New York, he’d call me up and we’d hang out. All in all, it was a pretty sweet deal considering his ridiculous salary, company credit card, access to 5-star hotels and restaurants, not to mention his prowess in the bedroom and well... his gorgeous face and bangin’ body. So on this occasion, he called me to meet up with him and his best friend from Cali, "Jackson", at the Russian Samovar one Friday night. I happily accepted (despite being on my period that week), and arranged to meet up with them after my voice lesson. Despite already making the sale, Roof also mentioned that Jackson was very hot and that I would like him. Well, I thought, that remains to be seen... but... bring on the drinks!
It was a warm night, and since the bar wasn't too far I decided to walk the 20 minutes uptown. When I got to what I thought was the bar I paused inside the front door. I was unsure if I was in the right place because I couldn't see Roof anywhere. All of a sudden, the path in front of me became blackened by shadow. I looked up from my bag, which I had opened to get out my phone, and when I looked up my eyes came level with a gigantic man’s belly. As I continued looking upward another good three feet, I found myself staring into the eyes of a HUGE 6'8, 300+lb white Russian man blocking my way into the bar. He was looking down at me (way down actually; I was wearing flats), and not exactly understanding what was going on, I smiled and tried to walk around him. But he shifted over and cut me off (or maybe he just leaned a little, given that his girth was pretty much equivalent to the space between the wall and the bar stools.) I tried again to get past him; again, he blocked me. It looked like we had reached a stalemate, since even I, petite as I am, couldn't possibly inch around his impressive width-span or protruding gut. Um, relax dude. This isn't basketball. I'm not a small forward, so stop setting picks! Maybe he was joking around or something, which I found odd since we weren't friends, but then he asked, "Can I help you?" I told him I was here to meet some friends at the bar. He looked at me, and it was unnerving because he wasn’t lowering his head to do it, just his eyeballs. He started stroking his chin, sizing me up. "Really?” he asked. "Are you sure you’re in the right place?" I said, "I think so... I mean, I'm pretty sure..." Before I could stutter or stammer further, he replied, "Well, I think you're mistaken, you should try the bar across the street." And he pointed to some seedy pub through the window. With a strangled attempt at a laugh, I said, gesturing to my phone, "I just need to check my messages to make sure," to which he said, unsmiling, "Yeah, right, why don't you do that- outside?" He opened the door and pushed me out, I think using only his index finger.
Momentarily stunned and feeling like a confused kitten thrown inexplicably out of the house, I thought, "Wait…did I just get BOUNCED?" And the answer to that is yes, yes I did. What was this? I'm not Polish! I'm not tan in the winter either, so I totally look like my Jewish-Russian half of my genes! We share the same motherland buddy! Jews gotta stick together, not go bouncing each other from bars and shit. Shaking my head, I figured I might as well check my phone to see if this was indeed the right place. Just as I started to go through my text messages, I got an incoming call from Roof. I picked up and he started saying, "Elena, come inside, I can see you through the window." Relieved, I hung up and went back in. Like a stray dog to raw meat, the bouncer immediately tried to cut me off, AGAIN (seriously, what was up with this guy?) but Roof came up to him and said, "Dude, it's ok, she's with us."
I sat down and dropped my heavy music-book-laden bag at my feet, grateful to have made it at last. I was introduced to Jackson (lanky and blonde, at the time NOT my type; I used to hate blondes and stuck with athletic brown-haired guys, for the most part). I looked around the place, having never been before, and immediately regretted dressing down as much as I did. Russian women look like real women; like straight out of classic art pieces, or a Tolstoy description. They are generally quite voluptuous and even on my most dressed-up of days by comparison I would indeed look like a prepubescent girl, but on a casual day like this I could easily look like a fifth-grade boy lost in a sea of giant boobs that could take out an eye. Whatever; no back problems for me. Turning back to the drink menu that Roof had handed me, I was surprised; they served ONLY straight vodka at this place, infused with over 50 different flavors and served by the double shot. (Everything about that sentence only got better and better as it went on.) We ordered a round (my first and the boys’ third), which I quickly threw back, even though I was told you’re supposed to sip on it. But I had to catch up.
While we were all talking, in between Jackson’s attempts to hit on our bartender, Roof brought up that I'm an opera singer. He decided to also tell the restaurant’s resident pianist (this was actually a really nice place, complete with a Russian guy that sits in the middle, playing a white Baby Grand and singing songs.) They were talking for a bit actually, and after several minutes Roof motioned for me to come over and join them at the 88’s. I unwillingly pulled myself away from my second drink and walked up to the piano to introduce myself. The pianist barely spoke English but it was clear he was practically wetting himself with excitement over the understanding that I sang classical music (Roof spent enough time in Russia to converse) and his hands started playing the chords of Mozart’s Queen of the Night aria (aria = a song from an opera.) It’s a bitch of piece, in any situation, and having just had a 2-hour voice lesson plus two double shots of vodka, I didn’t want to kill myself piping off high F’s (although that wouldn’t be the worst way to go out.) I laughed and shook my head, and he started to grandly play the opening of “O Mio Babbino Caro.” Most people recognize it as the Italian aria grandmas sing in the kitchen as they’re making their family's recipe of marinara. I figured, well this is really going to happen isn’t it. Immensely thankful that I was all warmed up, I quickly downed another double shot and took my place at the piano, half-singing, half-laughing through the whole thing. I bowed to the roar of applause after my last note, and headed back to the bar for another drink.
A couple more double shots later, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around, surprised to see the pianist there. He asked if I had any other music to sing, because people were requesting that I do another piece. "Well," I said, "As a matter of fact...!" and whipped out my music binder from my backpack. I picked one of my best, most show-off-y arias and, after we both got back to the piano, I proceeded to sing the crap out of it. I hammed it up like crazy, taking little bits from all the recordings of various divas I had listened to and singing every word like I truly was Gilda in her garden, smitten with the Duke and overwhelmed with exciting yet unfamiliar emotions. After I spun off the final note, a high E, the whole place erupted and shouts of BRAVI! filled the air. The audience jumped to its feet, throwing $20's in the tip jar, and coming up to me to talk and offer career advice, business cards, and other networking-type information. And that's when I downed my sixth and fatal double shot. May I remind you that I had only been there for MAYBE an hour and a half, and weighed about 105 pounds? Oh dear. This was not going to end well. We were about to leave when the pianist started playing classic, "Summertime."
When I am drunk, I apparently think I am a big black woman full of soul who can sing Gershwin, not a tiny white girl from Brooklyn who can barely manage to sing in chest voice. But all awareness of vocal reality gone, I shouted to the boys, "Wait, wait, I LOVE this song!" (Isn't that sad? I scream this in a bar at a pianist playing Gershwin. Every other 20-something female is screaming it in a nightclub at the DJ.) I grabbed the mic and started to sing- only I couldn’t remember the lyrics, probably because I had never actually sung it before. There I was, drunkenly hanging on to the mic stand for support, and "singing" the song on what would have been "la la la" (words only came out because Roof, Jackson and the pianist were all prompting me.) Roof very gracefully helped me off the stage area after one verse before anything too terrible happened (aside from massacring American opera.) He and Jackson were supporting me as we walked to the door, but we were stopped by a tableful of girls on the way out because one of them asked me, "OMG like are you a singer? Because you are just so amazing like wow you're voice is sooooo beautiful!" I untangled myself from the boys with much difficulty, slapped the table really hard and slurred out, "Why yes, yes I am!" then fell over into the only empty chair at their table with such momentum I almost slid out of it, onto the floor. Apparently my ass forgets how to do things, like sit down, when I’ve had one (or five) too many. I started talking to the girls about random things, like toasters and species counterpoint, but I don't really remember it too well. All I know is that I felt myself being hoisted up and out of the restaurant into a cab.
Once we were in the cab, everything I had drunk caught up with me all too fast, sending me spiraling into the dreaded world of the spins. Roof said to just hold on until we made it into his hotel room, which I was able to do, thank god. After I had finished puking up my existence (and perhaps my pride) I was so tired that I started to fall asleep right there, in fetal position, on the cold marble of the bathroom floor. Roof came in, took one look at me, and said, "Elena, you are not sleeping in here." He helped me stand, wash up, and we crawled into his bed. I heard him say something about how Jackson wasn't feeling too great, either. Too exhausted to reply, I started to pass out but then felt Roof start spooning me and kissing my neck. I wasn't too shocked, even after he had just seen me hugging a toilet and helped me brush my teeth only minutes before. After all, this is what Roof and I do. However...
*****WARNING: THE FOLLOWING IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART AND/OR MALES.
PROCEED WITH CAUTION*****
I don't remember when he got into bed with us, let alone if it was even really happening, but all of a sudden out of nowhere, Jackson was lying on my other side facing me and kissing me. SURPRISE! I was not about to say no, but... I had just thrown up all my fluids, was physically drained, and I was on my period. Aside from having no energy to move, I had no idea what the hell was going on, or if I could even try to comprehend it at this point. I mumbled something about being on my monthly time out to Jackson, but he merely let out some masculine grunt, RIPPED OUT MY TAMPON and threw across the room. I was amazed. Well, I guess he didn't care about that sort of thing, which was cool? I kept wondering if that had actually just happened, or if I had dozed off and was crossing over into delirium (can't really call whatever this was a dream, even if it was one; the connotation for that word is far too pleasant). I also kept wondering where my vaginal-cotton-plug might have landed, all while I was being caressed (or rather, being drunkenly yet gently mauled) on both sides by two men. I forced my still-dizzy head back into the moment, told my mind to shut up, and the three of us did, well, whatever it was that we did. For the most part, the events that happened between our three bodies remain a somewhat hazy, blurred memory in my brain bank. We all sort of wrestled and thrust our way through the better of an hour or so. I would literally turn to one side for one penis, then roll back over for the other, if there was even that much movement. I might as well have been asleep, given how lazy this threesome was. Although my previous foray into the land of “two men, one girl” one did wind up in an emergency room, which of course made it quite different from this go-around, the physical efforts were also eons apart. Those two boys treated me like I was a goddamn goddess, the center of attention: it was all about me. I can’t tell you how amazing that is for someone who suffers from middle-child syndrome. I may have been the center of attention here, but that was only because I was literally located in the middle. And that just happened to be how we kind of landed, so it’s not even like we were in our positions on purpose. Hey, maybe this only went down because we happened to be lying in a threesome-conducive way. It’s funny when I think back on it now, how it probably could have been a really awesome roll in the king-sized hay, but we were all such a mess we might have been three curious kids with Down syndrome. I do remember being surprised at how quickly Jackson finished, but then again my perception of time was probably not seeing its finest hour. He stumbled out of the room in attempts to make it back to his own bed, while Roof and I kept going until he finished, or actually I think was really until we just passed out.
THE MORNING AFTER
Roof had to be up at 6 for a meeting, but told Jackson and I to take our time, get breakfast, etc. So, we did. It was kind of hilarious, trying to have a conversation and share the Times with this guy, who was actually very nice and gave me his card, telling me to give him a call if I'm ever out in Cali. (Right.) Afterwards, we went back up to the room so I could grab my stuff and go to work, and I said, "Well it was really great meeting you!" And he laughed and shook his head, saying, "Sure, yeah, that's what this was."
No comments:
Post a Comment