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Daniel was in my writers group. My friend Anna put the group together to help a bunch of us stay creative. A weekend warrior only, Daniel's real job was computer programming or something like that. His pager and cell phone were clumsily clipped to his braided belt at all times.
I was freshly dumped and had lost sex-with-my-ex privileges after one "this doesn't mean anything" romp ended with me crying when it was time to go home.
The idea was that this writers group would present me with a rebound man, but Daniel was the only dude there. The sight of the coarse blonde hair on his toes that peeked out from his Birkenstocks made me instinctively cross my legs in self-defense. Whenever anyone read their short story out loud, Daniel drew the attention to himself by laughing forcefully, slamming the table with his hand and moaning, "Ohhh, God that's good." He usually threw his head back and made a face that looked like he was taking a bullet in the back or having an orgasm.
Group meetings usually devolved into all of us heading to a bar. Daniel always bought the round of drinks because he was the only one with an expense account. When he was out of earshot, Anna teased, "Doesn't Daniel look like he's about to . . . you know . . . when he laughs at a story?" We all "eww'd" in agreement. Daniel joined us at the table. For every pint of beer he had, he chugged a pint of water, smacked his lips and wiped the dribble on his chin. He was so orderly and anal with his hydration ratio theories, but he was also caveman-ish, talking with his mouthful of peanuts.
I went home that night a little drunk and alone. A Frasier rerun kept me company. Before long I was masturbating on the couch. I want to be clear: I was not touching myself to Frasier. It was just on in the background. High off my own love buzz, I watched another episode. There was something weirdly sexy about Kelsey Grammer's character. He was charmingly pretentious but also loud-mouthed and ill at ease, sort of like Daniel. Frasier's bed looked so cozy and inviting. He probably had six-hundred-plus thread-count sheets. And he had the decency to cover up his middle-aged paunch and hairy chest with a smart velvet smoking jacket. I was buzzed enough to masturbate again, this time intentionally to Frasier Crane.
A few nights later the writers group met at Daniel's apartment, and there was wine. I was impressed that Daniel had bookshelves, not crates; a king-size bed, not a futon. When Daniel uncorked another bottle of wine, he didn't have to balance the bottle
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He kept looking at his penis, then back at me. I wondered if he wanted some congratulations.
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on the counter, and I detected the slightest hint of a muscle on his right arm. His pager and cellphone were on the table, not on his belt, and he was shuffling around in sheepskin slippers. Normally I'd cringe at how showily Daniel put his nose in his wine glass before tasting it, but I decided to overlook it. He was oddly Frasier-esque.
When the rest of the group decided to call it a night, no one looked twice when I announced that I was too tipsy to drive home and that I planned to hang back. Daniel led me toward his bedroom to show me his music collection. I'd feared that he was a Dave Matthews Band kind of guy, but he pulled out Dylan's Blonde on Blonde on vinyl and played "Visions of Johanna." I braced myself for his kiss and felt a rush of creepy adrenaline, thinking, "The rest of the group can never know about this." Instead of a kiss, Daniel told me his ten-point plan to retire by age forty-five. I made it easy for him. I lay down on his bed and said, "Can I crash here tonight?" He said, "Sure!"
Daniel went into the bathroom to change and returned wearing a velvet smoking jacket. I blushed, thinking that somehow he'd found me out. His legs were pasty and stocky, and the jacket belt was tied underneath his round belly.
My libido was mad at me for putting it through this.
But perhaps Daniel was going to be good sex, I thought. Since women probably rejected him constantly, maybe he would be the type of guy who would really try to earn my orgasm.
Daniel approached the bed, turned down the lights and whispered, "I'm going to make myself more comfortable." I wasn't sure if he was trying to be funny, so I giggled to be polite. He stroked my cheek and asked, "Nervous?" I forgave his innocent and patronizing question because his touch actually felt nice.
I let my head fall back as he kissed my neck. This was going exactly as planned. And then Daniel jumped up. "Music! We need music!" He put on another Dylan CD and ran back to the bed acting like an animal; not an animal that would devour me sexually, but an animal that might need to be put down, like a rabid raccoon.
Daniel rubbed me everywhere using both hands, causing so much friction I thought I might catch fire. I let him tire himself out a little until finally we found ourselves entwined, which wasn't so bad. It was nice to have a man hold me again. And then I felt his toenail in my calf. Ouch. Gross. Unwind my leg. Daniel grinned above me and asked, "Are you ready?" I was ready, and in a forgiving mood.
Daniel pulled a condom out from under his pillow and rolled it on. He kept looking at his penis, then back at me. I wondered if he wanted some congratulations.
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I downgraded this from sex to what I call masturbation-with-help.
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As he climbed on top of me, I feared I might laugh once he was inside. But he was slow, and there was an actual spark of intimacy between us during the first few seconds of "intercourse," as Daniel called it. Then he began to narrate, just as obviously as he did in his pulp sci-fi stories. "Uh . . . we're doin' it. Yeah. Yeah." His eyes were squeezed shut, and I grabbed him tightly to try to shut him up. This caused him to narrate louder. "Oh yeah! You are so passionate when we do it."
In my mind, I downgraded this from sex to what I call masturbation-with-help. I closed my eyes and pictured my guilty pleasure of the moment, Frasier Crane. With my eyes shut I didn't notice that Daniel had used his CD player remote to turn up the music. We were actually going at it to the song "Hurricane." Bob Dylan sang, "Don't forget that you are white." I said, "Daniel. Can we turn this song off?"
But it was too late. As the violins crescendoed into chaos, so did Daniel. And then I heard a familiar groan: "Oh . . . that's good." He made the face. He looked like he was taking a bullet in the back and wailing loudly at the gods for destroying his city. Daniel smiled like a goofball at me, and I feared he'd just fallen in love. "Jen, we can never tell the writer's group about this," holding up his pinky finger in solidarity. A pinky swear? I was the one who should be denying him permission to tell. "Don't you think part of the fun is that no one knows we're doing this?" he asked.
I'd sobered up considerably and drove home soon after. When I was back on my couch, I turned on the TV and was taunted by the familiar theme song. I talked back to the TV. "I was just horny, you know," I told Frasier. "To be honest, you gross me out. I didn't mean to fantasize about you. I'm rebounding!" And with that, Frasier took his next call and said, "I'm listening." n°
| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
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Jen Kirkman is a writer and comedian. She's appeared on numerous TV shows including Comedy Central's Premium Blend, NBC's Late Friday and Oxygen's Hey Monie! She also performs live at the Hollywood Improv, the Laugh Factory, the MBar and the Comedy Central Workspace. She lives in Los Angeles. Her first comedy album, Self Help, was released this year and is available at myspace.com/jenkirkman. |
©2006 Jen Kirkman and hooksexup.com
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