61 Frames Per Second by John Constantine Today in Hooksexup's videogame blog: Friedrich Nietzsche, River City Ransom, angry nerds, and the horrors of time. So, you know, business as usual.
The Remote Island by Bryan Christian Veronica Mars returns (maybe), RuPaul is haunting us (definitely), and the Dexter "Pscyho Therapy" quiz (creepy.)
Some people drink and they are just like themselves but a little louder or quieter or kinder or meaner. Others and I'm one of these lead alternate lives. Put two Jack and Cokes in me and I'm Lisa Dark. I don't know her, but I sure have heard a lot about her. From what I gather, sex with (and for) her must be really great (and occasionally really gross . . . really body fluid-y . . . and things get broken). I remember a five-hour ride home from New York with my just-a-friend, who said, after the third time we'd pulled over so I could throw up into some matted, frosty grass, "I haven't seen someone so enthusiastic about sex as you were last night since high school! We have to do that again sometime!"
"Nooo," I groaned, searching in his glove compartment for a second pair of sunglasses to put on top of the ones I was wearing.
I don't believe in "fuck buddies." I think the whole concept is weird. But apparently Lisa Dark is a more accepting soul than I. "For the longest time I couldn't figure out why you two had so carefully deposited the contents of my coffee table onto my couch," read an email from my friend Kate, whose house Just-a-Friend and I had slept at, "since you were totally not in a careful mood when I finally went to bed. Then I realized you guys had crawled under my coffee table and somebody's back heaved the glass up out of it, and that's when everything came off. By the way, do you remember propositioning me?" After that, I switched to Budweiser. As it turns out, three Buds affect me the same as two Jacks. So I put Lisa Dark into retirement, except for once a year, on New Year's Eve. Here is a sampling of other people's glorious non-memories of drunken fucks past.
Tommy Kennedy
When I was fired from my job as a waiter, the bartender took pity on me and made me a pitcher of rum with a little Coke in it, sending me on my way with my girlfriend (a waitress at the same place). I remember drinking only one glass of it at home. The next morning when we woke up, the drapes were open, and the lights and stereo were still on. All the pillows and the comforter were on the floor, along with a full ashtray, an empty pitcher and our clothes. And a vibrator (still on) and a . . . well, a dildo. Incidentally, my butt was sore, too.
Simone Sidwell
I was so drunk and deranged that I made a Fritos, mayo and American cheese sandwich for us to eat before the sex. That's all I know. The rest is shrouded. But if I thought that sandwich was a good idea, who knows what else sounded good at the time?
Jean Louis Costes
I have heavy malaria fever in my brain. Lying on my bed, I lose consciousness of myself. I watch those feet far away and don't feel them as being my feet, a part of me. I see those hands, this belly in front of me, foreign to me. "Me" is just my eyes everything I see is not me. Then this hard dick rising up from this belly. I think, Mm, I would love to caress this dick and watch it become harder. I'm thinking it is the dick of a roommate and I am a homosexual. Suddenly the dick ejaculates on my face (I know it is my face because I cannot see my face). I feel it was funny to watch a man ejaculate.
Mary Vander Burenbals
At an exciting yacht-themed party last spring, a fuse blew and all the electricity went out. So a captain/pirate and I retired to private quarters. We were eating pretzels and then he started biting me instead. The morning after, I woke up with marks all over my body and a boy in my bed naked save for his eye patch.
Nicole Stogrin
Well, once I came to and my jeans were on the floor in tatters. Lisa: Really in tatters? Denim is a tough material. Nicole: Really in tatters. To this day I'm not sure what happened. The belt loops were gone and the legs were in pieces. I stapled them together so I would be decent to walk home.
Elizabeth Rose
Waking up late one afternoon, I tried to put the pieces together of the night before. The evidence was all over. Torn clothes, missing clothes, bottles, full ashtrays. The bed was pushed to the other side of the room! I was bruised all over my back probably from having sex on the staircase, I guessed. I vaguely remembered drunken disregard for my poor roommates, who were probably too afraid to say anything at the time.
Evan Tobias
I was at a party and the most beautiful, towering, self-proclaimed lesbian named Jamie was in attendance. Plus a peculiar pink punch. At one point I woke up with Jamie stroking my hair and my head in her lap, my pants off. I was so tired and sick but I was so happy that someone was holding me, talking softly about something. She kissed my forehead and told me it was going to be okay. She kissed my lips and said I stunk. I'd been puking. Next her hand was on my cock. It seemed like she was working on me forever and I had no idea why this was happening and tried to lift my head, but she just said Shhh.
Wally Veinott
The best sex I can't remember is the sex I imagine from the woman who is everything I ever wanted, but never met. I married someone who gave up on her body and sex the moment the babies had both been born. That meant she gave up on me. I've stayed twenty-five years regardless, and now my own body wants to give up on sex, too. In mid-life crisis or whatever last-gasp yearnings those are that push us outward beyond our comfortable lives, I found a re-affirmation of my own desirability in some other women. I experienced BDSM and one woman's need for submission. I played the role and sucked in all I could get, which wasn't enough, but had to be. Now I feel that that, too, is over. It's time to plant climbing roses and build birdhouses. Way too soon, I am old. You want drunk sex? The kind where you can't remember what happened? Fantasy is drunkenness, a memory of something that never happened: her eyes are like the night, her arms are lithe and young and encircling and her taut yet yielding body is all for me, only for me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Lisa Carver is the author of the books Dancing Queen, Rollerderby, The Lisa Diaries and Drugs Are Nice. She's written for Hustler,Index, Icon, Feed,Newsday and Playboy, among others. She lives in New Hampshire.
Tommy Kennedy
Simone Sidwell
Mary Vander Burenbals
Nicole Stogrin
Elizabeth Rose
Evan Tobias
