Most pornography is produced by males for a male audience, and therefore it tends to favor male fantasies. Whether we dream of being all powerful or powerless, one thing is for certain–the pleasure is all about us. For example, if a woman suddenly finds herself consumed by an unexpected, libidinous frenzy, porn would dictate that she begin by performing furious fellatio on her partner.
It turns out this is not the case at all. She finished four times before I even had a chance to finish once. Between that and the weed, she fell immediately to sleep.
Being objectified sexually was something most men didn’t really mind, and, Lord knows, I’ve had a lot of sex with a lot of women who really didn’t know much about me. In this real-life porno, however, something seemed off. I existed only to scratch Emma’s itch.
I remained in her bed for quite a while, wondering what the hell had just happened, until I finally decided that any thinking could be done better in my own bedroom. All I had to do was find my clothes.
My khakis and underwear were easy; they were dangling, inside-out, from my left ankle. The reason they were hanging there was the same reason I only needed to locate my right boot and sock. My tie, still knotted around my neck, was clenched in her fist. I tugged gently, but it didn’t give. I tugged harder, but it still wouldn’t give. I yanked, and that caused her to roll over in the other direction, taking my neck with it. Slipping it over my head, I twisted and arched and squirmed my way to freedom.
The condom plopped into her wastebasket before I untangled pulled my pants and pulled them up. I located my missing boot on top of her bureau, my shirt in her half-open closet, and my sock in the tiny hallway outside of her room.
After dressing, I wondered if I should take my boots off to tiptoe over her hardwood floors to her window, but a long, deep snore from the bed informed me that I’d be okay. All the same, I’d prefer a few moments to myself to get my thoughts together, so I crept as softly as I could for the exit.
And then, just before I made it to safety, she began muttering. I froze. My ears strained, until they heard, “Just bark if you need me.”
I retrieved my belt from the fire escape and returned home.
Work the next day was tedious, which was just fine with me. Had anything exciting happened, like, say, former child star Julian Glass getting arrested for DUI as he had twice already this month, and had I been stuck standing outside the courthouse with all of the other alleged journalists, our tape recorders and notebooks in hand, I likely would have snapped.
Every inch of the news floor sensed my frustration and confusion, and all stayed away, except for Bill, who didn’t know the meaning of the word couth. He said, “You look like someone beat the hell out of you last night. And you look like you kind of enjoyed it.”
I enjoyed it a lot, actually.
That evening, I knocked on her door the instant I’d made it to our floor. When she didn’t answer, I tried again fifteen minutes later, and again after another twenty minutes. After the fourth attempt, I gave up and headed to my room.
During the immeasurable amount of time lying on my mattress, staring at the ceiling, I’d completely forgotten that my favorite way to alleviate boredom and stress was smoking weed. When that factoid came back to me, I headed immediately to the fire escape, reaching for my pipe and matches; I mean, if there ever was a time for getting thoroughly baked, this was it.
On second thought, if there was ever a time for not getting thoroughly baked, this was it.
I had nearly made it outside when a barely audible shuffle rattled from the wall. My legs propelled me to her door, upon which my knuckles rapped.
She answered immediately, my tie exactly where I’d left it–in her hand. “Here for this?”
We both alternated between looking at each other, looking at the floor, and looking at the ceiling. Finally, I coughed out, “We should talk.”
She sighed and beckoned me inside.
We shared a long, anxious moment until she spoke up. “I don’t know where to start.”
“I’ll go,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “I have serious, serious opinions… beliefs, actually… about taking advantage of someone under the influence of… you know… anything.”
“I know!” she moaned. “I’m so sorry!”
“I know!” I moaned. “I’m… ” I frowned. “Did you just apologize to me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I came here to apologize to you.”
“For taking advantage of you.”
She laughed. “Dude, wasn’t I the one who tore your clothes off?”
“Yeah, but you were under the influence.”
“So were you.”
“I’m a professional,” I told her. “You smoke, and you turn into this lust-crazed monster. That’s what I took advantage of.”
She paced back and forth, composing her thoughts. “You’re saying I was so strung out that I would have fucked anything, and you just happened to be there?”
“I wouldn’t have phrased it quite like that.”
She sighed. “Dude, if it were anyone else, I probably would have just run away and played with my toys.”
“Maybe not anyone else, but you catch my drift.”
“Oh.” I asked, “So what does that mean, exactly?”
“Dude,” she replied, “let’s not turn this into a thing. Let’s just chalk it up to a bad night.”
“I don’t know if I’d call that bad.”
She grinned a crooked grin and pushed a cinnamon curl behind her ear. “How about ‘poor judgment’?”
“Close enough.” We simultaneously sighed, letting the air out of our shoulders. “I should probably go then,” I said.
“Yeah, dude,” she replied, “you probably should.”