I took a taxi to her apartment at midnight. My fellow rakes would chastise me because you’re only supposed to see fuck buddies once a week. That is the rule in 2015. I broke it because she’s easy to talk to and I’m good at talking to girls anyway. Not guys. Most guys have girl problems, but I have guy problems. I think it’s because I grew up without brothers. I get more nervous before playing Xbox and digging into a 30-rack with guys than I do before a date with a woman. With a woman some sort of evolutionary, biologically-imperative smoothness comes over me and steadies all the shakes. My mind fires sharper and faster. Everything is on point. Or maybe girls just pretend to laugh more often.
Anyway. You only see fuck buddies once a week. But if you know the rules you can break them. There’s a hard expiration date hovering with this one anyway because she’s leaving Korea soon. Gents, I know what I’m doing.
She lives on the 18th floor of one of those imperial apartment towers that you worry about planes hitting by accident, or on purpose after being hijacked by North Koreans. There was some red wine and we played guitar for two hours before I fucked her. I threw out my back while in mid-fornication. Like JFK. It’s as if two ribs have switched places. I tweaked it Saturday while lifting, which I only do so I can fuck girls, and then kept lifting and sprinting on it afterward, and then flexed too hard at the wrong time during the actual act of fucking, because I have to flex several muscles at the exact same time in order to finish. See also: reasons to be a eunuch.
So it begins. I will continue to age. I’d better get used to this. I woke up three hours later feeling like a broken stepladder. Some jagged piece of shrapnel wedged under my shoulder blade. Breathing is now a complex procedure of shifting and timing. If you were a general in Ancient Rome they threw you a parade when you got back from raping tentfuls of foreign women and sowing Carthaginian fields with salt. Tens of thousands screamed your name and you were a victor for life. You wore your toga and they sculpted a nude, casually-relaxed statue of you with a huge dick. They also had a guy standing behind you in the chariot whispering memento mori to you. Remember you are mortal.
Google told me to downshift a little. So I’m the café all evening to work on the novella. I want to put it out this summer, because it’s set during the summer. Things explode, or crash into other things, which also explode. There are characters that make jokes and there are plot twists. One protagonist is a champion, a fountain of charisma who is accustomed to winning. The other suffers anxiety in certain social situations and is fighting a losing battle to assert his existence. I can relate to both.