Remember You Are Mortal

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.

Advertisements

8 thoughts on “Remember You Are Mortal

  1. Fred, your post is indeed a ringing veneration of mortality and its many marvelous trappings, and for the younger reader, a trapping is not a spring-loaded serrated shin clamp secreted on the forest floor under picturesque detritus. A ‘trapping’ is a value-added, like gravy or Big Chew Bubble Gum®. “Sex with all the trappings”. Like that. Fred, your apparently inbuilt smoothness with fuck buddies can only mean you came off the cosmic assembly line with a singular design purpose; to spread your seed. Some of us dispense cowboy juice with more trepidation. An orgasm is nice (really nice, I mean) but the paper towel budget finally begins to shoulder aside the lunchmeat budget and in the wee small hours (as they’ve been called) you find yourself sitting on the edge of the bed by lamplight, mildly cross-eyed with existential vertigo. The whole situation needs constant redress. A high class problem if you are lucky enough to be able to afford really nice paper towels. All I’m asking now, Fred, is that you consider the possibility that you have misapprehended your mission statement, and that you were supposed to have been dispensing apple seeds all the while. Oh, what? Yeah. Yes. Would that we were all able to share in your bounty, the bounty of your orchard, had you but read the fine print. Now whaddawegot. You forgot us, the apple enthusiasts. Plus you hurt your dissolving back. Typical. What a piece of work is a man. And what the heyo is a 30-rack. period. I’ll keep an eye on your ramblings with hope you’ll announce your novel’s publication. I’ll read it, buddy. You must be a writer in civilian life.

    1. Awesome! I’m plugging away. Hoping to be ready by July. I’ll put out the first few chapters before it’s released. And the back feels much better already, thank Christ.

  2. I didn’t want to laugh at this, but I found myself chuckling, nonetheless. I enjoy reading your entries perhaps because you remind me of guys I know–all charm and swish–men I frankly enjoy. I’m nothing pretty, but they seem to enjoy the game as well. Perhaps because I don’t flinch, and there’s an understanding somewhere in that game of cat and cat–it’s not about sex, and I won’t bed them or even try.

    I never stop being surprised at you pretties–how much actual conversation holds you when you could be playing the field. So, I don’t see that these rules you mentioned should apply to a special friend with whom you can have both intellectual and physical intercourse. But yeah, give your body time to heal or it’ll wind up as a chronic and ever worsening condition. A therapeutic massage wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.

    1. Healing now. Korea is a good place to get massages. I understand what you mean. Talking to girls who challenge you can be more stimulating and rewarding than going through the whole bedroom performance yet again. Keep it up!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s