During a dry spell between relationships with steady monogamous sex, I once experienced history’s greatest cock block, that foul act in which someone interferes with another’s attempt at finding happiness inside someone’s pants.
That fateful night several years ago, I was partnered with my dipsomaniacal roommate Cory, a man prone to humping Christmas trees while soused. We were at a rockabilly bar near the contaminated Gowanus Canal. Appropriately, we slugged back toxic whiskey shots.
“Another round?” Cory asked, laying out a wrinkled $20 to buy our third apiece. It was less a question than a statement. And we made many statements. Somewhere along the seventh or fifth, a girl tugged on my striped sailor top, which typically attracts gay men enamored of my fat booty.
“I like your shirt,” she said.
“Thanks, I found it on the street corner,” I said, examining her pants for a clandestine bulge. “The shirt was in a box amid Barry White CDs and spatulas,” I explained, a combination that still provides shudders.
“That’s…a bargain,” she said, and conversation flowed with drunken ease. I said the right things, meaning I avoided revealing inappropriate truths. Like explaining how I once edited porn for a C-grade Chinatown smut outfit. Cory stayed outside smoking cigarettes, Bloomberg’s persnickety law finally paying dividends.
Soon my witty banter, which consisted of buying my female companion stiff whiskey and Cokes, paid dividends: “Would you like to go back to my house?” she asked.
“Let’s get a cab,” I said, as we hot-footed it into a yellow beast, hoping to ditch Cory. Before we sped away, he hopped in. His eyes gleamed with mischief and Old Granddad hooch. “I’m paying,” he said, brandishing $20 as the cab’s four wheels sped our third wheel into the night.
“I could use another drink,” he said.
“I could kick you onto the street,” I thought, but instead resolved to charge him higher rent when we renewed our lease.
We reached her house on a block of low-rise homes decorated with soot-stained vinyl siding. Inside, she prepared cheese and crackers. Cory opened a bottle of merlot. We retreated to her room and sat on her white bed.
“Cheddar?” she asked, offering ragged yellow hunks and salty circular crackers.
“No, I got this wine,” Cory says, drinking deeply of the red juice. He opened his mouth to add another erudite comment, but instead emitted a Vesuvial plume of vino. It arced high, like a diver reaching the top of his parabola, before gravity deposited the liquid on my hopeful conquest’s feather-soft, virginal white comforter.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” she screamed, not unreasonably.
Cory stumbled away, emptying his stomach’s remainder in the toilet. I shrugged, as if to say, “Baby, it’s cool; I won’t vomit. How about I make everything better with a sensual massage?”
She shook her head, then stormed into the living room. I followed, like a confused puppy. She screamed once more: Cory had flipped her couch and chairs upside down, their legs pointing ceiling-ward.
“What. Did. You. Do?” she asked.
“Everything is upside down. It’s all upside down!” Cory answered, adding, “Fuck you,” in case she didn’t catch his drift.
“No, you fucking ruined my comforter and flipped over my furniture!” she said, her indignation climbing to Chrysler Building heights.
“Why don’t you go buy a new comforter,” Cory suggested, pulling four twenties from his pocket. He balled up the bills and threw them at her feet like she was a stripper who just performed a despicable, though highly appreciated act.
“Take it! Buy a new bedspread.” Then he stormed outside.
“Your friend is a psycho,” she said, as she flipped her furniture over.
“I know,” I said, hoping that the heated situation boiled her passion. You know, “Baby, you’re beautiful when you’re angry.” I inched closer. She inched closer. I cocked my head and parted my lips—and she pushed my chest, sending me crashing against the wall with a ferocity typically reserved for football offensive linemen protecting their quarterbacks from fierce pass-rushers.
“Get out,” she said, flinging opening the door as wide as the Atlantic.
I considered pleading my case, but at 5 a.m., it’s hard to construct a rational explanation for red-wine vomit, upside-down furniture and twenties tossed at someone’s feet. Though I’m a born contrarian and arguer, I could maybe understand why her life would be better if I fell down the stairs. I stepped into the stairwell and the door slammed behind me, followed by a deadbolt click.
On the corner, Cory puffed a hand-rolled cigarette. It was 5 a.m. We started walking home, silently. I felt my hangover building, the whiskey grabbing my brain and squeezing tightly. It was a caress, not the type of caress I imagined I would experience, but at this unholy time of night, I was not a picky man.
