My Itchy Itchy Taint

Its 6am. I’ve been at work for the past twelve hours. Hour drive home. Sunglasses. Check. Rice crispy treats. Check. Fuck you LA traffic. Home now. Smoke some resin out of my pipe. Need to sleep. Crawl into bed. First order of business, knees bent, hand down pants. Scratch the taint. Ahhhh. God that feels good. Three minutes later I roll over and sleep till three PM.

Next day same story, except I’m on the couch falling asleep to the World Cup. Hands down pants. Scratch the taint. Sleep. Wake up at 3Pm. Shower. Scratch. Head to work. I drive mini vans and take out garbage. Restocking coolers I flirt with the crafty girls. I do this for twelve hours then I drive home. Scratch Scratch.

This is the honeymoon stage with my itchy taint. I don’t remember when we first got married or how it happened. You were drunk. But this is when I love you the most and the sex is great. I don’t itch at all during the day. As soon as the sun dips behind the San Fernando mountains. The scratch is on. It’s a never-ending mosquito bite and I love it. Wallow in the itch. Dive deep into the feeling of bliss as I dig my fingers tips into my flesh. Scratch. Sleep. Work . Scratch. Sleep. And Repeat.

I spend a lot of time hacking my computer. Killing the FB. Then I spend two hours winking at girls on match dot com. Loser. They never wink back. I haven’t been laid in a year. Not since the divorce. Not counting that coked out stripper from last month? Never happened JFK. Lies. I resolve to spend the rest of my days alone and celibate. Scratch. Scratch.

Working now. Standing with cold water bottles in my hands for the producers. The constant chatter of production drama buzzes in my ear. Who’s got a twenty on the keys to the Bentley? Anyone? Crickets. I giggle to myself. I start handing out water to people who have only just recently started looking me in the eye. Suddenly it hits me like tidal wave. Scratch. Please scratch me. Please. I look around; how can I get away with scratching my taint in front of all the producers on set? Your fucked dude. Pass out the water. Quick. Pretend to take a smoke break. Left hand in pocket. Push balls back and to the right. Giggle. Scratch. There. Now I’ve done it. Time to leave me alone. I go back to work; unable to shake the sick feeling in my stomach. The honeymoon is over. The sex is gone. The love will fade and the great war of the itchy itchy taint has begun. I don’t know it yet but I’m in for some serious shit.

I decide to wait a while just to see if the itchiness goes away. It doesn’t. Now I must find alternate solutions to this problem. It’s getting out of control. I’m constantly thinking about putting my hands down my pants and scratching. Not good. This is pushing the realms of my sanity. Assuming your in the slightest bit sane in the first place. I try not scratching. Don’t have the will power. Scratch. Scratch. My itchy taint is winning and I don’t know what to do. I consider all manner of diseases and rashes. I consult the Internet, scouring the pages of web MD. Nothing worth mentioning. I haven’t had sex in a year. Pretty much rules out everything sex related. Why god why? Scratch. Scratch.

I also spend some time wondering why the rest of my down town area is itch free. Balls. Check. Manhood. Check. Lower belly. Check. Everything is where it should be and feels normal. Scratch the perineum (what the medical community calls it) weirdoes. What am I missing? What’s the defining difference between my balls and my taint? Two look like the moon and the other a landing strip? Obvi. Think. Then suddenly it hits me. For the last three months I had been doing some pretty extensive manscaping. I had very little pubic hair around my junk. The only area left untamed was between my skinny legs. What grows on hair and itches at night? Jesus. Eats. Buttery. Crabs.

Fuck.

How the hell did I get crabs? This is ridiculous. I’m embarrassed. Scared. I remember reading a story about solders in the Vietnam War who used to douse them selves with diesel fuel to kill crabs. I briefly consider going to the gas station and buying a gallon. Horrible idea. Pour gas on my junk in the shower? No thank you. On the lawn? Possible. I look for alternate routes. Hit the pharmacy. Work up the courage.
“Excuse me?”

“Yes?” Says the girl behind the counter. Cute. Fuck this is so embarrassing.

“Do you have anything that kills lice?” I ask.

“Body lice or room lice?” She smiles as she asks me this, I wonder if there is a difference. Also, is she fucking with me? Suck it up crab boy.

“Body lice.” My face goes bright red.

“Aisle nine on your right.”

“Thanks.”

Buy the biggest bottle of lice killer. Fuck you crabs. I got your number now. Get home, lather up the stuff. Rub it on. Wait for ten minutes as directed. Naked. I feel it start to burn and hop in the shower. After two days of this torture I re-read the directions. Apparently I need to shave. Great. Get wasted. Always shave better drunk. Here goes nothing. I shave my taint. Lice killer. Get some.

A few days go by and everything is back to normal. Then. Itch. Itch. Scratch. What the F? How hard are these mother fuckers to kill? No. They are dead. But your hair is growing back.

A week passes.

Oh my god. I have a cactus growing between my legs. The fresh spikes of my newly born taint hair pick and poke, scraping my legs as I walk. Every movement is absolute torture. This sucks.

Then suddenly I discover something completely surprising. I fart. Instead of going out like a good fart should. It comes blasting up and hits my balls like a hot summer breeze. Guess there is a good reason for having a hairy taint after all. I spend the next three weeks farting forward. I shower twice a day.

After two more weeks everything is back to normal. Kind of. Still scarred for life. Its wrap out on my reality dating show. The kind of show were couples are encouraged to screw in hot tubs and bang it out in showers.

“Hey Bapu, do you want these towels? They are left over from the cast bathroom.”

“Yes of course I want them.”

I go home. Shower. Without thinking grab a towel and use it. And the war of the itchy itchy taint begins again.

Fuck.

Fighting Britney Spears

The fog is heavy. Like a cold blanket that surrounds my heart and drags me down. I haven’t gotten out of bed in two days. Lean over. Crack open another beer. Slug. Slug. I see a flash of black ink on my chest. Tattoo. Fuck. Thick black letters scrawled across my rip cage. The pain was good. Woke me up. I went alone. Paid extra to get it on the bone. My tattoo artist was a girl with colored sleeves and a lip piercing. She was pretty. I asked her not to talk.

It’s Halloween tonight. I haven’t got a costume and have no motivation to do anything other then drink. Alone. At home. In bed. This day always reminds me of the recently departed “love of my life”. She hasn’t called me in the last week. A record length of time for her. I wonder if she will like my tattoo. Doubt it.

“Get up dick head.” My roommate pounds on my door.

“Go away.” I yell.

Door opens. My tall lanky roommate storms into the room and drops his elbow into my rip cage. Ouch.

“Get up and come drink with us, there should be girls at this party.”

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“You sound like my girlfriend, wear a suit and you can be lawyer with a chest tattoo. Haha.” My roommate hands me a shot of whiskey and a lit cigarette. Good friends. Who? This guy.

Get up. Shower. Puke in the sink, nothing but foam. Put on a suit that smells like the back of a dead persons’ closet. More shots. And we are out the door. There are five of us. My two roommates, Joey and Manny and their two girlfriends… don’t remember their names. They looked hot and sultry. I tried not to notice. Somewhere out there my X was looking hot. I wished she were crying in her bed. Alone. But I knew better.

We get to the house party. It is a classic San Francisco Apartment, small tight hallways with three floors. In the crowded kitchen now. They have red wine in yellow cups. Drink one down. Have another. Go down stairs. There are girls here? Wow. They are dancing. I stare for a moment. I’m alone. Not for long. A chick dressed like a girl scout comes and dances with me. What is going on? Girls don’t just dance with me. She grinds and shakes and moves. I sway back and forth trying not to step on her. Her name is Paige. Word.

Britney Spears walks into the room. The gay version. Some white boy who thinks that cross-dressing is cool (Insert inappropriate insult here). For some reason all the girls think it’s the shit. Dumb younglings. I’m out of here.

On the roof now. Smoking. Staring at the fog. I text a picture of my new tattoo to my X. She calls me back. Thump Thump this heart beats. Answer.

“Hello luv,” I answer trying to sound happy.

“Why the fuck did you send me a picture?” She sounds drunk and angry,

“I don’t know I haven’t heard from you and I wanted to say happy Halloween, I know its your favorite holiday.” I say.

“I told you not to call me, I’ll call you when I feel like talking to you without wanting to break your face with a brick.” I laugh. Fuck.

“Are you fucking laughing at me now? You piece of shit.” She hangs up. I wonder why I always seem to laugh when people threaten to hurt me. Its just funny I guess. Hurting you is.

Sitting with friends now, found some whiskey. Warm this chest up. Paige comes out and starts talking to me. She is nice. She laughs at my jokes. We are having a good time.

Britney Spears walks in. fuck. He grabs Paige’s arm and tries to get her to dance with him. I can tell she doesn’t want to. She lights a smoke and says she wants to stay outside. Britney Spears sits down on her lap. What a weird-o. Paige rolls her eyes at me. I smile. Laugh. Shake my head. What the fuck else am I supposed to do? Britney Spears gets up for more booze.

Paige gets off her chair and sits in my lap. Dope.

“Is this ok? I need you to save me from that creepy dude.” She whispers in my ear, her lips just barely touch me. Hot.

“Yeah no problem sweetheart.” My leg is already going dead. I push through the pain.

Britney Spears comes back and glares at me. I smile at her / him. Then I give him my best gangster fuck off stare. It works. Fucking miracle.

My friends’ bail on me, they want to go have sex with their girlfriends. I understand. So do I. I track down my new favorite girl scout. We talk and then decide its time to leave. She grabs her jacket and we head for the door.

Britney Spears! He is all up in her face, asking her to stay, to drink more.

“Can’t we are leaving.” She says politely.

“You’re leaving with this guy? Are you serious?” Britney Spears glares at me. Hey man at least I’m not the guy wearing a mini-skirt and a white T-shirt that is tied in a bow. Just saying.

“You can’t leave with him, he doesn’t even know you!” I wonder where Britney is going with this. What ever it is it can’t be good.

“What’s her name?” I am distracted, looking around for something to hit this kid over the head with.

“What’s her name asshole?” he screeches. Girly diapers.

“You talking to me?” I can’t help but drop a little New York accent as a say this and now I am smiling. Fucking Robert De Niro.

“See he doesn’t even know your name!” he yells.

Paige looks at me. I can see the pained expression of awkwardness on her face. Yeah that’s right sweetheart this is fucking awkward. I’m drunk and I don’t remember her name. Britney Spears is now yelling questions at me.

“Where does she go to school?”

“She goes to the academy.” I say with some confidence. All these kids go to my school. Right? Wrong. False. Fuck.

“She goes to ballet school you moron!” I don’t like his tone of voice now. Where is a wine bottle when you need one?

“You are a ballet dancer?” I lean in as I ask this. She nods her head yes. This girl just went from hot to super hot.

Britney spears has worked himself up into a rage, he is spiting and foaming at the mouth. This has turned into a hilarious nightmare.

“You want to fight bitch, cause I will work you over like a piece of cake.” He screams at me. Sticking out his chest. I laugh at him. How could I not? He bumps me. This guy is starting to piss me off. I turn to Paige.

“You should handle this guy before I do.” I say as politely as I can.

“He is all yours.” She says and backs up to the door. Truthfully I was kind of hoping she wouldn’t say that. I guess it’s time to fight Britney Spears. She / He runs at me, the black and pink skirt flapping up and down and around. The blonde pigtails waving in the air like windmills. I reach my hand out and slap her/ him in the face. Britney Spears looks shocked. Steps back. I feel weird about punching a man dressed like a girl. Truth. Cause you never know. This is San Francisco.

Britney Spears raises his/ her fist. Fuck it. I pop my arm out with a quick Jab that makes him blink and then I swing the weight of my body behind a solid right hook. The punch lands squarely on Brittney Spear’s jaw. He / she drops to the ground like a sack of rocks. Pigtails and all. Time to leave.

I grab the Girl Scout and head for the street. We make out in the cold fog. Tastes like candy and red wine. She hands me a crumpled piece of paper with her number, there is a lipstick kiss on the corner. Jesus. I go home and drink whiskey. Fall asleep in my suit. Tie. Jacket. Shoes. I dream of large women. Weird.

Burning Seventeen

I’m seventeen. Young dumb and full of… everything. I move into the only smoking dorm room in the whole college. Dope. I light a cigarette and turn on my free cable. This is the first time I have had cable in my whole life. I lay around all day smoking pot and cigarettes. Glazed eyes. Staring. Nature programs and sports. I was a deprived child. I sell pot to my RA. Insurance. I give her a big bag. She doesn’t bother me for the rest of the semester. Bribing the faculty at this school is way to easy.

I’m dating a sixteen year old. Scandalous. My friends think I should be in jail. I agree with them. Shut up Ronald Reagan. She is crazy. Beautiful. Young. And crazy. She skips school. Sprawled on my bed in nothing but her lace panties. Black. Heaven. She is swigging from a bottle of gin I stole from a house party. I laugh as I watch her chugging it down. Hot.

“Easy now, Gin has a way of creeping up on you.”

“Fuck that I’m Irish.” She mumbles as she takes another long pull. It’s 2PM. We make out. I bite her lip. She screams at me in French. I thought you were Irish. She is now babbling at me in Frenchy speak. Crying now. This is ridiculous. Why are you crying? I want to kiss girls that have tear marks. I try. She punches me in the stomach and then laughs hysterically. Jesus this chick is crazy. Again hot.

Her phone rings. She answers and utters the two scariest word combinations I have heard to date.

“Hello father.” Fuck.

She listens for a moment rolling her big beautiful eyes at me. Teenagers. Suddenly she hands me the phone and says something to me in drunken French. I can’t understand you.

“Hello” I answer the phone. What am I doing?

“Who is this please?” he sounds gruff and scary. His “please” sounds more like an evil demand. I go into cop mode. Yes sir. No sir. Heart thumping.

“Bapu.”

“Where is my daughter?”

“She is in my dorm room. She stole my gin and now she is speaking French and I can’t understand a single word she says.” Way too much information Bapu. I’m so fucked.

“She should be in school.”

“Yes sir, I agree completely.” Swallow. Gulp. Is he going to buy this?

“She needs to go back to school.” Tracy (all my girlfriends have stripper names) wages her finger in the air. I gather she doesn’t want to go anywhere.

“I guess I could drop her off.” I say, having no intention of actually doing it. Drop a drunk sixteen year old off at school? Jailbait Popsicles.

“I’m going to come get her.” Shit that’s fucking worse.

“Um are you sure? School is pretty much over anyway, she’s probably better off just staying here.” Look at me telling this guy what’s best for his daughter. I have big feet and big nuts. I gear up for a shit storm. He takes a deep breath.

“Young man I’m going to tell you something, you don’t have the faintest idea what’s best for my daughter.” OMG. Your fucked dude.

“No of course not... I didn’t mean to…”

“Listen to me. Don’t speak. I am going to assume that you are a decent young man because I have heard good things about you. I heard about everything you did for Katie. “ (Katie is Tracy’s cousin who was recently the victim of a violent sex crime, I helped her handle the cops and later “took” care of the people involved. But that’s a whole other story.)

Father continues:

“So I am going to assume that you are not trying to molest my daughter.” I had up until that moment been absent-mindedly staring at her ass. Look up. Out the window.

“Of course not sir.”

“Exactly how drunk is my daughter at this point in time?” this guy talks funny. I glance down at Tracy. She is half way off of my bed with her head on the dirty tile floor. Mumbling. Jesus she is wasted.

“Not very.”

“Then I will pick her up at five, I hope she will be presentable by that time.”

“Yes sir. Thank you sir. I’m very sorry about all this.”

“Good. You should be.” He hangs up the phone.

Tracy throws up all over my floor. Great. Welcome to college sweetheart. I carry her to the showers. (Co-ed). See my RA as I walk down the hall. Fuck. Gulp. Be brave. Act normal. I smile and nod. Ignoring the fact that I am carrying a half conscious, half naked girl into the showers. She waves. Jesus I am so lucky I know how to get good drugs. You should have been kicked out of school on the spot. Fuck off. Tracy sobers up in the cold water. Slowly her French becomes English again. Thank god. She apologizes profusely. I make her brush her teeth and then we make out. Her dad picks her up two hours later. He shakes my hand. I stare at his mouth. He has no teeth. What the F?

I’m glad to see her go. Miss her panties. Back inside. Hit the pipe. Drink the rest of my gin. Clean my floor and my sheets. More gin. Need to get wasted. First smart thing you’ve said all day. My heart is still thumping from all the excitement. This room needs to air out. I open the window. Take out the screen. Climb out (I’m on the bottom floor) and begin wandering around the campus. Looking for strange. Staring up at the sky I spot an orange glow from across campus. Fire. Yes!

Running now. Excited. I love fires. Maybe my science building is burning down. No tests on Monday. Fantasy. When I get there the blaze is about ten feet in the air and about thirty feet long. There is a little knoll next to one of the buildings. The brush is on fire. Small bushes. Lit up and blazing. I look around. There is no one to be seen. I wonder if the building will catch on fire. It might. Where is the FD? Fuck it. Get in there.

I take of my sweatshirt and roll it up. Heading to the edge of the small inferno I begin beating at the flames. The brush is dry and breaks easily under the crushing blows of my jacket. The fire goes out quickly. Success. One bush is no longer burning. Should I keep going? Fuck it. I attack the bushes. Before I know it I am in the middle of it. Having fun. Laughing. Drunk. Dancing. I swing left and right. Turning. Spinning.

“Get some!” take that and that. Fire got nothing on me.” Jesus your ridiculous. I don’t care. This is fun. I give no thought to being surrounded by burning bushes. No thought to the inherit danger I’ve put myself in. No thought to burning skin. I’m drunk. I feel no fear; Just the exalting feeling of fighting something anything. I beat the last bush to submission. The fire is out. I’m covered from head to toe in black soot. My clothes are ruined. Smiling. I haven’t been this happy in years. The Fire department shows up. I hop down off of the small hill. Suddenly wondering if I am the prime suspect in starting this fire. Shit. Going to jail after all.

The firemen give me dirty looks as they spray the charred bushes. I guess they were looking for some hot action. You snooze you lose suckers. A cop takes my statement. I tell him what happened. He looks at me like I am fucking nuts. At the end of everything he tells me next time to wait for the FD. Whatever.

I head to my buddy’s dorm room. Drinking. Smoking. Covered in soot from head to head. The best of times.

The next day there are two rumors circulating around campus. Rumor one: involves me and multiple naked drunk girls in the showers. Sex is implied. Awesome. Rumor two: A girl who witnessed the fire swears there was some guy dancing in the middle of it all. There is brief moment of panic as teachers check the charred grassy knoll for any remains. Haha.

Legends.

getting arrested on the Bay Bridge

I’m playing pool at a friend’s house. Drinking beer with his ghetto want to be gangster friends. They hate me. Thought I was a criminal but I guess I just don’t make the cut. Phone rings. Check it. Hit the cancel call button. This is the tenth time she has called me tonight. I briefly wonder why then I remember the e-mail. Jesus the fucking e-mail.

In a state of being utterly drunk off of jack and cokes (my favorite drink at the time) I had recently written my girlfriends’ ex-boyfriend an e-mail. He was constantly trying to take my girlfriend out on “dates” and in my mind trying to fuck her one last time. Grieving? Everyone does it differently. I respect that. Lies. Fuck him. So I wrote him an e-mail politely saying that I don’t really care how he feels and to stay the fuck away from my GF. Perfectly Reasonable.

Earlier that night.

Text: Abigail (my girlfriend) writes: how do you spell my name? what the fuck is she talking about. Already drunk. Text back: Abygail?…jesus bapu. That is incorrect. Epic fail. She leaves me a couple of angry voice messages. She needs to talk. He must have showed her this e-mail with her name misspelled all over the place. Nice move dude. Now instead of you backing off I’m in the doghouse. Fuck it. I’m drinking beer and playing pool. Hit the cancel call again on my phone.

The party is over. I walk to Abigail’s house. Stumbling. Drunk. Gearing up for a fight. It’s go time baby. How do I talk my way out of misspelling my girlfriend’s first name? typo? That would have worked if I hadn’t done it over and over and over and over.

Abigail’s house:

“Do you like me? Do you really? Cause you can’t even spell my first name. We have worked together for over a year. I wear a fucking name tag.”

Can’t argue with that. This chick makes a good point. Don’t like her tone though and I tell her so. Balls of steel. This guy.

“Not to mention how wildly inappropriate that e-mail was in the first place!’ Don’t e-mail my x’s! It’s non of your fucking business what kind of relationship I have with my ex-boyfriends. They are a big part of my life and what are you?”

No answer.

“Nothing. That’s what you are. So keep your fucking mouth shut until I tell you to open it.”

Wow she is really handing me my ass now. I feel the stench of rage start to boil in my veins. Fuck this shit.

“I’m sorry. I’m really bad at spelling?” a poor excuse. Mumbling now.

“I do not accept your apology. You don’t even sound sorry.” Her beautiful blue eyes are piercing their way through my heart. Stop staring at her tits. Think. Look sorry. Fuck.

“I’m sorry…. Let me explain, I was just trying to…” she reaches over and flips the light switch. The room goes dark. Something about how she cut me off in midsentence makes the blood rush to my head and explode. Did you just turn the lights out on me? Fuck you. I want to put my fist through her wall. Lacking visibility I can’t punch anything. Acting on instinct I take my glasses off my face and break them in half at the bridge. Now holding my broken glasses I feel the hatred rise up and enter my hands. I chuck the broken glasses at her head as hard as I can. I miss. Fucking horrible throwing arm. I storm out and slam the door. What else was I supposed to do? There go a perfectly good pair of spectacles.

Her roommate, a chunky artist chick is downstairs watching TV. She stares at me. Wide-eyed. She must have been listening. I collect my feelings and slowly walk her way. Offer out my hand.

“It was nice to meet you.” I say.

“You too.” She looks confused.

I turn and walk out of the house. Time: 2:30 AM. I am on Treasure Island. I live in San Francisco. The bus is an hour wait then a thirty-minute ride. Fuck this. I’m walking. I call her phone as I go. Across the bay are the glowing lights of SF. Fucking beautiful. I tell her that we are done. It was a nice ride but obviously it isn’t going to work out. Good-bye Abigail.

I’m walking across the bay bridge now. Totally illegal. Car horns are blaring at me as they past. Fuck them. I turn on some music on my phone; sliding it into my jacket pocket. I’m having fun now. It’s cold and beautiful. The city is in the near future; lit up like giant Christmas tree. The water is sparkling 200 hundred feet below me. I briefly consider jumping. It would be a beautiful fall. The idea of death brings me back to reality.

I call my best friend. Tell him where I am. Bragging. Laughing. Drunk on the rush. He is worried. I hang up. Fuck it, I’m having the time of my life.

Whoop whoop.

Blue and red lights flash behind me. On the loud speaker I hear someone yelling at me.

“Get down on the ground!”

I turn to see the police cruiser for the first time. They have their guns out. Smile. Really? Guns? You really gonna shoot me? I lay down on the steel bridge. Face down. Cold hard steel on my cheek. I briefly think about germs. They cuff my wrists and throw me into the back of their car. Roughly. Whatever.

These seats are so uncomfortable.

“What were you doing?”

“Just trying to get home, my girlfriend kicked me out of her place.”

“You weren’t trying to jump?”

“No sir. I love my life. I just didn’t have money for the bus.” Lies. I have exactly a dollar fifty in my pocket.

“You know it’s illegal to walk across the bay bridge?”

“No sir. Although in retrospect it seems obvious.” (There is no pedestrian walking path on the bay bridge.) They bombard me with a series of random questions, to which I answer “no sir” and “yes sir.” (This is how you talk to cops BTW)

Parked underneath a bridge now. Open the door. Get out. Breathe into this tube. Longer. Longer. Winded now. I get back into the back seat.

45 seconds later.

The cop leans his head into the back window.

“Your not as drunk as we thought you were.” No shit? Sweet.

“I told you, sir I am just trying to get home. My girl friend kicked me out and I didn’t have money for the bus.”

I have been secretly trying to get the dollar fifty out of my pocket this whole time. Gotta make that lie real. Strangely every time I have been arrested I have never been searched. White boy.

“Where do you live?”

“I live on Sutter and Taylor.”

He nods his head and gets back in the Po-Po car. They drive me to about five blocks from my apartment. The worst part of town. Park. Lights on. He opens the door and lets me out.

“If I catch you on the bridge again, I will take you to jail.”

I laugh. How could I not?

“You will not sir, I promise.”

He un-cuffs me.

“Get home safe.”

“Thank you sir.” I reach out my hand and we shake (I do this to all the police officers that arrest me.) Thanks.

Walking home. Need a drink. Fuck you Cali! Don’t sell booze past two in the morning. I buy two packs of smokes. Walking home now. Jesus I’m lucky. Stepping out of the shadows is a bum covered in dark green shawls. I see the flash of steel. A Knife? Really?

“Give me your wallet.” He says brandishing his four-inch fold out blade.

“Fuck you.” I say. I just got arrested and let go; like a catch and release fish. I’m not dealing with crack heads.

“Give me your wallet or I’ll cut you!”

I laugh out loud. Weird reaction. Reaching into my back pocket I pull out the smokes I just bought and throw them on the ground. Here. I run up the hill.

Home now.

Calm the best friend.

I’m safe.

Smoke some pot.

Drink every drop of booze left in the house.

Draw a bath.

Climb in.

Fall asleep.

Wake up to my best friends’ girlfriend peeing.

My phone has one text message from Abigail, it reads: What happened last night? I was wasted. Don’t remember a thing.

Fuck.

We date for the next three years.

Go figure.

Bloody Turkey dinner

It’s my first thanksgiving away from home and I am spending it with my girlfriend. Lucy; the sweetest girl I have ever loved. We had been dating for three months. Lots of sex. Great. She is a good Midwest girl. Big tits. Bad teeth. Her hair is big and curly. Sex hair. Open the door. Kiss on the cheek.

“Sit down on that couch” she says. “I put the game on for you.”

The Giants are playing and I’m as happy as a clamshell in butter. She brings me an opened beer. Drinking now. The smell of the turkey is making my stomach growl. She has been cooking all day. She looks stressed out.

“We have to leave for my brothers’ house soon,” she says. Fuck.

“We are going to bring all this food over there? Wow.” I say as a slug more beer. She glances over and smiles at me. I know that smile. I swoop in for a kiss. 1 second. 2 seconds. 30. We are on the bed now. Push the panties to the left. Back and to the left. I’m laughing now for reasons only known to a select few (mostly JFK or Kevin Costner fans). She stops for a moment until I stop laughing then pulls me inside of her. I’m still thinking of JFK and his pink mist. She bits my lip as she comes.

“It’s time to go,” she says as she gets up and fixes her dress. I lay in bed for a moment. She smells like berries and sex. Love it. Load the car. Burn my hands. Fucking turkey. Driving now. At her brothers best friends house. Seven people in their late thirties. Awkward introductions. One friend is a DEA agent. He shows me his badge. Narc.

I boldly challenge her brother, Erick, to a game of ping-pong.

“I’m one of the best pong players in the world,” I say laughing. Liar. He kicks my ass. I’m mad but having fun. Lucy looks worried. I kiss her and telling her it’s all in good fun. Lies. I’m a competitive motherfucker and if I weren’t trapped in a 12 year olds body I would have been a professional athlete. Bullshit candy corn.

It’s time to eat. The seven friends bring out paper plates and plastic silverware. Are you fucking kidding me? I glance Lucy’s way. She is on the verge of tears. I agree. Who wants to cook all day and then eat off of paper plates? Disaster. Fuck it. I gorge myself.

It’s bathroom time. I take a long piss. Looking around I snoop into the cabinets. Suddenly the seat of the toilet slams shut. A loud shout emanates from my lips. More like a screech. Too girly for a man. I hear them laughing. Her brother calls out to see if I’m ok. There is piss everywhere. I start to clean it up. Leaning over the toilet bowl with some paper.

Drip.

Something falls from my nose and lands in the toilet bowl. Blood. Fuck. I quickly grab more toilet paper and hold it to my nose. Bleeding like a stuck pig now. Please stop. Please. I’m praying. I’ve already been in the bathroom for 15 minutes. The blood is not stopping. Some of it gets on my shirt. Fuck. Shit. Balls. She knocks on the door.

“What are you doing in there?”

“Nothing. Be out soon.”

The blood simply refuses to stop. I lean over the sink and begin blowing it out my nostrils. Like a snipers “pink mist” the blood sprays the entire sink. I’m so smart. Panic. What do I do? I’m trapped in some fucking Narcs bathroom and there is literally blood everywhere. Oh and piss. I think about jumping out the window and just bouncing out. The smell of berries and sex enters my mind. Can’t do that. Stop bleeding. Stop bleeding this very fucking instant! Repeat. Concentrate. And repeat. The blood is slowing now. I stuff some paper up my nose and then get to work re-cleaning the toilet. Great thanksgiving. At the table now.

“What happened in there?” her brother asks me. “Is that blood on your shirt? Dick head.

“Yes”

“Are you hurt?” some stupid person asks from down the table.

“No I just had a bloody nose is all.”

“From all the coke you have been doing?” her brother jokes. I make eye contact with the DEA agent. Gulp. Smile. Casual. Jesus. You’re going to be fine. He doesn’t say anything. They bring out the pies. All is forgotten.

So far the stats for this thanksgiving are as follows: devoured turkey meat, ½ pound. Ping-pong record, 0 and 4. Beers consumed, 8. Gotten laid, once. Made a complete fool out of myself, 3 times. It’s time to play trivial pursuit. I fucking hate trivial pursuit. It makes me feel dumb. Fuck people that know the absurd answers to those questions. Number of questions answered during game. None.

After an awkward series of hugs and handshakes we make our way back to her little one bedroom apartment in the mission. We fall asleep on the couch with I love Lucy on the Tele.

Three months later, Lucy moves to North Dakota.

She never speaks to me again.

I miss berries and sex.

Ear licking in H wood

Park my car in a lot in downtown LA. It’s too dangerous to park on the street I tell myself. Walking now. Aviator sunglasses? Check. Cool shoes? Check. Open v-neck with gold chain around my neck. Check. I’m about to go on my first date in six months and my hands are dripping wet. Hugs not shakes. Outside the bistro now. I stand and loiter letting the nervous energy flow through my body. Fuck it. I’m a rock star baby.

I get on my phone and start rambling to a friend of mine about a film we are working on together. I bitch and complain and bash the director as much as possible. This is Hollywood right? Glancing behind me I see a 12-inch Mohawk and a dog. What the f? It is sitting at a table outside my restaurant and orders a pink vodka drink. I ignore it. Keep talking.

Crossing the street I see my date, summer dress, red lipstick, looks like a 40’s diva in living color. Cool. I cross the street to meet her. Don’t forget to smile. Asshole. Suddenly the screech of a gay man yelling.

“Betty! Where the hell have you been?” brushing past me is the 12 inch Mohawk and a pair of torn up jeans. I spot an ass cheek. Gross. Look away. Look away. My date gives the walking hair cut a hug and they chat for a moment. I stand awkwardly in the street. Hand in pockets now. She smiles at me and introduces me too Derek? I never pay attention. Before I know what is happening he is sitting at our table. Talking. Jesus this kid can talk. I want to break his face. My date has been high jacked! Fuck.

I order a beer and some bacon fries. Betty helps me eat them. Delicious. I pay for her drink. Soon its time to go. She asks if I want to head to a bar down the street.

“You will absolutely love it there. It’s Fab,” she tells me. I am skeptical. But I cannot refuse a smile and the smell of liquor. Derek decides that he will be joining us. Fuck you dude. So for the second time today my date is high jacked.

Second bar is classy, smells like leather and lawyers. The bar tenders’ name is Chris. He pours us shot after shot of lemon drops. I hate lemon drops. She loves them. I order another and smile as I drink it. This Bee better be worth it. I’m out of money now. Drunk. Embarrassed. We leave to go somewhere else. The bartender Chris decides he wants to come with us. So Betty (who is no longer really my date) her friend Derek and now the bar tender Chris all head over to a dirty and dark bar down the street. I like dark and dirty. No money. Derek buys me a beer and a shot. He puts his arm around my shoulder as he drinks it. Please don’t touch me. The thought never leaves my lips. Big Mistake.

Betty invites me back to her house. Sweet. I’m getting laid. As I make my way to the door I hear her invite Derek and Chris and someone else? The third fellow is a small man who sells pot down the hall from her. Betty. Derek. Chris. Pot dealer. Me. Jesus. I think I’m going to invite the bum on the corner too.

Her place is small. Her walls are brick, which I love. The whole place is about the size of my freshman dorm room. Bad sign. How old is this chick again? Drinks go around. Pot goes around. She goes around. From man to man. Flirting. Laughing. I’m too drunk to care. Everything is spinning. Lay down. Close my eyes. So much worse.

Open. Everyone is gone. I’m alone. Derek opens the door and jumps into Betty’s bed next to me. Eyes closed. Stop the spinning. He is talking and I am mastering the art of nodding at all the right moments. I wonder if I should be listening. Decide not to. Big mistake. Suddenly his hand is on my chest. Why? He is slowly drawing his fingers across my skin.

“Does that feel good?” he asks.

“I guess I say.” How the fuck do I get in these situations? Fucking alcohol. Saved! Betty opens the door. Grinning. She jumps into the bed on my left. I turn my head and pucker my lips. She kisses me. Sweet. She tastes like candy and vodka. I could get used to this.

Something wet slides it’s way into my right ear. I flinch. What the F? I feel the wetness start to move. Wiggling. Sliding. Darting. Is this kid actually licking my inner ear? A flash of extreme violence erupts through my mind. Bashing skulls. Blood screaming, the kind of shit that is only appropriate in wildlife documentaries. I do nothing. Pussy. She breaks off her kiss.

“Help?” I whisper to her. She doesn’t hear me as she jumps off the bed and heads to the bathroom. Has she lost her mind? Derek is breathing heavy and sucking on my ear lobe now. I decide that enough is enough. Stop.

“Look dude whatever you think is going to happen is not going to happen.” I wonder if this is too harsh. Again the image of his head breaking the brick wall of her apartment flashes through my head. Not too harsh I decide.

“What do you mean?” he asks blowing hot air on my neck. This guy thinks I have a cunt. Neck blowing? Really? Yeah cause that makes me want to fuck.

“THIS IS NOT GOING TO HAPPEN” I repeat firmly. He jumps up and starts pacing the room. He is pissed. Ha Ha. Betty comes back from her bathroom escapades. Frowning.

“What’s the matter?” she asks Derek.

“Your friend just told me I need to leave! That fucking prick. I’ve known you for longer and I’m the one that is leaving? Ahh hell no bitch. Who is he to tell me I should leave? Fuck you dude!” He started of quietly and slowly rose to a high-pitched scream. I giggle. Bad timing. He freaks out. She freaks out. I feel awkward and offer to leave. He leaves instead. Slamming the door. Betty and I stare at each other for a long moment. I’m a getting laid now. I smile. She smiles.

Knock knock. Click. The door behind me slides open. Pot dealer. Fuck. He smiles and says he has brought his bong. Now we drift into a breeze of smoke. Awkward dancing. Check my phone. 2:30 AM. Fuck this I’m not getting laid. I have to go. Peace bitches.

I’m out the door now. Lost in her maze of hallways. Puke in the corner. Now this place IS college. Find the street. Where’s my car. Parking lot. You are too drunk to drive. I call my roommate. He is up playing FIFA. Thank god.

I’m home now.

Safe.

Damaged.

Fuck dating.

Meeting QT

I’m having drinks at the Dresdan on a Wednesday night. Sitting to my right is an old tattoo artist that wants to take me home and molest me. Sitting to my left is a plain Jane girl with a British accent, can’t understand a single word she says. Hot. I think she has a boyfriend. Fuck it. This place is dead anyway. I slurp down the last of my Makers and Ginger, give the tattoo artist a friendly tap on the shoulder, kiss the British girl on the cheek. Outside the Dresdan, lighter, smokes, coughing. Walking now.

I see a lone figure on the corner of Vermount and Fred 62’s. Great someone famous. I’m staring now. Quentin Tarantino? Holy shit. I’m about ten feet away now, still staring. He glances my way. For the briefest of moments I become distinctly aware of my facial expression, smiling slightly, mocking, staring. My face betrays me constantly.

“What the fuck are you looking at asshole?” his voice is gruff and mean, but smells like cheap wine and fruit. Sangria? Really QT?

“Hey, I’m Bapu Griscom,” I extend my hand, Jesus I must be drunk.

“What was that?”

“Bapu Griscom,” I say it slow and loud.

“So fucking what? fuck off.” He is smiling as he says this. I decide that it’s time to put this cocky motherfucker in his place. Whiskey cocktails.

“Watch your fucking mouth QT,” I smile as I say his nickname, “You are in SF now, North Cali motherfucker, and you see this Giants hat? This is my town.”

I dramatically point at the ground, and check his eyes for a reaction. For a moment the look of befuddlement on his face confuses me, then I hear someone yell from a passing car, “Go Doyers!” fuck. I’m in East Los Angeles. I hear him laughing. Not sure what to do, I light another cigarette and shrug it off.

“Are you always this animated?” he asks still laughing.

“Pretty much,” I say with a small grin. I grab hold of the last remnants of my whiskey courage and ask, “I’m heading to Jumbo’s Clown Room; you want to come with?” He stares at me for a moment, then shrugs and nods his head. The rest of the night. Cheap beers. Strippers. Smokes. More beers. More strippers. Banged up and stumbling. Hotel room. More strippers. Drugs. The cold tile of the bathroom floor. Puking. Black out. Fuck.

I wake up and grab my iphone, the time reads 3:33 PM. Some how by the grace of god I’m home. Wallet, phone, keys, shoes (still attached), glasses, Giants hat, Zeppo lighter? I have three missed calls from a collection service and one text message with a 310 area code. The text reads: Hey asshole I want my lighter back. Jesus.

the night we lost our innocence.

Don’t regret the decisions you make. Your mistakes define the curves of your face more than the wrinkles. Laugh lines and crows feet around your eyes, time’s prolific paint brush. I don’t regret the fights, the screaming. I don’t regret the rage that flowed through my blood like snake venom. Hate. love. I have feelings. I am not a machine, a ghost, I am a man. And I feel rage.

The clearest memory, we were kids. Just teenagers, with the world at our fingertips. Kissing on my couch, clean, sweet, and young. You sitting in my lap, for the first time I notice how small you are. With a little practice we could be the best kissers in the world; my heart was on the floor. The best time I ever had. We were in our twenties, but it felt different. Younger. You never kissed me again. We were kids and the horrible world of responsibility did not exist, nothing existed in that time. You, me, and the spark of love was all I could see, hear, smell, the taste of your skin. If I could I would rip you apart and keep you in my cupboard. I want you, I need you. Take me, have me. Everything you want is yours.

I regret nothing. Except the night we lost our innocence.

Sleeping with Marbles

My pants are wet. The sound of someone peeing. Jesus what is going on? Eyes open now. Head hurts. I feel the cold plastic of my bathtub against my back; I’m sitting in a half filled tub of cold water. A medium bottle of Makers Mark bobs up and down in the water. It’s empty. Fuck.

“Bapu? What the fuck are you doing in here?” I hear the voice of my roommates’ girlfriend. She sounds close. I slide the glass door to the side (just a crack) She is on the toilet. Her are eyes wide. Embarrassing.

“I guess I fell asleep in the bath.” I mumble, sitting back into the cold water.

“Again?” she screeches, trying to hide the sound of her tinkle. I giggle as I hear it. This is wildly inappropriate I think to myself. She finishes and then slides back the glass door and stares at me, laughing.

“Hey! I could be naked you know!” She smiles at me, her eyes glancing down at my crotch. I do the same. I’m wearing all my clothes, sneakers and all. Fuck.

“You’re the only person who comes home and takes a bath with all of your clothes on, Jesus Bapu… she break up with you again?” I light up a smoke and think about her question. Did she break up with me again? It’s the only explanation for me getting shit faced and subconsciously trying to drown myself in my own tub.

“I guess so.” I mumble, suddenly feeling very awkward and silly.

“What did you do this time?” Shit I have no Idea. What did I do this time?

“I miss spelled her name in an angry e-mail I sent her ex boyfriend, not sure if it was that or if it was the e-mail. Don’t really remember.” I recall, blowing a ring of smoke toward the fire detector, cause I’m dangerous like that.

“How did you miss spell her name? Does she have a crazy last name or something?” She asks as she checks her hair out in the mirror.

“No I miss spelled her first name.”

“You moron, how did she see this e-mail anyway?” She asks.

“I guess he showed it to her, dick. Although I would have done the same thing to him. I did ‘steal’ his girlfriend and all.” I’m getting out of the tub now; secretly hoping my cell phone is not in my pocket. She laughs, shaking her head. She’s leaving now. I’m going back to my room. Wet.

I haven’t been sleeping. Every night I toss and turn, probably why I get drunk and sleep in the bathtub. I miss having that warm body in my bed. We never snuggled, or spooned, or late night fucked. When it was time to sleep, we slept, no frills, no lipstick lesbian bullshit. All this was fine by me, but I miss just knowing that there was someone on the other side of the bed. I try putting computers, books, porn DVDS, anything. Still can’t sleep. When I do sleep, I dream of her. Fuck you.

I’m on the street now. It’s going to be a drinking day for me, whiskey for the hangover, six hours of MASH, and Chinese food when my hands start shaking. Fuck chocolate and wine, I’m a man. Or at least I pretend to be. Shut up. I need sleep. Going crazy. I head to my favorite liqueur store on Polk Street. Chit chat with the guy behind the counter, yeah the weather sucks, the Giants need someone who can hit the ball, I miss Bonds, have a good day. Back on the street now. Trip fall. Fuck. I’m pissed, Look down. There is a small blue marble on the concrete. I pick it up, fingering it as it goes in my pocket. Fucking marbles.

Six hours later. I’m drunk, bored with MASH, and sleepy. I pull the marble out of my pocket and place it on the bed. I wonder. Would sleeping next to this marble help me sleep? I carefully arrange the pillows on her side of the bed, placing the marble where she would sleep. It’s there. Don’t touch it or it will move. Don’t roll on it or it will hurt you. Sleep on your side of the bed. Marveling. This marble really is just like my ex girlfriend. I roll over and fall fast asleep.

Coma patients don’t sleep this good.

Wow that was so not PC.

Whatever, fuck you, Ronald Reagan.

Chapter Three: B&E

Shaking off a deep cloud of whiskey fog, I stumble to find a half empty bottle of orange Gatorade. Chug. Dry heave in the bathroom. Fucking alcoholics. It takes me five minutes to get eight layers of clothing on, my hands shaking something fierce. Don’t forget the crow bar. I’m on the street now, I briefly wonder if I should have brought my ski mask. Fuck it.

On the number 19 bus heading south, sitting next to a malt liquor slurping homo. The two of us together make the bus smell like a cheap brewery in Wisconsin. Get off in 16^th street and Mission. Coffee. I’m waiting now, watching a bright blue door across the street. Not long now. I see her bright yellow mane before I see her porcelain face. Jesus. Slow this heart down. The hipster boyfriend follows her out the door; he has a skateboard under his arm. Fucking thirty-year-old ass hole skateboarding in the mission. I bet he used to be a professional snowboarder too. I feel like throwing up.

Fuck it. It’s go time. Hiding my crowbar underneath my arm I head across the street. Smoking a long cigarette before an old lady opens the door to the apartment complex, I nod at her as I hold the door open. “Thanks,” I mutter, hiding my face underneath the long visor of my Giants cap. I walk the familiar hallway, which still smells like cat piss and vomit. I used to love it here. Stopping at door 17, I look around and then jam the crowbar in-between the door and its wooden frame. Making a silent prayer I put my whole 120 pounds behind the steel bar. Nothing. I try again, grasping tightly with my shaking hands. Come on you slut! Nothing happens. Fucking brownies.

I look at the dead bolt; it doesn’t look new. I wonder if she is really that stupid? Or maybe just that trusting? I try my key. The door slides open. Great. I set the crow bar on the carpet next to the door and step inside. The apartment looks exactly the same as when I lived there, minus a couple of crappy pieces of furniture. I notice a new addition of pictures hanging in the dinner room slash kitchen; I count six pictures of the couple. There are pictures of the two cheek to cheek in restaurants, the golden gate bridge, skiing, in front of some crap movie theater, how gay is this? It looks like he was a professional snowboarder too. Great. I feign off the feeling of jealousy as I realize that there are no pictures of her and I. We dated for three years and nothing to show for it in the picture department. This is a horrible idea I think to myself.

I make my way to the bedroom, looking around, snooping. Golden condoms on the dresser. Fuck you Magnums. Feeling sick now I give up on the bedroom snooping. I have seen plenty, feeling nauseous I move to the kitchen. My jacket is sitting at the kitchen table, shivering I put it on. I grab a pin and paper and sit down at the table. Should I leave evidence of my B&E?

My note starts out as formal as I can make it, it reads:

Dear Cassidy,

I wanted to call but I have forgotten your number, guess this is as good a time as any to give you back OUR key. Sorry about the whole jacket thing, didn’t know what I would do in the situation. Streaking seemed like an appropriate course of action.

Fuck this, I think to myself. Laughing now, I keep writing.

Just wanted to let you know that I have decided to join a Japanese crime syndicate and will be moving to Asia. I hope that you and your boyfriend break your legs in a snowboarding accident.

I consider this last part, wondering how bad I would feel if they really did break their legs. Actually I’m fine with it. I finish the letter off with,

I really could have loved you… Loser.

Satisfied with my letter, I take one last look around the apartment. I grab two bottles of booze off of their fridge. Taxes for putting up those obviously hurtful pictures on your wall, everything she does is targeted at me. I’m a self-centered bastard; I recall her screaming at me. Guess you were right.

Leaving the apartment now. I stop at the door; a girl with big green eyes stares at me. Shit.

“What are you doing?” she asks, eyeing the crowbar. Panic. I decide to throw caution to the wind. It worked at Brownies right?

“I’m breaking into my ex-girlfriends apartment to get my jacket back and steal her booze.” I say this with a gulp of guilt and a small cocky smile.

“Doesn’t she have a boyfriend?” I scoff and stick my hands in my pockets, angry.

“He is a total douche bag and she is a fucking cunt,” she says. This sentence catches me off guard; did she really just say that?

“So are you going to call the cops?” I ask (for the first time actually considering that I might end up in Jail). She smiles,

“What makes you think I haven’t already?” I smile back and offer up an answer,

“Faith?”

She nods at the bottle of whiskey in my hands,

“Give me that Jack Daniels and we can call it even.”

Jesus Christ. I’m in love. Handing over the bottle, I put forth my hand,

“My names Bapu.” She leans forward and asks, “say that again?”

“Bapu.”

“Cool name Bapu, I’m Lucy.” We shake hands.

“You going to drink that now?” I ask.

“Yes,” she answers.

“Can I come with you?” I ask, eyeing the bottle.

“Come on in, criminal.”

And so begins the next stage of my life.