Last Sex Romp
Sunday, November 5th, 2006
This week’s question:
Kim Jong Il has nukes now. Last night on Earth — don’t lie, it’s not what you’re going to do, but whom. So tell us. Who, and more importantly, why? And where? No current partners or US Weekly cover girls. This is the end of the world, people — go crazy.
“I’d make my last fuck my last selfless act. Me and Ron Jeremy (in a pinch, anyone with an absurdly large penis will do) double teaming Dick Cheney (whose fault our deaths will undoubtedly be). Unlubricated. On national television. It’s not that I’d enjoy it (I’m straight, and even if I weren’t, neither Ron nor Dick are my type) so much as I feel that the nation would.”
“It’s my dog. Her name is Sheva. She’s unbelievably cute. I realize this is not the sort of thing a person with a commercial writing career ought to admit. Perhaps there are criminal laws that prohibit even having such thoughts, or writing about them. But if you spent any time with her you’d understand. At night she waits by the bed until I tuck myself in. Then she leaps up and worms her way under the covers, where she remains, curled up against my legs, like a hot water bottle, until the morning. I love her. I want her.”
“This is a really tough one…because my first answer would have been my current partner, but okay, I’ll play by your rules. I’d have to say if you’re gonna go out, go out with a bang, literally. I’d invite all the hotties I have lusted after recently but haven’t properly pursued, especially some very flirty couples. I would love to try bukkake, but in all honesty the only time I’d ever actually do it would be in this situation where there’d be no consequences, just enjoyment, because we’re gonna die anyway. I’d love to be able to do away with all the coy wondering and just tell people that they’re who I want to be with for my last night on earth. And really, when better to have the ultimate orgy?”
“I shared a bed with a boy for six weeks at the end of my senior year. Though we spent many a night between the sheets, we never ahem consummated our relationship because I was graduating and moving. The catch is, 3 years later, I am still in love with him. Not in a ‘pine after you, carve your name in my arm’ way. But a ‘you are the most amazing person I have ever met’ way. So, Clay Eichner would be the person I would get vertical with if the world was ending. In a comic book shop would kind of seal the deal.”
“If anyone writes back to you with any other response other than “Rachel Fershleiser,” they obviously don’t know how to plan ahead. The way I see it there’s not going to be an awful lot of time before the sky turns black and our skin starts oozing with radiation. And most of us will have other things we want to accomplish in this short timeframe ( i.e. hug family members, build time capsule, kick annoying coworker in the vagina really fuckin’ hard, etc.). Given that I would usually only allot 3-4 minutes to my sexual experiences, I don’t think anything more than 10 seconds would be appropriate in these circumstances. And you’re obviously into me, or else you wouldn’t have asked.” [popuLIST editor Rachel Fershleiser note: I swear I don’t know this person.]
From an anonymous and disobediently long-winded playwright/composer:
Who would I do? In a heartbeat it’d be this girl I know from work. She’s totally crazy. Like, really, really batshit insane kind of crazy, with all sorts of arcane ideas of what an adult relationship should be. How do I know this? I know this because on pretty much every outing we’ve shared she has whined to me again and again about the last boy she dated who, over the course of a year and a half, broke up with her and got back together with her about as regular as daylight savings. I can’t and won’t begin to illustrate the kind of cyclical dialogue we often go through on nights after hours for drinks etc., because it’s more than likely you already know exactly what I’m talking about. You have the same friend, don’t you? I will say that what started out as a narcissistic need to validate myself by hearing about her prideful, cocky, arrogant boyfriend with predictably clichéd male role models in his life suddenly became a vortex of curiosity as to how this Hong Kong princess with such a demure and irresistible porcelain face could mask behind it the queen of all succubus’ heart of darkness.
What can I say? She has an expense account and I like my vodka. Also, she has this great way of looking up at me through those puppy dog eyes and saying shit about my observations like “you’re so smart!”, “You totally hit the nail on the head”, or (and this one’s my favorite) “my mom told me that exact same thing!!” looking all astonished as if her mother was the only person in this entire universe who might have an informed opinion about her transparent, co-dependant relationship gone awry. And if I wasn’t so arrogant and cocky myself I might actually say that giving her advice is an easy call because she is TEXTBOOK insecure with a chaser of low-self-esteem thrown in for good measure. But instead I nod, and smile and let her buy me drinks.
And suddenly I’m sitting across the table from this Zhang Ziyi look alike, listening to her ask me if I can give her piano lessons because, “I just wanna learn some songs and not really want to practice scales and stuff — just to distract me” and instead of vomiting — just a little bit in my mouth — and then swallowing it again whenever ANYONE takes a dump on my profession, I kind of just stare back, and smile and get hard underneath the table, imagining if that smile of hers would look any different if she were on her knees in my bedroom getting really well acquainted with my stiff and naughty bits.
I’m not kidding. This psychotic attraction is probably the single most visceral
experience I’ve had since I first discovered I could get a boner in the first place. I shit you not. It’s like that magic wand trick with the magnets. Any time the magician’s hand passes over the wand it miraculously rises? That’s me, (or rather my penis), and her whenever we’re together. I promise you I’m not fifteen years old and discovering my dad’s sock drawer for the first time. I’m a well-adjusted, healthy adult who has interpersonal relationships with people that remarkably don’t even come close to being sexual. It happens, I promise. But this is just… freaking insane, animalistic magnetism that is only curbed by two things:
1. My girlfriend (who herself, rocks me BACK)
and
2. The simple knowledge that bedding this woman would be the emotional equivalent of pulling the hairs out of my asshole to weave into the bald spot on my back.
I’d never hear the end of it! She’d call, text, email, page, and whine asking me why I haven’t told her I loved her — this hour. She’d ask me if I was getting bored with her, or say even more crazy things to me like “you remind me of the ugly guy from One Tree Hill,” “all my friends think you’re gay” or “the Mormon church thinks you should drink less coffee and go to law school.”
Sure, sex would probably be great — if our phone conversations are any indication anyway — but by week three she’d start to wonder if that was all there was to our relationship. She’d start to make all manner of lists in her head, like of things that her ex and I did similarly. Of things that I said but did not do. And she’d wonder why I could say something academically but not live up to it emotionally. She’d keep a scorecard of all of this. She’d quote endlessly from The Alchemist and convince herself I wasn’t washing my hands after using the toilet. She’d wonder what my hair would look like if it were cut differently, or how much better we might look walking down the street together if I didn’t buy all my clothes at the GAP (which, for the record, I do not). And before either of us knew what happened, my dick would be hanging lower than my self esteem and instead of each other, we’d just see a big gaping bear trap. And resent the hell out of each other for it just praying for fucking Kim Jong Il to put us both out of our misery.
That said, if I knew he was going to do it in advance, I’d walk over to her cubicle, take her by the hand and, without saying word one, walk her into the stairwell where there’s that one landing where none of the security cameras can see, kiss my way down to my knees and make her calves vibrate like a big, wet, tuning fork that just got tapped three ways to Sunday.
And sadly, that’s where I’m going to have to stop. Because you asked for the who, the why, and the where, but not the how.
sorry but this DVD will NEVER make my NetFlix cue.
“I spent my senior year of college infatuated with a boy I never slept with. We were very close, and he said he loved me — often in Swahili, which I found wildly romantic. But he had a girlfriend (small problem) and the raging herpes infection she’d given him (big problem). He was completely up front about the STD, for which he was rewarded with my love, trust, and total refusal to let him near me. But shit, who needs Valtrex when you’ve got Uranium? Bring it on! I want my crudded-up ‘one who got away,’ so long as we’re all going anyway…”
Allen Koppeldanger, ladies and gentlemen! Taking (or giving?) one for the team…
I think about the end of the world often, most of the time when I am late with a credit card payment. Yo Citibank - look who’s laughing now. Look who got all that free shit. Just paying off interest, my ass. I’m waiting for the end of the world, cause watcha gonna do then? Another plus side of the world coming to an end is the chance to do some last minute things that you would never dream of doing should you live a normal life and then (yawn) drop dead of natural causes.
Like a revenge screw of the first girl to break your heart. That’s who I want to finally do. Her name was (and is, I guess) Heather and she was the hottest thing the the 6th grade. I was a year older but none of the 7th grade hotties could even hold a torch to Heather. She even came with boobies, a rarity (in the early 80s at least) in the 6th grade. Not, by the way, the case nowadays. There’s more titty in a 6th grade class than there is hanging out around the Playboy mansion. Must be the uranium in the water.
Heather was the first girl that I kissed. We were at her birthday party and we took a walk into an avocado grove, sat down under a tree and started making out. I don’t really think there was any talking involved, because that’s how it is at that age - you hold hands and walk around and then you find little hidden nooks and start sticking your tongues down each others throats. The amazing combination of our warm tongues and her braces left a tangy metallic taste in my mouth, a taste that I occasionally am fortunate enough to relive when I am eating a foil-wrapped burrito in SF’s Mission district and forget to peel foil.
Anyhow, Heather and I held hands and made out for like a month, and then I found out that she made out with some guy named Jason after a Little League game. After like two days of nasty notes being written and passed and lots of dead air telephone calls, we broke up and she was free to make out with Jason. This would be the beginning of a life-long series of girlfriends who would make out with other guys and would then pass me a “Oh, were we still together?” crock full of shit. I remember my friend Vickie saying to me that sometimes life gives you lemons, so we started calling Heather “Lemon Slut Bitch” or “LSB” for short. I was fortunate to have my good friend Vickie to help me get through this trying time.
Come to think of it, I’d like to do Vickie as well, if y’all can round her up, too. That is, of course, if I can amend my order at this stage in the mushroom cloud haze. Vickie wore tight pants and had puffy hair. Nice.
You mean Horizontal, I’m sure. Do they just let anybody post on these things?