While sitting and attempting to wrap my mind around Hispanic esotericism at the Off-Broadway Theater last Thursday evening, I had occasion to watch some thespian friends of mine engage in tomfoolery of the cock and boob persuasion. Now, I generally dislike esoteric college plays. They can be a blow to the ego or an insult to my intelligence because they either say that: A) I’m too much of a dumbass to get the meaning; or B) the writer thinks a play is so much more deep if absolutely no one knows what they’re talking about. We’ve all had that book in class where you know you don’t know what the fuck the writer is trying to say, so you posit and listen to all kinds of crackpot theories. One day, I hope to write a really nonsensical book that means absolutely nothing, just so people can tell me what it’s about. I’m pretty sure I’d get some jollies out of that.
Back to the lecture at hand (word to Snoop). Watching your friends bump uglies on stage is not tight. First, if you think it’s awkward to walk in on somebody with their ass in the air or their foot on the nightstand, let me tell you that it is decidedly more unpleasant to watch people you know simulate such things on stage. I swear, it’s like the diet version of watching a movie with your parents when a sex scene comes on. To stay is to want to gouge one’s own eyes out, while to get up and excuse yourself for an unnecessary bathroom trip is to acknowledge that you don’t feel comfortable watching anything involving where babies come from with your progenitors in the room. What is a person to do?
All this esoteric tomfoolery got me to thinking about last spring, when I was faced with a similar dilemma. I was directing a play with some shenanigans in it, and I found myself having to give directions like, “Yeah, listen, just put your hand on his upper thigh and give it a good squeeze,” or “I’m gonna go ahead and ask you to just think common room hook-up.” (Granted, I probably shouldn’t assume that people, especially freshmen — as one of the young scraps was — have skanked themselves out, but at that point in the school year, I figure you should have been skankish at least once.)
I mean, the young lady in question was just not getting the fluidity of the encounter, and it forced me to have to show her how to situate herself on the couch with him (no Cash Money) and how to be trollop-like. Watching her go through the motions was … tragic. It was like watching a newborn deer try to run around, but with more leg spreading. As I was sitting there in my director’s chair and artistic scarf getting frustrated, a thought gave me cause to pause: Just about everyone is about eight different kinds of terrible on their first encounter, and most people don’t have the misfortune of having to re-enact such things onstage.
Now, I realize I can’t speak for everyone, but I can speak for me and my junk and let me tell ya, those first go-rounds can get dicey. Was the kiss good? How’s my breath? Too hard? Speed up? Slow down? Is a hair pull out of the question? I can truthfully say that on that first audition (and you believe me, it IS an audition), I still don’t like taking my pants off. And no, ladies, it’s not the same as, “Well, I don’t like taking my shirt off when being intimate because (feel free to pick a reason).” Honestly, you could have a bubble vest on for all a guy cares; we can still get something done. For a guy, you kinda gotta take your trousers off. Now am I worried? Yes and no. ‘No’ because I think I’m perfect; ‘yes’ because she may beg to differ. I mean, things generally work out nicely, but sometimes you’re so worried about putting in a good showing that you fumble badly and there’s no one to clean up that little miscue.
I mean, I’ve been to a few rodeos in my day and I’ve even gotten the first-place buckle from time to time, but the sexual creature you see walking the streets today was cast in the dies of infamy. While not infamous for its notoriety — like 10 people know about it — there’s one incident that can still strike fear and humility into the Boy Wonder’s heart. Allow me to set the scene: high school. Senior spring. My boy Crazy Nick’s house party. Saturday night.
OK, so at the party are various characters from school, including a young lady who I had messed around with/ been talking to earlier in the school year (Sidebar 1: I love the term “talking to.” Just a funny way of dancing around actually having to say ‘someone that makes my nipples salute’). Let this first be known: This was a freaky broad, according to … everyone who had working knowledge of her situation. So, for someone who did not have working knowledge of it (moi), this is kind of a good thing, no? Well, as I was gettin’ set to put the “Gator v. 2.0” charms on her (word to my Wiley duns), Crazy Nick’s girl/jump-off, who was a good friend of Le Freak, informed me that Le Freak was not interested in making a bad decision with me that evening. Being the cool mufucka (read: punk) that I was, I let the situation rest and went about doing whatever it is I was doing the rest of the night.
Since we don’t believe in driving drunk unless you’re gonna get in wicked big trouble and have your allowance taken away by mom and dad, everyone stayed at the house (a nice three-story number on the East Side of Providence). Now, Crazy Nick was in his room on the third floor con jump-off (word to my Rican duns), and I was supposed to sleep across the hall. Le Freak (who was good friends with Crazy Nick’s sister, Sinsemilla) was on the second floor, and the rest of the rabble rousers were scattered about the premises.
So, as everyone is going to bed, I walk Le Freak to her room and say goodnight. As I turn to leave, she keeps a hold of my paw for a very telling extra few seconds. JUMP-OFF ALERTTTTTT!! So I did my best Billy Dee Williams (Lando Calrissian for the nerds) and was like, “So you want me to stay?” and she was like “Word.” I told her I’d be right back and ran to Crazy Nick’s room to get a prophylactic (Sidebar 2: See, it used to be rubbers were like diamonds. Didn’t just have ’em hanging outside the principal’s office or up near the register at the school store).
My heart was pounding as I went back to Le Freak’s room. Now, I was no virgin, but by “no virgin” I mean I’d had sex five times (but four of those times were with a girl I’d had a crush on since first grade. Ah, the sweet wine of redemption). Anyway, we get all the preliminary stuff out of the way and finally it was time to get down to business. I had been waiting for this moment pretty much all of high school. Let’s just say the time it took me to procure said prophylactic was probably longer than the time I got to actually use it. Clearly, I went to bed only slightly less dejected than the whole city of Detroit did the other night (zing!). Still, there was redemption to be had that morning. And by redemption I mean a repeat performance. Womp womp.
Thankfully, Le Freak was a friend of mine and only told like four girls, which, by simple extrapolation is probably like 25-71 people, but I didn’t get my sex license taken away, so I guess I should be thankful for the opportunity to make right that wrong by skeeting it forward (like “paying it forward,” but with ejaculant). I’m something like Batman after his parents got killed, just with regard to my pipe and ego. First sexual encounters: the reality TV that God cackles at with the angels. Peace to the rookery.
Penultimate Thought: Spring semester senior year: A good time for meeting cool people before you never see them again.
Final Thought: I think it’s unfair that bla
ck women got ‘Something New’ and we got ‘Jungle Fever.’
Jon Pitts-Wiley is going to be starring in the next Indonesian esoteric elementary school play.