Too Much Fun

Too Much Fun

By Elizabeth Harper

Passed out early this morning
with a stranger's (new friend's?)
cum on my face,
after drinking too much whiskey,
talking too much,
staying out until
the wee hours of the morning.

Slept until 4 pm,
better than I had since, well, ever.
Still the memory of his huge, warm
cock in my face,
feeding me while I was so drunk
I could barely talk, barely stand up.

And before that in the bar—
his arm circled around my waist.
Who started the making out?
Was it me? Doing something
I had no business doing—
since I'm still healing from surgery,
but it had been so long
and I must have been so hungry.
And he's young and beautiful,
with long dark hair and
fashionable facial hair
and tattoos.

On the black comforter to my right:
the huge purple dildo.
On the floor to my left:
my favorite magic wand and
the little, quiet vibrator
splattered with blood.

He left saying, I think: "I'm not like this."
Left behind his pouch of tobacco, his backpack—
and inside—shoes, Trojan Magnum XL condoms,
some transit cards, Purell, lip balm, and
William Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury in paperback.

I read As I Lay Dying for class in high school.
I didn't become a Faulkner fan.
Maybe I didn't read it at the right time.
But I remember speeding through it,
while waiting in the back stairway
for a secret rendezvous
with my first sexual boyfriend.
We'd make out in hidden places
throughout that school. I still
remember being finger fucked in
the music room after he played basketball,
and he smelled intoxicatingly of sweat and fabric softener.
He'd play songs on the piano and sing to me.
I'd fumble with his cock, not knowing what I was doing,
but wanting to please, but, even more, not to hurt him.

Allen GinsbergWBKT.jog.jpg

I've been worrying about how to get his backpack back to him.
I tried to find him on Facebook, MySpace. No luck.
Part of the problem is that I'm not sure I remember his name.
I think it was "Chris," but it could be "Nick" or "Tim,"
something with an "i" sound.
It's easy enough. I'll just take it back to the bar
where we met. He works the door.

I think I should say, "Thanks for the fun."
and, "I'm sorry I was so drunk."
But if I hadn't been that drunk
I wouldn't have had that much fun,
so I don't know that I'm that sorry.
I'm ambivalent. When I woke up,
I checked my wallet and my jewelry.
The cash was gone, but the credit cards
and my engagement ring were still there.
He may have taken the cash for cab fare.
Or I forgot how I spent it. Seeing the blood
worried me. I'm not sure why that happened.
I thought that getting that drunk and
bringing him home wasn't smart.
I'm lucky he wasn't a violent psycho.
It wasn't smart, but it was super fun.
Is it smart never to have fun?
Do I play it way too safe?
I'm usually too cautious to bring new people home.
Not that it hasn't happened before,
and it's always really, really fun,
and I'm always really, really drunk.
Maybe I can tell him that
I have Multiple Personality Disorder.
And that this fun-loving, insatiable,
desire-driven person took over,
and that's not really me. I'm cautious,
quiet, reserved, intellectual, ladylike,
responsible, and I don't usually drink that much.
But it would be more true to say
that, when I drink, the real me tells
that cautious, reserved, careful,
controlling bitch to shut up
and let me have some fun,
because fun is what's happening
right at that moment.

Tonight I'm reading Allen Ginsberg's
Collected Poems. I just read
"Who Be Kind To."
I love it. I want to share
it with everyone I know.
I'll see if I can find a link
and post it on Facebook.

Oh, the intimacy of the internet.
Type quickly the words to describe
your mood, your day, what you're
reading, watching, listening to.
In an instant post for all to see.
Are we all craving communication,
intimacy without the risks, to be seen,
but not too much, only what we want to show?
I love to flirt, but do I really want anyone to see
my messy apartment, my surgery scars,
figure flaws, unpaid bills on the dining room table,
garbage I forgot to take out, scribbled notes for
ideas for poems I want to remember. The clutter,
the books on my shelves, the paintings on my walls,
the condiments in my refrigerator, my nightstand drawers,
filled with sex toys and bedtime reading.

No, I don't really want anyone to see all that,
but, if they did, I'd want to be assured that
they wouldn't criticize, wouldn't judge me
for my lifestyle choices, or ineptitudes.
But who can promise that? Who can
abandon all caution and discernment at the door?
Drunk people, that's who. People who forget
about all that crap and focus on lips and tongues
and hair and warm and wet and hard.

So when I see him, should I say,
"I'm not like that. I'm really not."
to save face (literally and figuratively)?
But the truth is, I am like that,
and I wish we could all be like that
all the time, holding our heads up
proudly during the "walk of shame"
that isn't shameful at all. What's wrong
with falling in love for a night and
then going about your own life?
Why should you be someone's
exclusive social possession
or accessory to make it okay?

I'm going to dance
to Liz Phair's "H.W.C."
That'll cheer me up.
                                                    
 

 

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