"I'll fuck anything that moves!"

Tonight, a strange one. And you, my friend, are invited on a voyage. That started with a dissertation defense. A long conversation into the city on the rules of engagement. At dinner, I was restraining myself. Imagine a table with three chairs on opposite sides. She was at seat 1. I was at seat 6, the farthest from her, except for her boyfriend, who sat at my side, at seat 7, between the two rows. She, a pretty girl from Minnesota. There they birth them blond. Her boyfriend, my friend, from the same. And I could smell her pussy from my seat.

So I followed her to the bathroom, where all good things happen. I stood outside that innocuous door, my soul aquiver such as that of the bow string of a famous violinist. When she opened the door, the fantasies melted. I took her back inside of that small room. We kissed and my hands pulled the small of her back closer to me. She smelled like something fecund. But that was all fantasies. She walked past me, pretending not to notice. How long can these games continue?

Her boyfriend, I know, has been unfaithful. For he has fucked AT (#19) also. She told me about it. But AT's boyfriend, a much closer friend than I, does not know. I wonder if fucking AT was like it was for me. The noises she made. It was glorious, coming in that little latex sack. And I think, why should Minnesota girl suffer not having my kisses, because she thinks that her boyfriend is faithful? I'm not that kind of guy. God, I'm like that fucker that takes Craig Kilbourne for real, when he says that guys don't tell on one another ("Old School"). That's not it.

I'm drunk.

But RBU called me tonight, I found, in the minutes passing as I dropped off my laptop before going to a party where my intense boredom would fester like a wound. I'd talk with AT and almost disclose my pathetic state. Instead, I changed the subject. Her breasts and that t-shirt: "wine me, dine me and etwas the river rhine me." And I had.

RBU, in the bedroom of some other guy, who only hours before I had, had returned her call and secured a night in which her pussy would be his. She was busy. We spoke for only a few seconds.

From 42nd street, my feet fell in paths not complementary. All of those blocks, abetted by the bus to 13th street, where I stopped to see the roommate of AT's boyfriend. I'd accosted her only weeks ago on the roof of a house near the art museum. She was not there. And I walked those lonely blocks by myself. I stopped and pulled it out to relieve myself. On the street. The pleasure of one's own touch.

I have not ridden in the back of a muscle car with a canister of oxygen, singing the praises of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I think not so highly of Dennis Hopper, despite the fact that he starred in "Rebel Without A Cause." Other, better Nicholas Ray films, I can think of.

But you are closer.