It was Ethan's idea. I was telling him what happened to me the other night on my way home from work, and he sat beside me on my stupidly small couch, feet up on the coffee table, upsetting my arrangement of magazines and spacemen, and he said:
"Dude, you should fucking blog this shit!"
"Really?" I said, scrinching my face up. It's not as though I hadn't considered doing it, a blog. I just thought it would be like, "Oh, today I saw that really hot guy at the gym again and he was staring at me the whole time I was on the elliptical. Or at the blonde chick next to me, the one who doesn't own a sports bra." Shit like that.
"You would be so good at it," he said, his face rearranged by a goofy smile. But then, we were both stoned and had had a couple of beers, too, so maybe my face wasn't exactly composed either. He was wearing denim shorts he got from Urban Outfitters that were tight from hip to knee. I keep telling him that store is for hipsters and twinks, not guys with soccer thighs or any other sort of muscularity. Really, it's a store for guys who look like girls. Ask anyone.
I guess I should also tell you, since I was staring at Ethan's mighty pile of junk crammed up tight in to the his left pantleg, that while Ethan is totally my type (but, then, who isn't these days?), Ethan, on the other hand, is all for those guys who look like girls. Skinny jeans, faggoty shag haircuts, like someone you'd see in an Asian restaurant and you just can't tell what the fuck it is you're looking at, because there's so little sexually characteristic information there.
Not that I'm not into Asians: more on that to come.
Anyway, he was sitting there, a pretty tempting spread, and I was literally wishing I would catch a bone looking at him, but I've never been that guy, so I squished myself into the corner of the sofa, my feet practically under his butt, my knees up and blocking his humpy landscape.
"You could call it 'Confessions of a Boy Whore'," he suggested.
"RUKM?" I screamed. (I don't need to translate, right?)
"Or 'I, Cocksucker'."
"Is that how you really see me?" I was only a little appalled, knowing full well I was just a step away from slutdom. Maybe it was my inability for at-will erections that saved me from Full-fledged status. I've never had to fear, say, getting hard during an exam at the doctor's-- that is, unless he started groping me and hauled out his own rock-hard for me to play with, then I would become fully engaged. It's sort of like a party-- I just need an invitation, is all. Not just a stiff breeze.
"Want another?" Ethan asked, standing up and rearranging his crotch. He's always struck me as a stiff breeze kind of guy, which is another one of his finer points in my estimation.
I said yes to the beer and started thinking about writing this stuff down, the weird shit that seems to happen all the time to me. It would obviously have to be anonymous, or at least written under a fake name. My employers would not much like being linked to the sexual antics of one of their employees, writ large in cyberspace, google-able. The shame. The blow to their esteemed establishment.
No, if I'm going to do this, i thought, it would be written by someone else, some other me untraceable to the real me. Still, it seemed risky and I had a few reservations, like what if someone I wrote about recognized himself and therefore me? I voiced this concern to Ethan.
"Oh, bullshit, man! EVERY BODY'S going to recognize himself in it! That's the fucking beauty, man!" I thought he was either so wasted or way too into this idea. But his enthusiasm was contagious, and as I sat there staring at the hairy slip of skin his too-tight shirt exposed, I wondered if I had it in me-- blog-writing, I mean. And then it came to me, the way it sometimes will after sharing a joint and a six-pack with someone you want to do things with that you can write about later in your blog.
"Why the fuck not," I said. Ethan whooped and held up five for me to slap. I would have rather kissed him, but that wasn't going to happen, not in our foreseeable future, anyway. So, I slapped his palm and ignored the sparks that seemed to fly up off it.
