Sour Dick-Sucking Lips (Part 3)


I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I bought her a canister of pepper spray for late-night walks home. I took her to an upscale French brasserie downtown where she was impressed with my wine knowledge, and couldn’t have been more pleased with the French cabernet I picked out for her. The manager on duty, a man I used to bartend with, gave me 50% off. I did not tell her that he did this. I sat with her in a bookstore café, sharing a chocolate bundt cake with a dollop of drinking chocolate in the center, her reading a 20th year anniversary edition of The Unbearable Lightness Of Being by Milan Kundera—because I gave it to her as a gift—and me reading The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. Though she is only 23-years-old, and those under 25 cannot give a proper reading of The Unbearable Lightness Of Being because of their lack of life experience, especially in the area of love, she is stimulated by certain passages, such as the following: “When a society is rich, its people don’t need to work with their hands; they can devote themselves to activities of the spirit. We have more and more universities and more and more students. If students are going to earn degrees, they’ve got to come up with dissertation topics. And since dissertations can be written about everything under the sun, the number of topics is infinite. Sheets of paper covered with words pile up in archives sadder than cemeteries, because no one ever visits them, not even on All Souls’ Day. Culture is perishing in overproduction, in an avalanche of words, in the madness of quantity. That’s why one banned book in your former country means infinitely more than the billions of words spewed out by our universities.”

I took her for a weekend to New York City where we stayed at the affordable Pod hotel, and had sex at least a dozen times. We toured Williamsburg in Brooklyn and the Lower East Side and bought luxurious cupcakes and drank cafecitos in cozy cafes with old and broken furniture. On the third Thursday of the month I took her to a Brazilian party at a bar called Bossa where I watched her samba, because, I must have absent-mindedly forgotten to mention, she’s a samba instructor. She knows how to vibrate her body in ways that most men will only be able to watch on a television screen every February when a blip about Carnival makes its way to the news, and I enjoyed that I ravaged her once we returned back to her apartment in the ghetto, both of us having carried pepper spray. I took her the National Portrait Gallery of Art, where I pretended to know what I was talking about, and afterwards we hit a family-owned Lebanese restaurant for falafel wraps topped with freshly-made hummus, which gave me gas almost immediately because of a synergistic combination of garbanzo beans and olive oil. She was a hollow vessel that I filled these realistic fantasies with. It could have been any girl with dick-sucking lips, but it was her, and beyond sex I wanted her to be my main Washington DC girl, to join my Cordoba girl, my Rio de Janeiro girl, and my New York girl—soon to be replaced by another, much younger girl that I met in a coffee shop next to a bus company’s Chinatown DC-NY bus stop. She had a piercing one inch above the left edge of her lip, and lacked a certain grace that I’ve become accustomed to, but like all women—and all other mammals for that matter—she can easily be trained.

I quickly bore myself with the fantasies and hit the pornography hard, trying to find girls who look like Rachel to give my fantasies a little more… sustainability. So far they were based on nothing but her appearance. The dryness of her personality made it easy to mold her into any situation, but difficult to make them more personable and intimate.

Esquire calls me four days after our first date. He asks me how it went.

“It was… magical,” I laugh. “Her lips are so soft.”

“Mmmm she got them DSL’s I saw.”

“Does she ever. We were at the bar for five hours, talking. She wouldn’t let me back into her place but I think there is… something… there. She is trying to cure world hunger, or poverty, and you know that that type of girl is made for me.”

“Wait, something there?” he asks, confused.

“Yeah, like a connection.”

“And you haven’t fucked her, right?” I can hear him chewing something, probably two grilled chicken breasts cooked on his George Foreman grill. I’m pretty sure he went to the gym after work.

“No not yet, but I’ll probably hit the next date,” I lie, knowing full well I’m not getting her panties off until at least the fourth date, but most likely fifth.

“Remember Beth, the girl I dated a few months ago?” he asks.

“Yes I remember. What, did she call you?”

“No, but after we started fucking—I think it was our sixth date or so—I told you I was catching feelings and you got on me pretty hard about it. You said it was ‘too soon.’ And now you’re telling me you feel a connection for a girl you only kissed—after one single date?”

My mouth was open ready to speak but no words came out, my throat frozen.

“Look, you know how these bar sluts are. The minute you,” he pauses to search for a word, “value them as an equal, especially before you fuck them, is the minute you can punch yourself in the dick since you won’t be using it anytime soon. I’m curious as to what type of spell she put on you, bro.”

“No, no, you’re right. Shit you’re right. I guess I think that… that she is different. She’s shy, you know? She’s not… I mean… I don’t think she’s like the bar sluts we usually fuck.”

“Did you meet her in a bar?”


“Was she with a big group of friends?”


“Was she drinking?”


“Did she give you her number easily?”


“Was she wearing tight clothes?”


“Was her lips extra glossy on your date?’

“Yes. They were blinding.”

“How many drinks did she have on the date?”

“Three. Okay, okay I get your point. But I didn’t do anything wrong, yet, I think. It’s still on.”

“Dude just bang her first. If you’re dating for a month or two then you can think these things. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

“You’re right. Fuck, I’m such an idiot. Also I called her last night, three days after the date, and… she hasn’t called me back yet.”

“Because she’s a bar slut. She’s probably juggling three other cocks at the same time. You know how they are.”

“I know. I need to hit first.”

I need her to call first. It’s noon on the second day since I left a message. I just took a hot shower and now I stare in the bathroom mirror after wiping off the fog with a dirty pair of boxers with gray sharks on them that my mother bought for me three years ago as a Christmas gift. My beard is very thick now, about four weeks of growth, but it doesn’t make my face look fat and swollen because the hair on my head is bushy. To maintain it I have to shave my neck and the top of my cheeks every three or four days so the beard line neatly descends from the middle of my sideburns to the sides of my mustache and fills the entire space below it until the underside of my jaw. I have no empty patches in my beard, something that most white men and all Asian and black men cannot achieve, and I’m proud of this. The ten or so white hairs in my beard only adds to its power. Years ago girls would tell me they have never been on a date with a guy who had a beard before, but I no longer hear that which tells me that beards are back in style, and this is good for me since what I normally do is now considered hip among shallow girls who are into appearances and trends. The shallower a girl is, the worser her decision-making skills, the more likely she won’t think twice about sleeping with me way too soon. I decide I don’t need to shave today since I’m not going out, and study my reflection in the mirror. I accept that I’m upset that Rachel hasn’t called me back, that she would just throw it away for no reason. I think of text messages I can send her to revive my effort, and flirt with this: “Hey I don’t think you’re that cold. What’s up?” I don’t think I’d tell Details if I did this. I splash cold water on my face to shut the large pores I have around my nose and watch as the water slides down my face and disappears into my beard, then reappears at the bottom of my chin in drops that finally fall into the sink.


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