A
group of people gets together and cuddles. Sex isn’t allowed.
Only cuddling. Cuh-dul-ing. Cuddling.
I used to
live in a large house in Princeton, N.J., with five other people.
(My Real World. “Real World: Princeton” don’t
quite slide off the tongue, do it?) One of the roommates, fortunately
the cutest, absolutely hated to sleep alone; she missed her boyfriend
in Nebraska. She would ask me to sleep with her in her bed at
night. Spoon with her. Cuddle with her. Sex wasn’t allowed.
Only cuddling. Cuh-dul-ing. “George, could you come downstairs
and cuh-dul with me?” “Sure.”
The other
day, I read Trudi Styler (Mrs. Sting) trumpeting her and her husband’s
swinger lifestyle. As if I didn’t know. Saving the rainforest
does strange things to a man.
See, we are
soooooo close to the acceptance of group sex in this country,
I can taste it. I can feel it in my bones. Yes! God, thank you!
Thank you, God! Thank you, thank you, thank you, God. Thank you.
Meanwhile,
on the other side of life, my life, last weekend a “friend”
and I got together to watch a basketball game. As I’ve found
out reluctantly, social plans amongst friends finesse. This one,
somehow, called for us to meet at a trendy spot called the SoHo
House, located in New York’s Meat-Packing District (the
name makes perfect sense as it’s nowhere near fucking SoHo.)
This particular
finesse scared me because I really wanted to watch the game. Really.
And I didn’t want SoHo.
I wanted
the gaudiest, most commercial, flare-filled fucking bar possible
to watch the game. That’s how I lock in. I wanted the Outback
Fucking Steakhouse. I wanted Santa Fe Fries and one of their nasty,
sweet-and-sour blended orange drinks (the “Wallaby Darned”)
to wash the death sticks down (even though the one Outback Steakhouse
in New York City is as pricey as a four-star fucking restaurant;
again, makes perfect sense.)
So, the best
(or the worst) part of me thought I should bail on this unexpected
twist, this new non-Outback plan. Even better, I should just bail
on the night. On real life. I should eat Chinese food naked on
my couch and know why I was put on the planet; know why my closet
is as small as it is.
See, all
trendy things scare the hell out of me. Not good at them. Not
at all. I’m not funny on command, thoughtful when prompted,
diligent when asked. No, no. Nope.
This night’s
air was too beautiful, unfortunately, so I succumbed. I decided
to give up the Outback, go against home and nudity, for once in
my life, and invest in the plan. So, I call the friend: “What’s
the plan?”
My friend,
“Good Ol’ So-and-So”, then tells me the approximate
address of the place. I say, “This place better have a bar
and a series of televisions!” though my soul was beginning
to know better.
My friend
tells me that he’s gonna put my name on a list and that
I, upon arriving, should tell the desk folk that I’m a guest
of his and I would be let up. (Let up? To a bar? Fuck.) He ends
the call by telling me I should arrive from the East.
I liked that
last bit. I liked feeling like I had a job to do. It helped the
delusion.
Ten minutes later, I arrive approximately at the instructed spot
— “approximate” as there was no sign on any
of the nearby establishments (too blue-collar a concept). I soon
scope the area: a furniture store selling un-sit-able couches,
a quiet building with a moody lobby, and a loading dock. No Santa
Fe Fries. No blended oranges. No pre-game.
“If
I was a sports-fan-friendly bar, what would I look like?”
Not in this part of town, Bub. In this part of town there are
no signs and even fewer rules. Job or no, I felt on the way to
fucky.
Bewildered,
a new idea: I’ll call my friend looking for an out. A way
to bail out. A way to still get nude and eat chicken dumplings
from Suzie’s. I’ll call Ol’ So-and-So and pray
for Ol’ Reliable, my old and trusty friend: Voicemail (“Hey,
it’s Lowry, I never found you. I think I’m gonna’
just split. Sorry. Later.”), or, my bosom buddy, Bad Cellphone
Reception. Something. Help.
I call. Clear
as a bell, Ol’ So-and-So answers on the first ring, “You’re
right in front, dude! You see the furniture store? It’s
right next door! It’s the building right…next…door!”
(The building with the moody lobby.) “Just tell them you’re
with me and they’ll letcha up. Dude!”
“Let
me up.”
“Yeah,
dude. Up.”
As
now I ‘m past the bluff, past fucked, I screw what’s
left of my courage and walk right into the building with the moody
lobby.
PAGE
2 > >
For
past columns by Christopher Burke, visit his archive page at http://www.rawstory.com/exclusives/burke/archive/
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