the first I am talking about is not my first time getting stoned.
You see, the weird kid from Chicago said that now that I was cool,
it was time for me to lose my blow cherry. Next thing I knew, "Tattoo
You," the Rolling Stones album, was on the bed, a tiny homemade
envelope cut from a magazine page was spilled out onto it and a
razor blade was chopping through white powder. I was handed a twenty
dollar bill rolled into a straw, which I aimed at the powder, using
it to suck the stuff up into my nostril. Now I was pretty stoned,
but I knew that tasting medicine in the back of my throat could
not be what was supposed to happen. It was disgusting, like licking
a syringe, or what I thought licking a syringe would taste like.
The guys explained that that was the good part, the drip, and that
I should enjoy it. So, I did. With every toot I took, I waited for
the drip. Oh, how great it was
the drip. I loved the drip.
I loved being normal.
But the first I am talking about is not my first time doing cocaine.
By the next night, I had blown off two full days of classes and
had lost track so badly that I wasn't sure what classes I had blown
off. It was that night that my friends from Crawford Hall and my
friends from ZBT, all wanting to see me drunk, took me to The Exchange
(it was Thursday, which was a gay night at The Pier). Everyone was
buying me free drinks. It was upside down shooter night, and if
you lay your head on the bar, looking up at the ceiling, the bartender
would pour your shot into your mouth.
For the first time in my three years of George Washington University,
my friends did not disintegrate in front of me. In fact, they stayed
as witty and urbane and poised as they had been when they walked
into the bar sober. This was freaking cool. Phyllis Littman, who
was Scotty Silver's girlfriend and had a "Jew fro," came
up to me and told me that she had broken up with Scotty. Her eyes
actually seemed to smile. I told her that I had become a normal
person, and not only did I drink, but I smoked weed and snorted
I was getting a little unsteady, as the walls of The Exchange began
a seaweed dance. I found a chair, and sat on it, talking to Phyllis
Littman, who was now standing over me. Phyllis and I had maybe sort
of flirted once before, but we barely knew each other. She was but
one of a hundred cute girls on campus who ignored me. Now she was
standing over me and laughing at everything I said.
need a place to sit," she shouted through the noisy bar.
my lap," I responded. I liked drinking.
Phyllis sat on my lap and we starting talking about us and why hadn't
we gone out yet, and then I was dipping her, like we were dancing,
but we were sitting on one chair. I took Phyllis to my car and drove
her the one block back to her dorm. There, I pushed on the brake
and let the clutch up at the same time, stalling the car. Like a
complete idiot, I started the car again and instead of taking it
out of gear, I sat there talking to Phyllis for at least another
fifteen minutes with my foot pressing the clutch against the floorboard
and my bladder filling beyond all known human capacity. Holy shit
did I have to wiz. But I was not going to give in, because a cute
girl with perfect teeth was sitting in my car talking about me and
her as an item, not as friends. It was a good conversation.
Finally, she said she needed to get back to her room and I did not
stop her because my foot was numb and my need to wiz was epic and
my appendix was starting to throb again. Then she said, "I
guess I better kiss you goodnight." And I did not know what
to do. You see, I was Sweet 20 and had never been kissed. I had
never actually placed my lips on the lips of another human being.
So, I leaned in, the way I thought I should, and pressed harder
against the clutch and pressed harder against my urethra muscle,
and I put my lips on Phyllis Littman's lips. And then something
unexpected happened. She pushed her tongue into my mouth and the
first thought that came into my mind was, "So this is what
a French kiss is." Still, drunk as I was, I didn't know what
was expected of me. Was I supposed to let her explore my mouth?
Was I supposed to nip at her tongue? Were we supposed to tongue
duel? I went with my gut and began to tongue wrestle. She moaned
and kept at it. Was it because she didn't want to embarrass me,
or because I had somehow managed not to embarrass myself? What if
I was a tongue moron and she was humoring me? When we were done,
I put my head on Phyllis' shoulder to say sorry if I didn't do that
right. She smiled at me and told me to call her.
But the first I am talking about is not my first time French kissing.
The next day I called a doctor's office and told them I had appendicitis.
They made an appointment for me that morning, causing me to blow
off another day of classes. I was nervous, as anyone with appendicitis
would be, but I knew I was doing the right thing, being a normal
person, and so I waited for the doctor. When he came in, I told
him about being a Christian Scientist, assuming this would fascinate
him and he'd want to talk about it. He grunted. He pushed my abdomen,
asked me if it hurt, and told me that I did not have appendicitis.
He then told me drop my pants and my underwear.
What the fuck? Oh God, it was all true. All the horrible stories
Christian Scientists had told me about doctors were true, and now
I was no longer a Christian Scientist. I was a normal person. I
had to go to doctors. I drank. I smoked pot. I snorted cocaine off
the album cover of "Tattoo You" by the Rolling Stones
and I loved the drip. I tongue wrestled with girls. I put my head
down on a bar and let a stranger pour alcohol into my mouth. I had
made my decision and I had to live with it, so I took off my pants
and my underwear and let the doctor feel my scrotum. When he was
done, he told me that I did not have a hernia either. He said the
pain in my abdomen was probably from not eating enough fiber and
that I should eat celery. Then he left without saying goodbye.
And so, I've reached the first I have been referring to since the
beginning of this story, the first time that I was ever felt up,
and how ironic it was that the person who felt me up was a bald
doctor with too many appointments to even take the little time necessary
for a little bit of conversation and getting to know each other
to make me feel more comfortable about the whole thing.
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