Steve's Blog

Select a date from below to read Steves blog entries.

November 2014



Nov 19, 2014
What the Fuck

By Steve Sabo

"What the fuck?" Ryan thought to himself, as he slowly opened his eyes. His head felt like a construction site, his body wracked with nausea, a tsunami of suffering.

He remembered the bar. The shots. At least, the first few. From that point the night was a fuzzy blur of neon, smoke and excitement. The music was loud and electric; though he had heard all those songs before, he had never felt them pulsing through his body is such a manner. He remembered smiling, laughing. No particular memory of happiness, no specific joke, just an over-all feeling of exuberance. It was a good night.

Followed by a god-awful morning.

He swallowed, his mouth dry. Whatever had died within the recesses of his throat had started to decompose, the stench of which was adding to his general feeling of unease. He closed his eyes again, took a deep breath. His entire bedroom was a tilt-a-whirl. He needed the ride to stop.

"What the fuck."

He never drank that much. Well, never is a tough word. He RARELY drank to excess; enough to get a buzz, but not enough to risk the ire of the highway patrol on the mile and a half drive from the pub to his apartment. He had a perhaps paranoid fear of being pulled over for DUI. It has kept him out jail, out of the poor house, and generally saved him from mornings of regret.

But not this morning.

His skin felt hot, clammy. Raising his hand to his forehead, he couldn't keep it from shaking. He was a terrified Chihuahua with Parkinsons disease. A freezing epileptic of tiny shivers. He felt the wrath of an unjust god.

He opened his eyes again, focusing on a spider crawling across the ceiling, a spider that looked down upon him in judgment. "Fuck that spider," he thought. "He doesn't know me. He doesn't know my life."

Ryan had never been that good with the girls. He was charming enough, in an awkward, nerdy manner. He had lots of female friends. He never seemed to possess the skill to take it to the next level, however, to take a winning drive to the end zone. Friend zone, he was familiar with. End zone? Mostly a myth, in his experience, scoring usual an accident he couldn't replicate under ideal scientific conditions.

The alcohol helped with his shyness, his awkwardness. He convinced himself that he drank to make other people interesting, but in reality, it simply helped him get out of his own head. He talked himself out of hitting on most women when he was sober for a myriad of reasons, none of which were honest. He would say they were too dumb, or too snooty; too uptight, too bitchy, too much baggage. Although all these things could be true, the truth was he had a fear of rejection. Rejection made him human. Vulnerable.

Rejection was his kryptonite.

But throw in a .16 blood alcohol level, and all those inhibitions flow out the window. He didn't care if she didn't like him, there was another "she" just around the corner. He didn't care if she was dumb. Or a drama queen. She had a vagina. She had a warm, moist, inviting opening. An opening he felt a need to explore.

The call of the pussy was his siren's song, leading him, along with the many sailors before him, to his inevitable death, despair and failure.

And there were women last night. Lots of them. If the mix of modern techno and 80s rock and dance music wasn't enough to draw in the gals, they upped the ante by throwing in "ladies night", where women drink free. Isn't that ironic? Women gather by the dozens, because martinis and margarita's aren't cheap.

But don't most women wait around for men to buy them drinks anyway? So essentially, aren't all their drinks free? Every night is ladies night if you have a hint of cleavage and a 40 watt smile.

Ryan shrugged. He needed to stop letting his mind drift, he needed to focus. The spider was long gone, off to tell his spider buddies about the drunken idiot sweating out the alcohol below him. He reminded himself to look for that spider later after a couple pots of coffee, to visit him with the heel of a dress shoe. He hated spiders, and really hated being mocked by them.

He felt movement in the bed next to him. Movement that made his own body freeze. He was not alone.

His mind raced again to last night. Too hard to focus. The last few hours were gone, wiped away from his memory like an etch-a-sketch. He remembered a blonde, a brunette. A bartender... maybe a nurse? Definitely a nurse. There was always a nurse. Where there were free drinks, there were nurses. It's just the way of the world.

He felt around his waist for the edge of his boxer shorts. They were missing. More evidence of a night spent in the ecstasy of possible regret. He felt around, touched what may be the remains of a drying wet spot. Hopefully sex drippings, not incontinence. You never know. It wouldn't be the first time.

He felt around the sheets, a blind man reading the braille of a one night stand. Then he found it. The condom wrapper, torn hap-hazzardly, and farther off the used condom, a shed snake skin of shame. "At least I was safe," he thought to himself.

But who was she?

Oh god.

It WAS a she, wasn't it? It had to be, right?

"What the fuck!" He said out loud, and turned on the lamp by his bed.

The end.

The light was glaring, but the girl in his bed didn't stir. It WAS a girl, he was happy to discover, based on her curvature and lack of body hair. Good shape, too, from what he could tell; she had long, flowing blonde hair and a thin frame, slightly tanned but not overly tan, in that orangey, tanning bed kind of way. Thin waist. She was facing away from him and sleeping on her stomach so he couldn't see her face, but he could tell from his vantage point that she had a nice ass.

"Well, all right, " he thought to himself, "At least I didn't take down a wildebeest. Still... wish I could remember..."

He clicked the light back off, careful not to further disturb his sleepover guest. Slowly he eased back the covers enough for him to slip out of them, but, suddenly conscious of how naked he was, and, not coincidentally, how not alone he was, he grabbed what clothes he could from the heap on the floor and hustled to the bathroom.

A shower would do him well. Help him refocus. Clear his head. Get rid of that... smell.

What was that smell?

It was a mix of alcohol, sweat and sex. It seemed musty, yet sort of sweet. Remainders of his cologne mixed with her perfume, spilled bodily fluids, morning after b.o.

The smell of a one night stand.

He closed the door tight and flicked on the light. The flourescents were blinding... a police spotlight pointing out last night's crimes. Colored dots and shadowy ghosts crossed his vision as he tried to adjust. He shuffled through the clothes he had grabbed... the jeans, Gap size 2, were clearly not his. Neither was the bra (32 DD... NICE! He thought). The boxers, thankfully, were his, even if they weren't the freshest. He wished he had managed to grab his t shirt in his haste, but no matter. His robe was in the bathroom, as well... enough of a shame shroud when the time came.

Ryan turned on the shower, the steam over whelming him. It cleared his pores, instantly made his head feel at least a little better. There was a steam engine pounding in his right ear; apparently it had gone off the rails somewhere around his Corpus Collosum. He fought back an urge to vomit; instead he dry-heaved, held his breath, fought back the bile inching up his throat.

Stepping into the shower, he wondered how good of a lay he had been last night. He was too drunk to remember. Was he a stumbling lame oaf, barely able to find the hole, the girl suddenly realizing her mistake? Or was he a tequila casanova, free from inhibitions, about to leap grand hilltops (Double Ds!) in a single bound. Did he deliver the goods like a viking maurader, or did the condom slip off because his half-mast erection couldn't even make it to port. Was he an embarrassment, or a hero?

He let the water rush over him. Hell, if he was that drunk, she was probably drunk too, right? Maybe she didn't remember either. Maybe it was something they would laugh about over coffee (the only thing he had in the pantry that could pass as breakfast was half a poptart, which was probably feeding all the vermin that was currently feeding that shit-head spider). And maybe, if she was hot, this would turn into more than a one night stand... maybe it would be a weekend... or the beginning of something more.

The water was too hot, but in a way, it was perfect. The first degree burns were a penance for his black out night.

Ryan felt a slight stinging pain in his genitals as the water rushed over it. Like salt in a fresh cut. His hands and eyes immediately went to his member, shrunken from the heat, the water and the punishment it undoubtedly was party to sometime after last call. His eyes were still trying to adjust to the luminescence and the steam didn't help, but he seemed to notice the distinct outlay of...

...teeth marks?

"What the fuck?" Ryan mumbled, this time, truly a question.

It was true. Several, in fact, three of which drew blood. This girl he was with was a freak. He examined the rest of his body, to the best of his ability. Some scratches on his shoulder, probably his back too. Some more teeth marks on his palm, near his thumb. An outline of a full set of teeth, tops and bottoms, on his left bicep. It had been some rough stuff last night. Yes it had.

Ryan couldn't decide if it made this girl more of a catch or less.

He shut off the water, drip dried for a second or two, then reached for a towel. What he needed was coffee. Juan Valdez always had the cure for the punishment Jose Cuervo doled out. At least the Mexicans worked together.

For a second Ryan contemplated the synergy of that; the night and day, the sobering and non-sobering effects of Mexican beverages. Was it a conspiracy? He promised to research that in the future. It seemed too apropos to be a coincidence.

He slipped on his boxers, wrapped himself with his robe. He contemplated combing his hair, gave up on that idea and just slicked it back with his hand. His toothbrush was nearby so he grabbed it; began to brush his teeth but the effort and the movement and the cylindrical object in his mouth was making him gag. He gathered himself, gargled with mouthwash. "That'll do, pig," he thought to himself, and chuckled. He was an never-ending encyclopedia of unnneccesary movie quotes.

Ryan opted to exit the bathroom through the hallway door so as not to re-enter the bedroom, where he was sure the blonde was still sleeping. He would roust her soon enough, but first, as he reiterated, coffee.

He stumbled to the kitchen.

"Tumble out of bed, stumble to the kitchen, pour myself a cup of ambition..."

Ryan stopped his thoughts the moment he stepped into the threshold of the kitchen. There was his t-shirt.

Barely covering the upper torso (glorious naked ass exposed) of the statuesque brunette leaning against the counter, reading a magazine, glancing up and smiling in his direction. Coffee was already made, and she was drinking a mug.

Wait, brunette?

Ryan's head snapped back in the direction of the bedroom. The door was only ajar slightly, but he could see the blond still laying there. His head snapped back toward the kitchen, the beautiful, brunette stranger in his presence.

"I didn't expect you to be up walking around this early, after everything we did to YOU last night, " the brunette chirped, with an ever widening grin.

"What. The. Fuck. " Ryan said aloud.

Somewhere, in the distance, inaudibly, the spider laughed.

The end