The last thing on my mind right now is sex. If the lubricating fluids currently emanating from my influenza credenza are any sign, jetted willy-nilly from my nostrils, eyes, mouth and virtually every pore on my body with no more than a Floridian shiver, I won't be getting any anyway. The spotting, if there is indeed any spotting, is not in the front of my underpants tonight, ladies. I am a pinched and teased pile of awful, spots hidden.
"Hey, Billy," spots a hunk of admirable girth who claims to be the brother of a former female roommate of my mine. "You're hosting the sex party, right?"
Well, of course I am. My life is "the sex party."
And how did it come to this? Having just spent a week on volunteer duty, teaching drunkenness to Jones High students (where I was forbidden to smoke) and spreading my corduroy mustiness and unjustified verbosity to a class of UCF writing students (where I was almost forbidden to drink), my legs have been spread all the way across Orlando proper. My asshole, by all standard measurements, ought to be resting right over the Peacock Room (or, um, the cock) right about now! Let the spotting begin!
Tonight is one of the last episodes of bartender and town ham Tammy Kopko's live-action Cocktail Hour episodes (she's leaving for greener pastures soon), wherein a gaggle of four post-drama-student drunkards in varying shades of female impersonation Fringe up The View premise to a palpable hue of cabaret (cabernet?). A couple of months ago, Tammy pierced my permanent inebriation long enough to invite me on as "celebrity guest host" for "Sex II" (they did this last year, too), and with all due appreciation, I burped something that sounded like "I'd love to"; or "I'd fuck you." Either way, I'm here.
"OK, you're going to say this," Miss Sammy Singhaus points fingernails to mimeographs in some pantomime of organization. "And I'm going to say this, then Alina, and then Tammy …."
And while this art direction is taking place, my head is speed-bumping its shocks over a list of terms to euphemize the dirty deed.
"Cattle-prodding the oyster ditch with the lap rocket."
"Cannonballing the fiddlecove with a park steeple."
"Pulling the station wagon into the old creaky garage."
And then, the best one: "Lock crotch and swap gravy." I belong here.
Unfortunately, all direction goes out the gravy window when the show begins, as will most recollection. Following obligatory introductions of the self-important kind, I'm instructed to move to the comfy chair for some teabagging. Shot-boy Jared stands on either arm, drooping his hot-panted boiled peanuts dangerously close to my angry sinuses. I frown, grab the microphone (the actual microphone), scream in my John Waters best, "NO TEABAGGING!" and brush off the potential rash with a declaration that "somebody farted," hand choreography included.
One crisis abated, but another follows fast. A scantily clad skinny blond girl is escorted to the stage by an artist named Noah. With her torso two feet from my face, she frees her dirty pillows and I cover my eyes. She's here for body painting, which will continue throughout the show, thankfully outside of my line of blurred vision. I don't belong here.
Another bartender (and sometime dominatrix), Mistress Tania, is called over for some wisdom on the historical significance of abusive sex. Some sketchy ramblings about the Marquis de Sade follow, with a disjointed account of "there were some Spanish flies over here, and they put the flies over here," while the audience and cast alike lean in with nonplussed furrows of "insects and sex?" on their faces. Unsavory!
Less savory, Tania invites the post-hunk loose connection from earlier to the stage to be bound, gagged and whipped … shirtless!
"You fat pig!" "You cum licker!" "You dick sucker!" Tammy and I take turns taking out our own (very) personal aggressions. When he's through, he hops onstage and tries to take over the show.
"I am the ghost of the Annie Russell Theatre!" he spooks. "And I want to talk to Billy Manes!"
"Get off the stage," Tammy steams from her own dominatrix facsimile, clearly not superstitious.
Something a little more scripted follows, when six members of the audience are called upon to act out porn dialogue for prizes. Scottie Campbell and blond MySpace ubiquity Jamesson go through the motions at a filthy boot camp, a couple of other straight folk act out their pool-boy/rich wife and priest/schoolgirl scenarios, and all are rewarded with Fairvilla merchandise (Dildos! Massage oils!), free Internet-porn passes and $1-off Fairvilla wooden tokens.
Somewhere, in some dark room, somebody is having an orgasm. But not me, not here. My anxiety-rattled head remains predominantly in between my own knees … possibly checking for spots.
And just when I think that I, that the world, cannot handle any more, Sammy comes through with the icing on the cake. Well, not the cake.
"Well, you're a real tough cookie with a long history …" Benatars from the sound system as she assembles her props. And just when the chorus hits, the shocking climax of all headbanded sexual empowerment born of the '80s, Sammy is there, with a turkey baster, spewing something other than swappable gravy across the audience.
"Hit me with your best shot!"
Onto her chin, her neck, down into her imitation breasts, splatters of suggestive vanilla pudding dribble and hang like an impressionistic painting: symbolizing a universal end to tastefulness, but meaning nothing.
Sex? No, that would be the last email@example.com
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