madness, music, movement, and spooge

7 November 2006

Because I have no girlfriend or nothing much to do, I spend a lot of my time thinking and strategizing.  This is how I pass most of my days and nights. 

For example, last week I set an important goal for myself: before next summer is over, I will have sex in a pool.  For as many virgins as I’ve had sex with (“Jason Mulgrew’s Genitals: Custom Made for Virgins Since 1979”), my list of crazy places I’ve had sex is woefully inadequate.  I’ve never had sex in a car or on a beach or on a roof or in a bar bathroom or anything.  Weak, I know.  I did have sex in an ex-girlfriend’s office once, but that was so thoroughly planned that it became something more to survive and get over with than something to enjoy.  Also, I couldn’t get an erection, so I’m not sure if it even counts.  Although technically, I was in there for a little bit, but it was kinda like stuffing a wet dish rag into a shot glass.  But I digress…

[I should clarify about one thing: I don’t mean that virgins are typically kinky and willing to do it in the parking lot of a Walmart, but I mean that my best sexual bragging point is that I’ve had sex with many more virgins than any of my friends, which I attribute to my less-than-intimidating genitals.  Add to that that I’m all nice and funny and most women are pretty sure that I have no STDs, because, you know, you need to have sex to have a sexually transmitted disease, and all these factors combine to mean that I’ve been with more virgins than most Shahs.  Which I am more than cool with.  Because really, from the girl’s point of view, it can only get better after doing me, as that’s about as low as it gets, you poor thing.  You poor, drunk, non-English-speaking thing whose brother is waiting outside in the hallway to shiv me.]

But hear me now: by the end of next summer, I will have done it in a pool.  Of course, there are several obstacles to this.  First, I have to find a pool, which are typically hard to come by in New York City.  Then I have to actually get in the pool, something I haven’t done since 1987, the last year I had more hair on my head than on my back.  And lastly, I have to find a woman willing to have sex with me in a pool, which will probably be the most difficult part.  My only hope is that by next summer I will have won the lottery or have killed someone famous, making me fuckable to someone.  Keep your fingers crossed.

Another thing I’ve been thinking about lately is whether there is any song that could give me an orgasm while listening to it without touching myself.  If you know me at all, you know that music really gets me going.  And also if you know me at all you can probably guess that I have an issue with what doctors call “hair-trigger ejaculation.”  Logic would then follow that out of the millions of songs out there, one could probably get me off, just by hearing it.

After much thought, I decided that if I were on mushrooms and the wind was just right, I could probably get off to The Format’s “Time Bomb” without touching my bird.  It’s not that this is my favorite song or anything (although it is most awesome), but there is a lot of stuff going on in this song (harmonizing, yelling, cymbals, piano, etc) and it’s all good.  Also, and I don’t know if this will make a lot of sense, but it is paced at about the same rate that I make love: it start outs with a yell, then gets moderately fast, there’s there a small break, then it’s faster than before, then it repeats (which I can not do immediately but definitely a few days later after I’ve recovered).  Of course, this song doesn’t end with some mozzarella sticks, but otherwise it’s nearly identical to my love-making steez.     

[Nevermind that the lyrics repeat: “Oh no/Was it worth it?”, the answer to which, in my case, is invariably, “For $60?  Not really.”]

But unfortunately, I don’t have any way of getting mushrooms, since I haven’t done them in forever (it’s been over two months).  Therefore, I decided late last week that getting off sans touching to “Time Bomb” must remain a hypothesis for the time being and I should refocus my energies on the sex in the pool thing, while keeping an ear out for other songs that might make me climax without any physical interaction.

[Do I focus on finding the pool first or the woman first?  Since I’ve been focusing on finding a woman for, oh, fifteen years and have not had much luck, I should probably look for the pool first.  It’s about time I change course.] 

But then on Friday night, with the sadness of my “Time Bomb” defeat still fresh on my mind, something strange and magical happened.

On that night, I went all the way out to Brooklyn to see Joseph Arthur in concert.  I typically don’t go to shows for a number of reasons that I won’t get into right now, but I was so moved by his latest album that I figured I should go (you’ve heard this before).  Also, my buddies Brian and Jeremy wanted to go and I was assured in advance that the place, Southpaw, sold Bud bombers for only $4.  Jason and Larry are very into Bud bombers right now (photographic evidence here).

I had just about one of the busiest and most stressful weeks of my life last week (which should be topped by this week) and by Friday I was a disaster: hungover, tired, and miserable.  Work itself on Friday was almost unbearable and I did more actual work between 5:30pm and 7:30pm than I typically do in a month.  Ugh.

It is becoming more and more clear to me that if I am to survive the next two or three months, I am probably going to have to start doing some serious drugs, namely cocaine.  I really don’t want to start becoming a cokehead, for a number of reasons.  First and foremost, I should (theoretically, finally) start getting paid for my projects very soon.  Picking up a cocaine habit just as I’m getting an influx of cash is probably not the best idea, since I am horrible with money (three weeks ago I came close to buying an apartment in Brooklyn before I realized that – wait a minute – I have no fucking money, and if I bought the apartment I would be legally bankrupt in under a year).  Not to mention there’s my ego, which would only be fueled by the cocaine.  And lastly and most damningly, people over the age of 25 who are not famous and do cocaine are just fucking gross. 

(For the most part.)

(But on the other hand, if I were to immerse myself into a circle of cokeheads, I’m pretty sure I’d be able to find a girl who’d had sex with me in a pool.  Hell, I might even be able to find a girl who would have sex with me in a burning car, depending upon the cokehead circle.  Maybe I should reassess…)

So instead, I’ve turned to an equally dangerous drug to keep me afloat and focused: diet coke.  I know, I know – you should probably start praying for my soul tonight before you go to bed.  But the good news that it’s working.  The diet coke is free in work and keeps me alive and functioning all day, until I get home and replace the diet coke with red bull and vodka.  I now have between four and six diet cokes a day, in an effort to make my heart the size of a watermelon.  On the Friday before the Joseph Arthur show, at the end of a most exasperating week, I had so many diet cokes that I lost count, but historians put the number conservatively at fourteen.        

The point is that when Brian and I arrived at Southpaw for the show, I was so filled with caffeine that if you listened closely enough you could hear my body humming.  And after a shitty week, I was looking to get fucked up – really fucked up.  And then Joseph started playing.  And the perfect storm was upon us.

I can’t say this any clearer: this guy fucking rocks.  I went into the show knowing only his latest album Nuclear Daydream and most of the songs from another of his albums, Our Shadows Will Remain.  So while I consider myself a fan I’m no die-hard by any stretch.  Yet by the third song, between the music and the caffeine and the booze, I was basically hypnotized.  By the fifth song, if Joseph had yelled, “Hey everyone – let’s shave our heads!”, I would have been bald in under three minutes.  By the ninth song, he could have asked, “Who wants to eat some glass?” and the bar would be out of beer bottles in no time.  This is the only way I can explain how awesome this was. 

And as I said above, with each song, I – and the rest of the crowd – got more into it.  To be clear, all of these songs weren’t rockers either; there were a number of slow songs mixed in, something that usually bothers me at shows (when I’m rocking, I want to keep rocking).  But it was almost like the band knew when to slow it down for a song or two, lest certain members of the audience start spontaneously combusting.

But when the band went into the rockers, they doth rocked.  All night I found myself growing increasingly agitated, excited, and most importantly, aroused.  During the encore, my eyes were closed, I was double fisting Bud bombers, and I was feeling it – without the use of any psychotropic drugs.  Amazing, simply amazing.

And then it happened.  To start what would be the last song of the night, Joseph’s keyboard player busted out a familiar riff, one that I’ve known for years.  The guitar immediately followed, and then his extremely sexy bass player started pumping it out.  Oh dear, I thought, this is gonna be something.  The song was that sexy bitch of a song by Rolling Stones, “Miss You.” 

Within seconds, the crowded was in a frenzy, sexily strutting their stuff, almost as though they were trying to impress the band.  Once the sing-along part arrived after the first verse, everyone was “whoo-who-whooing” along with the band, freaking the fuck out, engrossed in the music and the moment.  Joseph was soon standing on the edge of the stage, screaming at the crowd, getting them all riled up. 

And it was working.  The scene was almost primal.  I don’t know much about animals, but the closest you might come to the vibe on the dance floor during “Miss You” was if you took a bunch of monkeys, gave them a ton of cocaine, packed them in a cage that was way too small, and then started shaking that fucking cage like a motherfucker and maybe firing some guns in the air.  That may come close to the craziness on the dance floor.  It was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.  And I was loving it.

And then it started happening.  Things started to get blurry.  I felt confused, but in a good way.  My heart rate increased.  I started to sweat (well, sweat more than usual).  My face became flushed. I began to tremble a little bit.  My breathing increased, faster than increasingly rapid bass line.  I clenched the Bud bombers in each of my hands and felt a tingle that started in the bottom of my spine but quickly spread like lightening through my body; it felt like a sneeze, but 1000 times better.  My body clenched, I made a noise similar to that of a German Shepherd that has been punched, and then it was over.  And I felt tired, a little hungry, and a lot self-loathing, three familiar feelings usually reserved for my work bathroom, strangers’ parked cars, and the girls’ junior varsity basketball games at PS 191. 

Then I realized that I had done it.  I done spooged in my pants, without touching my bird, because of music.  And it was good.

Per my typical post-orgasm behavior, I don’t remember much of the rest of the night, but if I had to make a guess I’d say that something violent probably happened.  The only thing I do remember after spooging at the concert was the mozzarella sticks that I ate on the cab ride back to Manhattan.  Which were delicious. 

And now I have one less goal in life and need a new one.  I’m thinking the next one will involve eating in the nude, but I’m not sure in what capacity.  I’ll let you know.

(And if you know of any good pools in NYC, please let me know.)