Annals of the Flesh: Like Tucker Max, but Less Date-Rapey

“I May or May Not Have Fucked a Dirty Hippie”
by Amber Powers

He smelled like potatoes.  In the beginning, I didn’t notice, or thought it was patchouli, or hoped it was from composting or rock climbing and not from sleeping on an oil-stained sheet of cardboard behind the restaurant after drinking too much Everclear.  Or something.

I had just moved there.  I had just had my heart broken for the first time.  I had just begun to wonder if intentionally barfing to stay skinnyish meant that I had bigger issues.  Whatever; everyone totally hated me anyway.

The kitchen floor was slippery and everything moved fast.  Washing dishes was pretty much the shittiest work I’d ever done; the tubs kept coming and I had to pick out greasy napkins and creamer cups and wads of gum, but I wanted the guys to see that I could work hard, like a man, so I touched that crap with my bare hands and hardly gagged at all.  The  manager saw me, even; I bet he told everyone.

Once, I took a smoke break and sat on an upturned bucket in the alley.  Marching band practice echoed against the brick buildings, across the pink and blue sky, and was cut by the “WOOO!” calls from bar-hopping Tunas and Jocks.  DH came out of the kitchen and asked me a stupid question about my hair or something.

I smiled and answered him, then lit his cigarette.  He asked me more stupid questions, and I made him laugh.  His beaded dreads were pulled back and his jaw was square and tan and I could see his bare chest and smooth clavicles through the gaping neck in his blanket-shirt.  He didn’t name a single book I hadn’t heard of, and I told him I read them all.  I didn’t like his music, though.  I only listened to classical music and Liz Phair.

The hours in the kitchen moved fast and DH smiled and winked when I gave him new clean pans to fry with.   Then I went home to my cold studio apartment with only one lamp and saw my fat ass in the mirror and I wanted to die.  I played my guitar.  I smoked alone on the fire escape.  I watched the town lights scatter across the river as it moved and I thought of how DH looked at me.

I wore a loose tanktop with no bra to work the next day.  DH would totally pop one behind his station and burn a steak, probably, if he saw my side-boob.  I let a strap fall down my shoulder and looked him in the eye every time I handed him a stack of clean pans.  I reached for high things when I knew he could see me.  Once I caught him staring at me through the stacks of stainless-steel tubs and I knew he was starting to crush.

I took a smoke break and stood by the dumpster in the alley. The ba-da-dum/ba-da-dum of street percussionists echoed against the brick buildings, across the orange inky sky, and was cut by the clop-clop-giggles from bar-hopping pledges.  DH came out of the kitchen and kissed me.

His lips were messy and his teeth scraped the skin around my mouth and his tongue was too big and too soft and there was too much spit.  But he breathed hard and touched my face and I knew he thought I was pretty.  You taste like booze, I told him.  Or maybe your kisses just make me tipsy.

What?  Oh, I get it.  Huh.  Yeah, we’re drinking coke and Everclear. Hope the food tastes ok. Huh-huh. He laughed, and  bit my face off again, squishing my boob with his short, square hand.  He did not come to work the next day.

Everything that day sucked.  The manager was being a dick, we were super busy, and the cleaning crew hadn’t replaced the floormats and I slipped on the wet floor and fell on my ass and it looked like I peed myself.  The night dragged and the steam stunk up my clothes and my arms itched from the nasty pan-water.  The manager handed me the kitchen’s cordless as I was finally fucking clocking out.  That place was so retarded.

Hey. DH had called me.  At work.  He called me.  He called me!  Are you off yet? I smiled and my voice got softer and I said that I was. Wanna come over and get off again? I knew it!  He wanted me!  Ha!  He’d probably been jerking off all day thinking about it.  He needed me.

I stopped at home and showered and washed my hair with scented water and shaved everywhere (everywhere) and put talc on my skin to make it soft and wore nice panties and a front-loader push-up bra and put on a tiny bit of makeup and grabbed a 6-pack of good beer and went to his apartment.  The hallway smelled like mildew and creeped me out.  I knocked on his door.  Nothing.  I knocked harder.  I could hear the TV inside, then a groan, and the pounding of bare feet on a wood floor.  The door opened and his apartment smelled like onions.

What took you so long? He asked, and my chest grew cold; I felt like a stupid … late … GIRL.  I held up the 6-pack.  Oh, cool.  Sit down.  I’m watching this thing about lions. Pretty badass.

I sat next to him on the nasty crumby couch and sucked on my beer.  Two female lions were ripping the shit out of a still-breathing zebra.  They backed off when the male lion came by, and watched with blood-covered snouts as he ate.  Then the male mounted one of the females and began pumping her and DH laughed.  Huh-huh! Fuckin’ sweet, man!

He pushed his dreads behind his ear and slapped his hand on my thigh.  We sat and watched a commercial about drugs and I parted my knees.  He moved his hand up my skirt and sucked on his beer and didn’t look at me.  A funny commercial for a movie with a fat guy and a dumb blonde came on and he laughed and he pressed his dry, rough thumb into my panties.

I got up and swung a leg over his lap, facing him, and let him gnaw on my face.  He moved down to my neck and I told him not to give me any hickies.  He leaned back and took his Phish t-shirt off and I took my dress off over my head and made sure he was watching as I snapped open the front-loader and let my boobs fly out.  He told me my tits ruled.  His neck tasted salty.  I unbuckled his belt and moved my hand past what felt like a clown wig in his pants and gripped him.  Haw yeah, he whispered.

He got up, took his ripped jeans off and I watched his flat hairy ass as he left the room to get a condom.  I took my panties off and put them behind the pillow on the couch so that I could purposefully “lose” them and have to go home without panties. One of his buddies would come over and find them one day and give him a high-five, for sure.

He came back with condoms and a lighter.  He lit candles and turned off the TV and turned on the stereo.  Do you like Dave Matthews Band? He asked. Nope, but whatever.  I giggled and turned my face into the pillow and said I did.  Something smelled like socks.

He scooped me up awkwardly in his arms and I giggled and shrieked and we fell onto the bed behind the couch. You’re like, the hottest girl ever  I smiled wide and we kissed hard and fast and he breathed in my ear: You wanna do it?

He sat back on his heels and tore open the condom wrapper with his teeth and spit the bits of plastic onto the bed and held the rolled rubber up to the light and started putting it on and took it off again and inspected it and put it on again.   Huh.  Put it on backwards.  Huh.

Twangy sparkly acoustic awfulness spilled from the stereo.  Oh shit, I thought.  Is this that Crash song?  DH kissed my stomach softly and rolled on top of me and pushed his dreads back behind his ear and his hemp necklace hung down toward my face.  You ever hear of tantric lovemaking? It’s where you harness your sexual energy to make your orgasms last, like, ten minutes.  You wanna try it? I said that I’d heard of it but hadn’t tried it.  Close your eyes.  Imagine you’re like, in the forest or in the jungle or something.  Now breathe with me.

He breathed deep through his nose and exhaled with a “shhhh” sound.  I closed my eyes and inhaled.  There was that smell again.  We breathed together and he started moving his hips, pushing against me.  Hommmmmmm!  Hommmmmmm!  Chant with me now.  Hommmmmm! I chanted with him, and did my best to make it seem like I was into it. He pushed into me and chanted faster.  Homm!  Homm!  Hom-hom-hom-hom-hom-homAAAHHHHHGH!!!!!

He collapsed, sweaty and breathing hard.  I beamed.  He was so turned on by me, he couldn’t even last with tantric sex.   He would fall in love with me for sure.  And he smelled so manly, so earthy.  He must have loved how I smelled.

Did you come? He asked.  I lied.  I didn’t want him to think I was frigid.  Good.  Next time, I promise to last longer.  It’s, like, been a while.

It’s okay if you don’t last long, I said.  It’s …  actually better that way.

I woke up next to him at dawn and put on my clothes and left quietly without my panties and drove home.  He would wake up and miss me, for sure.  He would call me and call me and I would eventually break his heart but for now I would just let him fuck me for as long as I could stand him.

Potatoes, I thought as I drifted off to sleep in my own bed.  He smells like dirty potatoes.