With dinner now
finished, and their emptied dessert plates still clutter to the table, Brother
Skunk and ache1 sit on regardless; neither of them, each subject to
their own reason, is in any rush to leave, and with it being late enough to
understand they need not surrender their places to incoming guests having been
among the evening’s last admitted covers, there is zero pressure felt so to do.
Of the two, Skunk is himself perhaps especially hesitant, knowing once he does indeed leave the restaurant there is every possibility of his having to go on home, while for her part ache1 is, in this moment at least, without notion to force the issue either way.
There is no sex as yet, sexual activity being for each exclusively masturbation (excepting her acknowledged unlucky once just those mere months past) though both understand they cannot be far from, another scent as percolates that air between them. Both recognise it spiralling toward and away, toward and away, and neither aware it will tonight crash on in toward them, their mutual intake of alcohol continually collapsing those barriers yet remnant inbetween. At point of impact, Brother Skunk will be literally falling down drunk, or damn near, his any inhibition or embarrassment a deal diminished by the Tennessee whiskey disseminate throughout his coursing blood, additional testament to this the space around and between their dead plates cluttered with several empty bottles of Moosehead lager, squat beneath that bottle of Jack Daniel’s through which they are almost finished making their rapid progress.
Perhaps in lieu of sex itself, or as its willed precursor, their talk veers toward that masturbation.
Skunk: I ehm, I mean from my, I had no reference points at all, I didn’t know anything about it, nothing, hadn’t read anything about it in books or spoken about it, I mean, definitely not spoken about it with friends. Looking back, it’s entirely possible, it’s probable even they all spoke about it with each other, but just, just not with me. I was that naive.
bending down to scratch at the sudden quiet rage of his inflamed ankle, but not willing to unlace the boot in which it is wrapped.
Skunk: Or or, well no, I mean, I’d heard... something, but without any reference points it made no sense at all, almost as if whatever I’d heard was in a different language,
pushing his chair back some from the table to cross his legs, and noticing with no little embarrassment some nondescript chewed foodstuff spilled upon the black denim of his 501s
Skunk: but I remember the sensations, but no, not the actual event, not the time or place or anything like that, even what age I actually was, I would think 12 or 13 maybe?
unaware he is in motion, pulling now at the soft angles of his self-cut black hair
Skunk: I must have known it was somehow connected to sex and making babies, I must... but, and I wasn’t sure if this was somehow expected, or if I was maybe broken
ache1: But didn’t your mum
Skunk (immediate): Oh my Christ no! No. Never.
both laugh
Skunk: I was... just venturing out into this unknown territory, on my own
laughing
Skunk: just a... lonely explorer... with no roadmap
ache1: No Roadmap for Masturbation sounds like a terrible album title.
both laughing, her hands spanning an imaginary marquee
ache1 (too loud): “ELVIS! LIVE IN VEGAS! NO ROADMAP FOR MASTURBATION!”
Skunk: Shh Jesus shh, calm down.
She shakes her head to dislodge what seems a tiny sound suddenly apparent deep in her ear, and attempts distracting herself by asking him if he suffered “nocturnal emission”, laughing, over-enunciating each syllable to define this the least desirable thing as might ever occur to anyone, but then zones out as he starts to answer, straining again to fix and decipher the vague and barely audible irritant, until eventually, frustrated, she forces herself to re-focus upon his words partway through his response.
Skunk: waking up with this sort of... a pale... sort of watery phlegm in my pyjama bottoms, so this actually happened to me in my sleep before it did when I was conscious.
ache1 expresses her curiosity as to whether this remains an ongoing concern.
Skunk: What? No, Jesus no, if, even if you put a gun to my head I couldn’t tell you the last time that
ache1: Okay, okay.
falling suddenly silent as one of the wait staff appears to collect the detritus from off their table, standing each of the dead beer bottles upon the tray before checking the whiskey,
cog: Can I get you guys anything else?
ache1: We’re all good here, thank you.
both bewildered that he then leaves their dessert plates uncollected.
Skunk splits the bottle’s last dribble of whiskey between their shotglasses.
In this extended silence she determines it to be a voice she can hear, and begins to wonder if it is in fact inside her head at all, or if it belongs to someone out beyond the windows, or in a distant section of the restaurant or kitchen, and is irritated to have her attempt at locating its exact origin interrupted again by Brother Skunk who seems anxious to return to the topic.
Skunk: The weirdest thing I do remember though was wondering if that was it? Having first had that sort of hot dry itch and not realising that was the first part, that that wasn’t all of it, then keeping on going to produce this... ejaculate, I did wonder if that was all of it or if there might be some other stage
She looks to see if someone has headphones on closeby, if this is in fact an easily explicable residual leakage. It has the texture of a distant itch beyond the reach of her scratching.
Skunk: I remember making no end of trouble for myself by keeping going, thinking maybe there’s another part to this, something more, that this bit is just the prelude.
ache1 (back, laughing): Did you just say prelube?
Skunk (laughing): I did not.
both laughing
Finally the wait staff arrive again to clear away the dessert plates.
ache1 blinks repeatedly, hard, as if clearing her ears of fluid.
ache1: I’m stuffed and I still feel hungry. Is that weird?
emptying her shotglass.
Skunk: Well, do you want to order anything else?
likewise tipping the last of his own glass’ content into his mouth.
ache1: I don’t think so.
Skunk: You sure? Toss for another bottle?
ache1: Toss, what?
Skunk (one hand now jammed to his face, the other making a quick and loose circling gesture): Flip a coin, flip a coin.
ache1 (with some heat): Flip with what? It’s not like I have any money. I don’t need it.
Skunk: That’s not what I
ache1: That’s how it came across.
hating to be so suddenly ambushed by this reminder of her defined existence, and taking it personally, snaps again
ache1 (definitive): Don’t ever forget why I’m here.
Absent his any concrete understanding of her ongoing circumstance, Brother Skunk feels himself assigned his rightful place as participant spectator in the unknown and occurring whatever, suddenly wondering if she actually is in fact aware of that moosehead quarter he has been carrying everywhere concealed in the watch pocket of his Levi’s.
His new quiet offers space enough that she can again concentrate on the sound, only now come barely discernible as a frantic and desperate screaming as if being created at some great remove, not a multitude but instead a single tiny voice operating at the extent of its capacity to be heard, with that distance between her and its source noticeably diminishing, and no clear notion as to which body is in motion toward the other.
Un-nerved, she tries pulling everything back up from out where she’d abandoned it
ache1: Shall we go up?
reaching over to the seat adjacent in which she had earlier deposited her little E.T. doll, and dragging him out into the air by one of his skinny and flaking brown arms.
Skunk (shrugs, resigned): Why not?
clumsily rising from his seat, before reaching over to lightly tap his finger upon the mouth of the empty whiskey bottle
Skunk: “All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”
Of the two, Skunk is himself perhaps especially hesitant, knowing once he does indeed leave the restaurant there is every possibility of his having to go on home, while for her part ache1 is, in this moment at least, without notion to force the issue either way.
There is no sex as yet, sexual activity being for each exclusively masturbation (excepting her acknowledged unlucky once just those mere months past) though both understand they cannot be far from, another scent as percolates that air between them. Both recognise it spiralling toward and away, toward and away, and neither aware it will tonight crash on in toward them, their mutual intake of alcohol continually collapsing those barriers yet remnant inbetween. At point of impact, Brother Skunk will be literally falling down drunk, or damn near, his any inhibition or embarrassment a deal diminished by the Tennessee whiskey disseminate throughout his coursing blood, additional testament to this the space around and between their dead plates cluttered with several empty bottles of Moosehead lager, squat beneath that bottle of Jack Daniel’s through which they are almost finished making their rapid progress.
Perhaps in lieu of sex itself, or as its willed precursor, their talk veers toward that masturbation.
Skunk: I ehm, I mean from my, I had no reference points at all, I didn’t know anything about it, nothing, hadn’t read anything about it in books or spoken about it, I mean, definitely not spoken about it with friends. Looking back, it’s entirely possible, it’s probable even they all spoke about it with each other, but just, just not with me. I was that naive.
bending down to scratch at the sudden quiet rage of his inflamed ankle, but not willing to unlace the boot in which it is wrapped.
Skunk: Or or, well no, I mean, I’d heard... something, but without any reference points it made no sense at all, almost as if whatever I’d heard was in a different language,
pushing his chair back some from the table to cross his legs, and noticing with no little embarrassment some nondescript chewed foodstuff spilled upon the black denim of his 501s
Skunk: but I remember the sensations, but no, not the actual event, not the time or place or anything like that, even what age I actually was, I would think 12 or 13 maybe?
unaware he is in motion, pulling now at the soft angles of his self-cut black hair
Skunk: I must have known it was somehow connected to sex and making babies, I must... but, and I wasn’t sure if this was somehow expected, or if I was maybe broken
ache1: But didn’t your mum
Skunk (immediate): Oh my Christ no! No. Never.
both laugh
Skunk: I was... just venturing out into this unknown territory, on my own
laughing
Skunk: just a... lonely explorer... with no roadmap
ache1: No Roadmap for Masturbation sounds like a terrible album title.
both laughing, her hands spanning an imaginary marquee
ache1 (too loud): “ELVIS! LIVE IN VEGAS! NO ROADMAP FOR MASTURBATION!”
Skunk: Shh Jesus shh, calm down.
She shakes her head to dislodge what seems a tiny sound suddenly apparent deep in her ear, and attempts distracting herself by asking him if he suffered “nocturnal emission”, laughing, over-enunciating each syllable to define this the least desirable thing as might ever occur to anyone, but then zones out as he starts to answer, straining again to fix and decipher the vague and barely audible irritant, until eventually, frustrated, she forces herself to re-focus upon his words partway through his response.
Skunk: waking up with this sort of... a pale... sort of watery phlegm in my pyjama bottoms, so this actually happened to me in my sleep before it did when I was conscious.
ache1 expresses her curiosity as to whether this remains an ongoing concern.
Skunk: What? No, Jesus no, if, even if you put a gun to my head I couldn’t tell you the last time that
ache1: Okay, okay.
falling suddenly silent as one of the wait staff appears to collect the detritus from off their table, standing each of the dead beer bottles upon the tray before checking the whiskey,
cog: Can I get you guys anything else?
ache1: We’re all good here, thank you.
both bewildered that he then leaves their dessert plates uncollected.
Skunk splits the bottle’s last dribble of whiskey between their shotglasses.
In this extended silence she determines it to be a voice she can hear, and begins to wonder if it is in fact inside her head at all, or if it belongs to someone out beyond the windows, or in a distant section of the restaurant or kitchen, and is irritated to have her attempt at locating its exact origin interrupted again by Brother Skunk who seems anxious to return to the topic.
Skunk: The weirdest thing I do remember though was wondering if that was it? Having first had that sort of hot dry itch and not realising that was the first part, that that wasn’t all of it, then keeping on going to produce this... ejaculate, I did wonder if that was all of it or if there might be some other stage
She looks to see if someone has headphones on closeby, if this is in fact an easily explicable residual leakage. It has the texture of a distant itch beyond the reach of her scratching.
Skunk: I remember making no end of trouble for myself by keeping going, thinking maybe there’s another part to this, something more, that this bit is just the prelude.
ache1 (back, laughing): Did you just say prelube?
Skunk (laughing): I did not.
both laughing
Finally the wait staff arrive again to clear away the dessert plates.
ache1 blinks repeatedly, hard, as if clearing her ears of fluid.
ache1: I’m stuffed and I still feel hungry. Is that weird?
emptying her shotglass.
Skunk: Well, do you want to order anything else?
likewise tipping the last of his own glass’ content into his mouth.
ache1: I don’t think so.
Skunk: You sure? Toss for another bottle?
ache1: Toss, what?
Skunk (one hand now jammed to his face, the other making a quick and loose circling gesture): Flip a coin, flip a coin.
ache1 (with some heat): Flip with what? It’s not like I have any money. I don’t need it.
Skunk: That’s not what I
ache1: That’s how it came across.
hating to be so suddenly ambushed by this reminder of her defined existence, and taking it personally, snaps again
ache1 (definitive): Don’t ever forget why I’m here.
Absent his any concrete understanding of her ongoing circumstance, Brother Skunk feels himself assigned his rightful place as participant spectator in the unknown and occurring whatever, suddenly wondering if she actually is in fact aware of that moosehead quarter he has been carrying everywhere concealed in the watch pocket of his Levi’s.
His new quiet offers space enough that she can again concentrate on the sound, only now come barely discernible as a frantic and desperate screaming as if being created at some great remove, not a multitude but instead a single tiny voice operating at the extent of its capacity to be heard, with that distance between her and its source noticeably diminishing, and no clear notion as to which body is in motion toward the other.
Un-nerved, she tries pulling everything back up from out where she’d abandoned it
ache1: Shall we go up?
reaching over to the seat adjacent in which she had earlier deposited her little E.T. doll, and dragging him out into the air by one of his skinny and flaking brown arms.
Skunk (shrugs, resigned): Why not?
clumsily rising from his seat, before reaching over to lightly tap his finger upon the mouth of the empty whiskey bottle
Skunk: “All hope abandon, ye who enter here.”
