How to Avoid Sex (19 page)

…

The hour or so following my arrival home from work is typically the only time I’m alone with my apartment. As much as I love Greg, it’s important for me to get these little snippets of time with my home. It’s my chance to prove to it that I am its loving owner. I slowly run my tongue over its walls like a lioness cleaning her cub. I press my flaccid crotch against it and rub. Every square inch is coated in my DNA. I’ve marked my territory.

I embark upon my daily dilemma – do I cook myself dinner, or do I wait for Greg to arrive so we can have something together? I fool myself into believing I’m not going to wait and search through the cupboards. A sweet perfume of rising damp and old spice wafts over me. I inhale like I’m about to go down on a pussy dripping with arousal. I open and close the cupboard in quick succession, fanning the scent into my kitchen. The muscle in my legs starts to jelly and I feel myself gently collapse onto the tepid linoleum below. On all fours, I crawl, my nose pressed to the floor. I snort up my apartment’s history, feeling the detritus left by food and shoe soles float into my flared nostrils. The microscopic flotsam strikes the back of my throat before assimilating with my insides. I tremble and buck my leg - doglike and frisky. It’s as my aroused pelvis begins thrusting that Greg appears behind me.

“You totally need to get laid.”

I roll onto my back, hiding my erection with pretzel-contorted legs.

“What do you feel like eating?” I ask.

He shakes a greasy paper bag. “I brought us donuts.”

“Are they good?” the suspicion in my voice evident.

“Get fucked! Are they good? They were baked today.”

“Did you pay for them?”

“Who gives a shit? Let’s just fucking eat.”

I pluck a sixer of beer from the fridge, place them on the coffee table and fall onto my couch.

“What’re we watching tonight?” I ask.

“I downloaded a crapload of shitty high school plays. This is meant to be some of the most abysmal shit out there. It’ll be fucking hilarious.”

I crack a beer bottle open like a coconut and let the frothy nectar cascade into my mouth and over my face.

“That sounds pretty fucking cool,” I admit.

Greg prepares the DVD player and flicks off the light before returning to his couch and cracking open a beer of his own. Footage, clearly recorded in the 80s, flickers on screen. A generic white text informs us that we are about to enjoy the Bentley High 1983 production of JOSEPH AND HIS AMAZING TECHNICOLOUR DREAMCOAT. A fat kid with overtly rimmed glasses begins stammering his way through introductory dialogue. From the fuzzy darkness of the crowd, some genius throws a stepladder at the fat kid. It collides with his face, his glasses break and he convulses about on the ground crying. Greg and I nearly choke on the power of our hysterics. Sprays of laugh-spat beer shower us. This is going to be a good night.

…

My insides are swimming in glorious beer. The words that leave my mouth are trying to sleep. My limbs move like a developmentally challenged Thunderbird. I love this magical inebriation. The walls
of my apartment glow with the ornate grandeur of a kingdom. I feel humbled by its acceptance of me and collapse on my bloated knees in veneration.

Greg tumbles from the couch to join me.

“What are we doing?” he slurs.

“I dunno what you’re doing, but I’m paying my respects.”

“To the apartment?” he asks.

“To the apartment.” I confirm.

“What the fuck’s with you and this shitty apartment?”

I burp a dribble of beer vomit down my front before answering his question.

“First thing’s first – this apartment ain’t ‘shitty’. It’s my sacred fucking temple.”

“And who do you worship in this ‘temple’?”

“I worship the apartment.”

“So… lemme get this shit straight. You worship your place of worship?”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but settle on a confused nod. We are both momentarily distracted by a gawky looking chick on the television struggling through a ballet routine.

“It’s just an apartment, dude” reasons Greg.

“What? You’re telling me you don’t like it here?”

“I never said that. I’d like any place you moved to as long as it had beer and a television. I’m just sayin’ that it’s only a fucking apartment.”

“Yeah,” I shout, a distinct element of defensiveness creeping into my voice, “but it’s mine! I know this place better than anyone will ever know anything.”

“Bullshit!” he yells, burping up a vomit dribble of his own.

I motion to slap him, but my limp, inebriated hand misses the mark and somehow I slap myself.

“Did you just try to hit me?”

“I’m not sure,” I respond. “I feel like this place is my woman. I need to defend her honour.”

Greg struggles to his feet and stumbles toward the fridge. He grasps the handle with his teeth and works open the door.

“Beer?” he asks.

“You are!” I respond, not quite sure what he said.

A bottle of Grolsch comes careening toward me and explodes against the coffee table. I suck the bitter liquid from the carpet.

“You know… I reckon I know this place just as well as you do,” challenges Greg.

I bite into the carpet, childish rage pulsing. All I can think about is punching him. All I want to do is hurt him.

“I mean, I’m here nearly as much as you are, dude.”

I roll onto my back and spit the carpet from my mouth.

“I’m not trying to piss you off,” he pushes.

“Fuck you! This is my place. No one knows it better than me.”

“Prove it.”

“Fuck you! I live here. If you think you know this place better than me,
you
prove it.”

Greg sets his beer down on the coffee table and starts rubbing his hands together.

“Let’s make this official,” he says.

“Fine… if you discover something about my apartment that I don’t already know, I’ll hook my old VCR back up and we can watch whatever shitty tape you want.”

Greg’s eyes light up.

“And if you fail,” I continue, “you have to take all that fucking porn back and never dump anymore on me.”

Greg begins to thoughtfully rub his chin, so much so that his beard comes off.

“You have a deal,” he says with an extended hand.

After several minutes of drunken orientation, our hands meet and we shake. His hand feels so soft.

…

I settle down on my couch, waiting for Greg to fail. I can picture him lugging away all that shitty porn and it makes me feel so good. My whimsy is interrupted by Greg’s muffled voice.

“Did it!”

I sit up straight, trying to ascertain where the voice is coming from.

“Get the VCR, dude,” he continues.

“Bullshit!” I yell, standing up to confront him.

His self-satisfied laughter vibrates through the walls.
Where the fuck is he?

“You can’t find me, can you?” he taunts.

Nothing about this makes sense. My apartment consists of four rooms. I can’t find him in any of them. My breath quickens and my beer buzz leaves me in a wet sneeze. Greg’s fucking laughter continues, accentuating what has now become strange panic.

“Where are you?”

“HA! You can’t find me.”

I ball my fists, gouging nail-sized crescents into my palms.

“I’m fucking drunk, man. I can’t think straight. Just come out.”

“Not until you admit you can’t find me.”

I’m trying to focus on the location of Greg’s voice, but the minute I think I have it pinned down, it seems to shift behind me and the same process begins again. It’s like he’s nowhere and everywhere.

“Come out!” I yell.

His laughter starts up again. I have to fight back the useless urge to cry. If Greg ever saw me cry…
where is he?

I massage my temples with firm fingers and feel a tap on my shoulder. I swivel my body to greet the tap and fall backward. I’m on the ground like an upturned turtle with Greg’s unusually sinister body towering over me.

“I fucking win, dude!”

I scrunch my eyes shut. This is a drunken illusion. When my eyeballs re-emerge, Greg will be passed out on the couch, burping the cartoon bubbles of a lush.
This is bullshit.
My eyes spring open and all I can see is his grey smile.

“I fucking win, dude,” he repeats calmly.

“Where were you?”

He stares at me in the same way my father used to when I drank ocean water. His smile disappears for a brief moment before returning, more sinister than ever.

“I was in your apartment,” he explains. “I’ve found a little nook. I don’t think you know where it is.”

“I know where it is.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“I do so.”

“Would you like me to show you where it is?”

I want to say yes so badly. I need to know where he was. My apartment would never do this to me. She’s faithful. She only reveals her secrets to me. I know everything about her. Everything… A flash of frustration strikes me like lightning and I lose it.

“GET OUT!” I scream, my voice breaking like Peter Brady’s.

Greg’s mouth drops open and I watch a millipede scurry out. It becomes lost in his thick, manic hair.

“If that’s the way you wanna play it, dude. I’ll come back tomorrow when you’re off the rag.”

I don’t see him leave. He’s just gone and I’m alone. The walls of my apartment don’t feel like they’re protecting me anymore. They feel as if they’re trapping me.

…

I’m running my hand over every surface of the apartment and feeling for something new. Using something similar to phrenology, I’ve become accustomed to the slight variables in the contours of the walls. I used to be so sure. Now everything smacks of ambiguity. I need to find this enormous secret she’s been keeping from me. How could she let Greg in on it? She’s been cheating on me. She’s a loose whore.

I spend some time drawing up a blueprint of the apartment and dividing it into quadrants. I’m going to approach this with the precision of an archaeological dig. Every cell of the apartment will be
thoroughly examined. I’m going to find this fucking nook. I’m going to cordon it off and the next time that fucker, Greg tries to slip into it, he’ll fail and I will never let him live it down. I’ll go to his place and find my own fucking nook and rub his face in it. Of course, that means I’d have to go to Greg’s, but I’d be willing to do that in order to screw him over.

…

Why can’t I find it? What the hell’s going on here?

…

Morning brings nothing but the grisly reality of a sleepless night. The veins in my eyes are so engorged they look black and wriggle like decapitated snakes. I’m trying my best not to throw up last night’s beer. The sheer quantity of upchucked muck soaking my nightgown suggests that I’ve been unsuccessful.

I decide to call in sick from work. I need to pour all of my focus into finding the nook. Greg will inevitably be here tonight and if the nook hasn’t been located by the time he arrives, I doubt I’ll cope. Nothing has ever felt so important.

I deduce that the nook must reside within the walls – it’s not logical to assume anything else. I’ve seen enough movies to know that you can tap on a wall to find hidden hollows. I spent many hours last night drawing up numbered grids on my walls. Each square in the grid will be thoroughly tapped. If I hear something untoward, I’ll tear the fucking wall down. I only wish I knew what to listen for.

I have a stethoscope, which I stole from a doctor during a thoroughly unprofessional prostate exam back in the 90s. I press it against the wall and listen… nothing… I repeat the process… nothing…

The hours pass…

Still nothing…

Waves of frustration and tension are crashing against my skull.
Why am I doing this? Can’t I just let it go? If I suck up to Greg and swallow my pride, he’ll tell me where this damn nook is.
I begin to rehearse the conversation in my head. I’ll offer him a beer. He’ll offer me some shitty VHS porn. I’ll accept it in the spirit of friendship. We’ll talk about child stars of the 80s for a spell and then… then I’ll very calmly apologise for last night’s outburst and simply ask him where the nook is. He’ll be happy to tell me and we’ll get drunk and laugh about it and he’ll joke about doing inappropriate things to my mother. It will be the same as it always was. I’ll even learn to feel comfortable in my apartment again.

These are calming thoughts that allow me to refocus. I press the stethoscope back against the wall and continue my fastidious listening game. A faint beating sound begins whispering in my ear. My eyes bulge like aroused trousers. I move the stethoscope wildly, ignoring my carefully ruled grid. The beating grows fainter and louder in response to my jerks until the beating explodes in my eardrums. The beating has a familiar rhythm.
Fuck that sounds like a heartbeat…