Sucking Dick Can Make You Believe You Can Fly

Peter Pan once said,“The moment you doubt whether you can fly. You cease to be ever to it.”

That’s true with sex. I used to go years without having it. Sure there were multiple masturbatory sessions. At times, I beat my dick until it hurts.

The fear of what Prince called, “the big disease with the little name,” and being used made me romance intolerant. Instead, I focused on my drinking. I was my own personal bartender. Far more interesting than my struggle to write. Stories of doing coke behind dumpsters read like poetry.

Fear crippled my writing and relationships. It culminated to accidentally sucking dick in the bathroom at Omega. I guess there’s a thin line between dirty dancing and oral sex.

I bobbed and weaved on my knees in front of the toilet. He was cute enough while I was drunk enough. It’s all hazy. We were girl-interrupted from some Lesbian who needed a stall. So we matriculated to his car where I continued sucking his dick in the front seat against the backdrop of an alley.

Until a friend walked by, “Walter is that you?”

Oh shit. I’ve been outed behind a foggy window with dick on my breath. And he didn’t even offer me dinner or drugs. In fact, a bump up the nose will have you strike a pose. To the poppy fields, we’ll go. Who needs a wizard when you can dance off beat in the sweltering heat?

Omega nightclub was my original discotheque where sweat etiquette went out of the window. Call me old-fashioned but I prefer to chase away my demons on the dance floor. These excursions lead to ecstasy. If only I had a modicum of modesty. My twenties were trumped up on delusion not unlike the orange man with the blonde combover.

Shirtless men drank free on Wednesday night. Talk about diplomacy. Like any entrepreneur, I leveraged my personality and sex appeal for cocktails. I had the sissies lined up at all four bars creating a table full of Tequila Sunrises. It made me touch myself in places where the sun doesn’t shine. I lost myself in the dark.

Thursday night was karaoke. I coated my vocals with cocktails to give myself courage. I performed Shania Twain’s, “Man, I Feel Like a Woman.” I stripped down in overalls while my so-called friends disappeared in the restroom to re-up.

That place is now closed. Reflecting on those moments at another bar miles away—makes my happy hour happier.

Self-reflections like these scared me. Oh, the joys of living dangerously. But my fear of fucking went away.

Comments

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *