Let them eat...um...me.

Davey and I were chatting the other day, and in among conversation of starting a formidable (read: drunken) Wordsmith Revolution, we decided that should there ever be a Wordsmith Olympics, my event would be "Narrative Non-Fiction, 3000-4000".
Indeed the new piece is, true to form, about 3500 words. I have also decided that's too fucking long to post here, but if you want a copy, give me a holler. Also true to form, there are three story lines, two introduced in the beginning and one in the middle. This selection is taken from the introduction of the tertiary story line. Enjoy.

--excerpts from: Cake--

“Hey. There you are. I’ve been missing you for days.”
“Hey baby. Come here.”
We are at the bar. By ‘we’ I mean the boy I am seeing in California and myself, although my new girlfriends are also and most definitely in attendance. They were fun enough for one night, but an appearance by Quinn was the icing on the cake.
“Good to see you. How’s tricks?” His hands are on my waist as he says this, where they should be.
“Not so good. Your Dad keeps calling me. Seriously, I mean, he’s wasting all my daytime minutes. I’m not that good in bed, am I?”
This is how we are. These are the rules so we can keep everything cool. We make jokes about our non-monogamy so that we don’t immediately have to have the talk in which we would be forced to be so. We are sarcastic and trite. We never catch each other off guard, these kinds of things are expected. He will likely retort with something equally funny and seemingly insulting.
“No, you’re not very good at all, but my Mom’s been out of town and you know how that goes. He’ll take whatever he can get.”
I wouldn’t expect anything less. He’s so good at this. Good at this protocol, our old rules, and by ‘our’ I mean my girlfriend and I, the one I moved away from, and I mean all of the rules that we so carefully honed among different regulars at a bar far away. I smile, and he kisses me, and we are perfect. He is perfect—he is cake, and not the crappy grocery store variety, but some kind that must hail from the east coast, some bakery in Jersey, some kind so moist and inviting and wrapped in a half an inch of creamy pink and white buttercream frosting on most every side. He is that corner piece you dream of getting at a birthday party as a little girl. He is the piece with all of those sculpted frosting roses on top in a variety of colors, the ones you pluck from the surface one by one and savor individually. He is that piece that you have sought so long, that you have waited through hours of Pin the Tail on the Donkey and Apple Bobbing for so that when the candles are finally blown out, you can’t help but protect it from anyone else snagging a bite. He is that cake. The best kind. I’m not that girl, not the one who settles. I hate that girl.

“Hey, I have a question.” I say this tentatively.
“What. What’s up?”
We are at our apartment back home. This is before I left, and ‘we’ most definitely means my girlfriend and I. Our apartment is messy and scattered with empty cans of Miller, and she has just crawled out of bed to find me in the living room perched on an ergonomic chair in front of her laptop which sits next to an overflowing ashtray. I am leaving in a couple of weeks. We don’t talk about that often even though the city is beginning to peek into beauty, the winter frost of the streets and of John has given way to sunnier days and many, many more boys. Many of them baby faced.
“You know Jake, right?” Again, I am tentative.
“Course I do, he was over last night.”
“His real name is Jonathan. Did you know that? Jake is an old English nickname for Jonathan, but as Americans, we often name boys Jake. But it’s lame, it’s like naming a boy Greg or Bob. I never knew that.”
“Why are you telling me this? I don’t get it. Let me make some fucking coffee. Want one?”
“Yeah.” I did. Mine was already gone.
“Wait. What’s wrong with naming a boy Greg?”
“You can’t do that. It’s short for Gregory.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I wouldn’t name my son Rick or something.” See, she is not the only one who’s always right. Sometimes it is me, too.
“So Jonathan…”
“Are we calling him Jonathan now?” She is sarcastic and smiling. It’s cool, were just like that. We know the rules.
“No, just me. Just I call him that. Anyway, so Jonathan. How bad would it be if, you know; how bad would it be if I slept with him?”
“He’s John’s bandmate. That’s probably not kosher. But it depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“On whether or not you already have.”
She sets a cup of black coffee in front of me. I’m sitting at the bar that separates our living room and the kitchen. She has an elbow on the counter, her chin in her palm; she is meeting my gaze fiercely. I hadn’t expected this kind of intensity from her as soon as she woke up.
“He left twenty minutes ago.”
She looks at me and we both know that I am that girl.
But I’m not really a heartbreaker. It wasn’t like that, it’s just that Jonathan was cake. He was that kind so rich and forbidden, the kind you can’t help but order after an expensive meal at a restaurant you wore high heels to. He is that kind that is deceivingly bitter-sweet and doused in liqueur and served with some crimson fruity compote dressed across the top. He is the kind so thick with imported chocolate, so perfect on your tongue; the kind that isn’t completely savored until you’ve lit a cigarette when it’s over. What I mean is that he was worth it. He is still worth it. Everything’s cool, you know? Friendly; but not casual. We are intensely close friends. Even now. Even before that. Maybe forever. I had to have it.

[update on my goddamn $5--Ron agrees with me that there is no pass without expressed intent of deal sealing, although, this one may very well go to Counts who is quick to point out that a pass is defined in the eyes of the pass-er, not the pass-ee. So, in the end, Mathisen will have to decide. According to the rules, that is.]

All my love and buttercream frosting,


~PhoenixRising said...
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~PhoenixRising said...
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~PhoenixRising said...

In all my searching, the best I could come up with is here:
Please take a moment to consider definition number 7. While refering to airplanes, we are still talking targets. Plus, if we must, we can stretch out some metaphors, and, I mean really, last time you were at an airport weren't all those planes and runways just symbolic of passes completed? Thus, despite the notion of the passee/passer, I'm saying you get 5$.

But we'll leave this up to Mathisen. :P

Queer Comandeer said...

I'd like to enter the Wordsmith Olympics. Put me down for either "Autobiographical Fiction, 3000-4000" or "Autosuggestive Postmodern Drivel, 20000-40000".

Anonymous said...

Hey! I'm glad you found me! Drop me a line at jeffreygoad at gmail