Her friend twists the end of the dutch expertly. He inspects the seam and he is satisfied; no gaps, no creases. The joint is a flawless example and he admires it with craftsman-like pride. The secret, he might tell you, is rolling it into a cone. It burns more evenly and is unlikely to go out as it’s passed from mouth to mouth. But the real secret is the filter. It makes the whole operation easier and doesn’t burn your lips when you take that asshole hit.
“I’m telling you,” he warns her, “this right here is not joking around.”
And here would begin the preflight ritual. Dissemination on how damaging this particular strain is, stepping up anticipation with cautions and fabricated anecdotes. The dutch will be displayed and revered. It can be counted on for someone, at some point, to exclaim “no shit?” with eager faces and eager eyes.
But she’s not really feeling it and jumps directly to the point; handing him a lighter and motioning for him to light it.
“That’s what I like about you,” he says, rotating the end of the dutch over the flame of the lighter. “All business.”
She laughs, tells him to shut up and swipes the joint from his fingers. They are on the ass end of a long day and all she wants to do is curl up on top of the concrete hotel bed and sleep. She hopes he doesn’t snore.
They pass the joint back and forth, trading conversation in the pauses. Discussion of work, gossip about the others in their group, relief that there are others to smoke up with. He rolls one joint and another – ‘pinners’ he calls them - weaving them into an ever complicating conversation that treads over and slips into the absurd.
It continues like this for the better part of an hour when there is finally a pause and she says:
“I’m completely blown.”
“Wrecked.” he confirms.
There is an awkward silence that hangs forever as they both suppress the stoned panic of their sudden realization. He struggles to think of something to break the silence, desperately wanting to down play the intensity of the high, but he can’t find a meaningful string of words that would make him appear cool and collected. She does not have the same problem:
“Truth or dare?”
He laughs out loud, “Really?”
“Truth or dare?”
“This is a setup for a Cinemax movie,” he jokes weakly. Cool and collected? Hardly. She is silent and his faces flushes. Beat. “Alright, dare.”
She laughs, “You weren’t suppose to pick dare.”
“Ok, truth.”
“Too late for you. I’m sorry.” she replies, lighting a cigarette. “Is there any of that left?”
“I’ll roll another,” but he’s not sure he can take it.
“I’m so high, I can’t even tell you.” she sighs, falling back into her bed. “Ok, so dare?”
“Yes, dare.”
She sits up suddenly, “No, let’s do truth.”
He laughs, tapping out ground herb into the fold of the rolling paper. “No, I said ‘dare’.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s truth. Can you roll it a little bigger?”
He cocks a disapproving eye her way, but she’s not looking at him, she’s studying the joint to be. He obliges.
“Good. So, are you into me or what?”
He almost skips a beat, but he’s cool and he’s collected, “No. Truth or dare?”
She’s staring at him, looking for a tell, not satisfied with his answer. She says, “Truth.”
“Are you into me?”
“No, not at all. I only asked because that’s what people are saying about you.” Pauses. “You’re not into me?”
“Even if I was … it so doesn’t matter.”
“Why?”
“Because, my shit is complicated, right? And we’ve been friends for like ever. And you aren’t into me. So you sum that all up, and the conclusion is obvious.”
“So you are then?” She is smiling, not because she’s glad or anything along those lines; but because she’s found the tell and now has position on him. His hand is firmly in the cookie jar.
“Sorry, it’s your turn.” He twists the end of the joint up and is disappointed in the job this time around. The seam is wrinkled and the cone lopsided.
“Truth or dare?”
“Dare.” he replies, lighting the end and taking a heavy hit. He chokes on it, coughing it out, lungs burning. This is a bad sign. The high is going to hit him like a bag of bricks.
“I dare you to tell me-”
He signals with his finger, “No no, it doesn’t work like that.”
“Ok, then. I dare you to play a game of trust with me.”
He starts to shake his head, “You know my situation is complicated…”
“If you don’t take the dare you have to answer two truths,” she warns. He thinks about it for a minute and begins to protest again but she reminds him again, punctuating it with another warning to stop being a buzz kill.
“Alright two truths.”
“Why are you into me?”
He laughs. Resigned, “Alright, let’s play the game. Let’s do it. Trust? Isn’t that something you played in junior high school?”
“College. Late bloomer. Ok, so face me and put one hand on my knee and I’ll do the same. Now we each take turns and move our hand. The first person to lose trust loses.”
“Loses what?”
“The loser has to answer one truth and one dare from the winner.” She moves to the very edge of her bed so that she is facing him and their knees are touching. She grabs his hand and places it on her knee. She places her own hand on his knee. “Your turn.”
He slides his hand forward an inch. “Trust me?”
“Yes.” She moves her hand up his thigh the same distance. “Trust me?”
He nods but it’s not the right thing to do. And it’s not the right thing to slide his hand the entire length of her thigh so that his fingers press into its crease; but he does this anyways and he says, almost whispers, “Do you trust me now?”
There is a silence as she stares at him unblinking. She is not sure if her bluff has been called or if she had wanted it called. He has acted out of turn and it takes her a moment to correct herself.
“No.” she replies, still unblinking.
“Then you lose.” He tightens his grip on her leg, forceful but not menacing. He wants her to know things have changed.
“Truth.”
“Do you want to do this?”
“I thought it was complicated?”
“Yes or no.”
She pauses, contemplates, responds, “Yes. Dare.”
“Show me,” he says, motioning to her top with his free hand. She stares at her shirt, uncertain. He gives a little squeeze of her thigh, collapsing his fingers so that his knuckles push against the crotch of her jeans. “Show me.”
She surrenders and pulls her shirt off. “Truth or dare-”
“The bra sweetie,” he directs. “That goes too.”
She waves her finger at him, “No no. That’s not how it works.”
Her little flare of strength relaxes his grip slightly. He nods, “Fair enough. Truth then.”
“Do you like cheating?”
He says nothing, stung by the sharpness of the question. She likes this, he decides, this is part of the game. He smiles, “It’s not cheating if we don’t touch.”
“We’re touching right now.”
“Your leg doesn’t count.”
“Then what counts?”
“You know exactly what counts. Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
“The bra, it goes.”
Pouting, she reaches behind her and unhooks it. She says, sliding the straps down her arms, revealing herself in mock embarassment, “You show me now.”
“I didn’t pick.”
“We’re done playing, it’s boring. New game.” She throws the bra across the room and stares at his lap, “Show it to me. Is it hard?”
Even though his excitement has blurred what remains of rational thoughts, he hesitates, considering his trajectory. But it’s too late, biology is driving, a male greed for satisfaction whose lifetime spans only the moments between the first erection and the final spurt of come across her stomach. Finally, he unbuttons his jeans and pushes them to his knees, exposing his erection. Slight smiles, both of them, one embarrassed and the other amused. She leans in and reaches out, making a motion to touch it but pulls back, laughing. “I can’t touch it?”
“No touching.”
“I think I’m figuring this out,” she says, standing up. She pushes her pants off, panties and all, and moves closer so that he can get a better look. “And you can’t touch this. I just want to be clear on the rules.”
“Right,” he says, alternating stares between her and her neatly trimmed pussy. It’s within reach of his fingers and he desires reaching to it and touching it, but he’s can’t break his own rules despite knowing full well he will.
“But I can touch this?” She sits back in the bed and spreads her legs, reaching between them with her fingers. He can see her wetness, the glistening flesh, slicked fingertips.
“Yes” he offers, softly.
“Do you ever think about this? Us?” she asks, sliding her finger slowly inside herself, hips pushing forward slightly.
“Yes,” he replies.
“Can you put it in?” she questions, voice quiet, hoarse, vulnerable.
“No touching,” he says, not wanting to believe it.
“Tell me about how you thought about it? Did you jerk off?” She rolls the tip of her finger over the top of her hood, at first slow, and now quicker.
“A couple of times,” he says, almost sighing. He has started to touch himself, balancing his gaze between her eyes, himself and her fingertips. He continues: “That picnic three years ago at Prospect Park, that Body and Soul thing. You were wearing some blue dress. And I’m almost positive you weren’t wearing panties.”
She laughs.
“That was the first time. I wanted to pull you into the bushes and lift up that dress and everything else. I jerked off the second I got home.
“And sometimes I’d think about you when I was with her. A lot of times towards the end.”
“Tell me.”
“Which?”
“Prospect Park.”
“I took you behind that clump of trees we had the picnic by, and I lifted your dress up and you’re not wearing panties. You were playing lookout and telling me to hurry up.
“So I’m fumbling with my pants because I’m trying to figure out how to be discreet because people are walking by and your boyfriend is on the other side of the trees and it’s his birthday so I’m nervous
“And you’re nervous, telling me to hurry up so I finally say, ‘Fuck it.’ and I push it in. No condom because I don’t have one and feeling your pussy on my dick; its so hot and its so wet and I think I’m going to come right there maybe three strokes in.”
“And?”
“And we fuck and we’re loud and they almost hear and he almost sees.”
“And the finish?”
“Sometimes I finish inside you, sometimes I pull out at the last minute and you finish me with your mouth.”
“Swallow?”
“Always.”
“Do you have a condom now?”
Beat. “Yes.”
“Are we going to use it?”
Eternity. “Yes.”
May 30, 2009, 9:00pm Comments
