City of Singles (4 page)

5 A Thing For Redheads

Morning sounds like Apple when waking up to messages incoming. My eyes are reluctantly awake as a giant fart bloats inside of me ready to rip out. No hangover, yesterday’s mission successful. My iPhone lights up with a half dozen texts, one from a particular redhead I’ve been missing. Finally a reply, been weeks since I’ve heard from her.

I met this girl after Game 2 of the Stanley Cup final, both of us riding the high of the win. Her and I aren’t big into sports, but love to be immersed in the sea of euphoria coming from joyous Canucks fans. My bill that night was over two hundred dollars, my friend Dougie’s nearly twice that.

We took a bunch of people to my house after the bar closed and we partied all night. She tried M for the first time, her moans woke up the few remaining stragglers passed out on the studio’s opposite side. I kept getting text messages from my friends asking me who the hell that was after sneaking out of my place during our bawdy early morning romp. We woke up, threw on clothes, and walked through a light rain to a luxurious cafe called Medina. An orgy of breakfast ensued, butter and maple syrup covered waffles so light that they melt in your mouth the way a fresh baked Krispy Kreme does. Washed down with orange juice, the last bite was perfectly filling to the point where I considered never eating again. The bill was pretty big, but I soon forgot about it when she suggested returning to the studio for a post-waffle fuck.

She was downtown for when the Game 7 riots kicked off, her worried voice on my phone sprung me into action. I found her alone after she got split up from her friends near Richards and Dunsmuir. There were fights going on everywhere, glass breaking and fires started. Mobs ran wild in an urban battlefield, sacking and looting what they could. What a rush it was to kiss her in doorways, hidden from mobs of police and disaffected youth. Tear gas watering our eyes, the danger making it that much more exciting.

We meandered back down to Gastown, acrid air biting into our noses, our ears filled with sirens, screaming, and chaos. Back to the safety of my studio, we enjoyed cold beer, joints, kissing, and live coverage on CTV. As the stream played on detailing the destruction wrought by modern barbarians, her moans filled the studio as I vandalized her vagina. Remembering that night, her passing out naked on my chest, her hair smelled of smoke.

We kept seeing each other off and on towards the trailing end of summer. I’d pick her up late at night after work, the windows down letting in a luke warm autumn breeze. Stealing kisses when she got in, strawberry chapstick had me wanting more. Many times we ended up in her bed smoking joints and watching Flight of the Conchords, playing scrabble and having sweaty sex. We’d drink morning coffee and share the newspaper; she always poured mine in the broken-handled mug.

A couple days ago I received a notice from BMW that my car lease was almost over. It’s pretty cold out, so recapturing her hair blowing softly while embraced in a kiss wasn’t going to happen. At least I don’t have to take a cab to see her just yet.

Her text reads
: Hey D, I’ve been soooooo busy with work. I’d love to see you tonight if you could pick me up at 11. I’m going to be SO tired so we’re going to have to go to bed pretty fast, but at least we can spend some time together right? Let me know ciao.

Happy fingers text her back and confirm I’ll be there.

Maybe I should be excited, but I’m not. My face visits with the razor and a long shower de-stinks me. Thoughts are wandering all over the place but eventually come back to the realization that I’m just killing time. Yeah, she is a pretty good looking woman and intelligent enough to stimulate my mind, but the interaction we have is completely unromantic. Sure, we kiss, make out, embrace, cuddle, fondle and fuck, but so do hookers and johns. The assumption that this means anything beyond pleasurable fluid swapping can be thrown out in this modern, meaningless hookup age we live in. Me myself and I are going to need some liquor to slow these bursts of anxiety down. I wash my hair and the fragrances bring me a little calm. Nice work focus group. Sitting cross legged in the shower and breathing slow, haven’t tried to meditate in years and my mind is far too derailed to start now.

Twisting stainless ceases the shower. While stepping out to dry myself, my dulled reflection catches my eye in the steamed mirror. A pinkish blob of nondescript features stare back at me.

Hair, arms, legs and cock, this could be anyone.

I comb my hair back with the towel around me and wonder, how many other men are getting ready to visit a girl they have no real long term interest in? My hairline has receded over the last few years and I’m going grey. My bank account has retracted while my waistline expanded, the implications of this are that I should be glad that women pay any attention to me or my dick at all. Without a goal or shared cause of society, we’re all just out for our own motivations. There’s no current to guide me. No soft hand on my shoulder giving me direction, or even any pressure to do anything but drink and fuck. There are no taboos except for speaking up on the suicide of western exceptionalism. What are we doing, and what is the plan?

Everything feels like a race for the bottom, I wish I had the integrity to care. Instead, even I sell porn and fuel the commodification of women and erosion of traditional femininity. Women seen as less than our sisters, mothers, daughters and more as things to stick our cocks into. Making money has never been easier either, playing to their insecurities to profit from, porn snatching cash from leering voyeurs, tits and ass promoting products and lifestyles. The fact that I’m visiting this girl as something to do and not someone to romance feels wrong, but I can’t stop.

Fresh underwear, dry socks, and day old clothing fit the bill for tonight. I’m not quite clean shaven, but my facial hair is shorter than it normally is. It wasn’t my plan—I tripped over the electric razor cord while drunk and broke it. Facebook and Twitter are great ways to murder time, as I have hours to waste before picking her up. Glancing through articles on Vancouver–cuts to the park services, partitioned basement suites in East Van are selling for six hundred grand, an article on how Vancouver is still a great real estate investment. Has anyone else noticed it was written by Real Estate agents? Picturing the Marlboro Man telling me to smoke cigarettes, they’re healthy for you, while dying in a bed of emphysema. Embers of a slowly burning white cigarette poke out from a hole in his neck, to defile your temple like that makes for some elegant death erotica.

A woman posts a photo of her closet. Stacks of boxes full of high-end shoes show off status as comments of unabashed sycophancy follow in the comment stream. Yes, those are real Jimmy Chus. Yes, she has 30 pairs. No, she can’t decide which to wear tonight. It used to be a mystery to me why anyone would need or want dozens and dozens of expensive shoes. A few lessons on how socializing works and the social ranking she gets from those shoes will become unmistakable.

Someone posts a link about Chris Brown hooking up with Rihanna. I’m not surprised. Chris Brown could spend the rest of his life offering to fly women from all over the world to meet up with him, and fuck a new beautiful girl daily, perhaps hourly, until he dies. This power, this allure to Rihanna, must be all-encompassing. Women like her would never want the stable provider beta, or even a low status ultra-alpha. They want the danger, the status of being one of his chosen ones in the inner stable of available poon. The threat of being beaten just means he likes you and cares enough about you to hurt you if you leave. That mystical power of the highest status men, once a woman has a taste of it, no other man is good enough for her. Picturing a date with Monica Lewinski, I laugh a little. Once she’s sucked off the president of the most powerful nation on earth, no other lowly male could ever live up to that.

Most of the bullshit posted by people just disgusts me. All I want is one link, maybe a ‘Cure for cancer found’ or ‘Mars colony ship under construction’, instead finding myself whipping the scroll wheel faster and faster. Childish memes, many posts shitting all over religion, men posting images of nearly naked women and people drunk while giving the camera the middle finger. This is my generation, and these are the role models for the next.

Are there any consequences to such a lowest common denominator? Everyone seems to agree that drinking, drugs, casual sex and hating on traditions is good, meanwhile striving for moral excellence is the path of the self-righteous asshole. I know that hooking up with random sluts is probably not being exceptional, but rather now, the norm. A girl I used to be friends with has a photo up of her deep throating a beer bottle and giving the middle finger as her profile photo. I want to tell her to get some class, uphold some level of civility, but coming from someone like me is just hypocritical. The result of all of this degradation of standards and behavior is pretty evident in my own life, no path, no direction and no goals.

Will my generation achieve anything of wonder for the ages?

Will I?

The Pyramids are still standing, the constitution of the United States still holds its ink. The Taj Mahal, the Great Wall of China, the Colosseum of Rome, Apollo 8. I grew up watching Star Trek and being captivated by the future, it now looks more like the movie Idiocracy. Animalistic humans cobbled together united only the laws of the nation-state. Savage instincts guiding them toward gratification in the moment with lust to tear down anything that doesn’t appeal to all. Whatever, maybe it’s not what I think, but what I actually do. Maybe my purpose is to keep myself, and those who I care about, from becoming like that.

A heavy sigh and X gets clicked to put some brakes on the bad news express.

Enough with the world hating, I’m going to get some pussy.

6 Boost

I’m going to miss this car. The steering wheel is soft leather and oh-so precise in its feel. BMW makes a wonderful automobile and farting into the leather is satisfying on its own. High intensity lights chase away the night as twin turbos carry me from green lights in a whispered whoosh of spool. The stereo booms with the sunroof open to the moon, hand-winging the air, some magical moments of car ownership. All the way up Main Street is where she works, our meeting spot just off a quiet side street. Pulling over the car to park and I notice she’s not here yet. Buttons on the steering wheel help me to conveniently turn on the radio which quickly floods my ears with carefully engineered bullshit.

Heavily auto tuned music thuds and jives about love in a night club, drilling the funk into my ears with the subtly of a jackhammer.

“Baby you’re fiiii-iinnnnee and I waaaaant to take you ho-oh-ommmmme.”

Heavy bass follows with several “Yeah!” from Lil Jon punctuating the beat.

During these moments, bashing my head against the steering wheel seems like a good idea. Why doesn’t he sing the truth?

“Baby I find you highly attractive and I want to have sex with you tonight for no other reason than you’re attractive and available.”

Fuck.

More head nodding, less thinking about the lyrics.

Streetlights bathing pavement in pale creamsicle orange, every car looks black or grey in this light. A couple walking their dog gives me shifty glances as they stroll by. They probably think I’m picking up drugs. She gets me high, costs nothing, and her loving is a natural health product. If only my love was as organic as hers. A lone shadow skulks up the sidewalk at the end of the street, short with boobs, it’s her. She has a little happy bob when she walks, full of life and carrying kisses to me.

At halfway up the block I see her face, she’s smiling as usual. Stepping out of my car, she walks into my arms for a big hug. Her hair carries scents of juniper and sandalwood, her cold little hands slip into my coat and tickle for a moment. I leave her embrace and open her door. She says she’s so tired and her eyes wait only a few seconds before closing, her petite head resting so peacefully in the optional BMW sport seats. A precise click follows a press of the seat heating button, the warmth from the car as my surrogate for love.

These streets teem with freaks. From Main to Broadway, Broadway onto Commercial, through the lively night rolls four wheels of dead animal and alloys, driving a little slower when the redhead nods off. Turbo purring underhood, engine noise a masculine appetizer for sex, the underpass of the SkyTrain station works to amplify the six cylinder and four stroke concert. Wafting pot smoke fills the car, probably from the group of hackey-sackers loitering in a small park.

You have to be high to kick a ball around this late.

Xenon lights make the shirtless and screaming guy that just sprinted across my path look pale, while further down a group of longboarders rips it across 1st Avenue. She’s asleep peacefully and I drive slow not to disturb her, my foot gets a little heavy on Hastings and the car rockets deeper into foreign east side territory. Just as I get ready to make a left onto her block, a fist fight breaks out at the 7-11 on Hastings. The teenage homey kid inside me still cheers for the skater kid to win over the skid, despite the number of fights I got in as a kid against skaters. Pulling up to her house and I have to gently wake her, the heart can’t help but feel a precious tingle smiling at the little drool she left on the leather.

A short yawn-filled walk to her apartment’s outside foyer, she fumbles with her keys and takes three tries to open the door.

Cheap rent usually means buzzing fluorescent lights in ceilings above brass mailboxes.

Refusing to reminisce and dragging myself down her hallway, my nose bathes in stale cigarettes and dog fur. Harking back to my own days of poverty, living on under a thousand per month for everything. After paying rent, canned foods joined yellow packs of bologna and Wonderbread as staples of my life. Before the Internet, I never learned to live better. Her little hands have woken up and we get into her place on the first try. Closing the door behind me, she’s almost in her bedroom already. Trying to navigate her cluttered apartment in the dark proves as difficult as having savings in Vancouver. Blind steps and wide shoulders collide to tag-team a painting to the floor. I trust the direction my cock leads me, a vagina positioning instinct leading to her room without anymore impromptu interior design. She’s mostly dressed and already fully asleep. Bedroom window curtains casting streetlight shadows to give her skin a chalky tone. Her lips a moist, pale grey. Climbing in next to her, the comforter lacks any comfort other than warmth. Even though I’m next to her, I still feel so alone.