Out of Whack

by Jeff Strand

  “Got it.”

  She proceeded to fellate me some more, while I got the condom prepared. Once we’d achieved erection, she hurried into the spread and ready position, while I tried to unroll the condom. Damn! Wrong way! I’d lost valuable seconds! I turned it around and unrolled it, wincing as I poked myself with a fingernail that needed clipping.

  I got on top of her, and she grabbed my wrapped manhood and tried to ease it inside her. But...you know...

  “Okay, new plan,” said Laura. “I think our error is in selection of position. Here’s what we’ll do. You get in a seated position and I’ll do the sucking. You’ll hold the condom, right side-up, next to you. Instead of taking my mouth completely away, I’ll lick down as you unroll the condom, so my tongue won’t completely abandon you until right before the condom reaches hair. Then you’ll lie on your back and I’ll mount you, giving us only a couple seconds of non-contact time. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds like it’ll work,” I said.

  We got ready for the next play, and then leapt into action. This time I hit all my marks on cue, and was rewarded with Laura sitting on top of me, thrusting and moaning. And I’m proud to say I got in a good forty-five seconds of game time before the whistle blew. Big-time.

  I would have been happy to bask in the glory for a few minutes, but Laura had other ideas. She was a wild woman.

  By the time we finally fell asleep in each other’s arms, exhausted, I could safely say that my virginity had been completely obliterated. Not even Lassie would be able to find it now.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “Some Statistics and a Challenge”

  I woke up with no feeling in my arm where Laura’s head rested upon it. I couldn’t even move my fingers, and I was a bit concerned about this leading to permanent damage. But since I’d never read Miss Manners’ Guide to Post-Coital Etiquette, I wasn’t sure whether I should wake her up or not.

  I decided to try to withdraw my arm without disturbing her. I slowly slid it out from under her head, moving with great stealth and patience. She didn’t awaken. It took a while, but finally I got my arm completely free, and rubbed it vigorously to encourage the flow of de-numbing blood.

  And then—all together now, class—Laura opened her eyes.

  “Good morning,” she said, snuggling against my chest. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I slept great. I seem to do that when I’m driven to the point of total physical exhaustion.”

  “I slept great, too. And did I mention that you were wonderful last night?”

  Hey, after my shaky start, I’d earned myself a Most Improved Student award. What can I say?

  “Well, thank you very much.”

  “I mean it. For a night with only one guy, it was very, very satisfying.”

  She kissed my chest a few times while I considered that last statement.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She looked at me and smiled. “I said it was very, very satisfying.”

  I didn’t want to delve into this.

  I did not want to delve into this.

  This was not something I wanted to delve into.

  Delving into this would be bad.

  I needed to keep my mouth shut and leave the delving to those with better mental hygiene.

  “I got the second half of that sentence. It’s the ‘only one guy’ part that threw me,” I said, wondering why the hell I was delving.

  “Oh. That part.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Seth, maybe it’s time for a brief discussion about ‘bad’ ignorance versus ‘good’ ignorance.”

  “No, no, I can handle it,” I said. Nothing she described could be as shocking as the images that were floating through my mind at the moment...tag teams...“Please take a number”... “Sorry, we ran out of numbers, just form a line, no cutting please or you’ll be sent to the back”...

  “You’re looking kind of pale,” Laura said.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You didn’t think I was as pure as the newly fallen snow, did you?”

  “No, really, I’m fine,” I insisted. I was pretty sure I was fine. I mean, it wasn’t like I didn’t know she had experience. It was no big deal. “Just one guy” meant nothing. Nothing at all.

  “So,” I began, “when you say ‘just one guy,’ I’m assuming that indicates the occurrence of other episodes involving, let’s say, two guys, right?”

  “Would you like to hear my sexual statistics?”

  “Ummm...how bad are they?”

  “If you want to know about my previous relationships, I’ll tell you. But I don’t want you throwing some sort of tizzy fit or crawling under the covers in a twitching ball of jealousy.”

  “No tizzy fit. No twitching ball of jealousy.”

  I honestly didn’t think I wanted to know, but it was yet another case of the Seth Trexler’s Mouth Vs. Brain System of Failed Communication. I wondered if a doctor could fix it, maybe with some nice electroshock therapy.

  “Six.”

  “Six?”

  “Six guys.”

  “At once? Whoa!”

  “No, not at once. Six guys total. Benjamin Portley, James Raftor, Will something, Kevin Lincoln, and the Consigniani twins. Actually they’re the Consigniani triplets, but Antonio just stood in the corner and watched.”

  Six. That wasn’t such a big deal in these heathen times.

  “How many times each?” I asked.

  “Seth!”

  “Sorry. Whatever you did before you met me doesn’t matter anyway, as long as I have your promise that none of these guys are going to burst into the hotel room with a shotgun.”

  “I promise. James is more of a crossbow type of person.” Laura looked over at the clock. “Well, Seth, now you have a very important decision to make.”

  “Which is?”

  “Do you get dressed and go back to your smelly dorm, or do you take advantage of my willingness to skip my morning classes and make passionate love to you until we have to be out of the room at eleven?”

  Even without a third option, I was able to select an activity that appealed to me.

  * * *

  In the realm of interpersonal communication, there are numerous challenges. Trying to convince long distance phone companies that you don’t want to switch your service is one. Persuading the toothless guy next to you on the bus to quit rubbing his squeegee on your face is another, less common one. But for a real challenge, there’s nothing quite like trying to get your best friend to let you act in a comedy troupe when your last attempt did not quite go without a hitch.

  “We’re in a hurry, right?” I asked, waving one of my old scripts at him. “This script is already written, and it has three roles.”

  It was Wednesday evening (in case there’s ever a quiz, the first part of this chapter took place Wednesday morning), Out of Whack was meeting in our room because Laura’s roommate had some friends over for a séance, and I was so filled with afterglow that I’d worked up the courage to ask for a role. He was predictably reluctant.

  “No way,” he said. “Come up with some more two-actor skits. You’re the writer, so write!”

  “Cut me some slack! I didn’t mess up last night!”

  “You didn’t have any lines last night!”

  I turned to Laura. “What do you think?”

  “I’ve never seen you perform. In terms of acting, I mean. But there are a couple things to take into consideration. An extra actor means fewer lines for each person to learn by Friday. However, it also means more work to get the timing down, and Seth, if you’re not entirely comfortable on-stage, it may not be a good idea to have you acting at a time when we only have two days to rehearse.”

  Dammit! How could she be so impartial after we’d been so intimate?

  “We’ll vote,” Travis said. “All in favor of limiting the speaking roles to myself and Laura, raise your hand.”

  Travis raised his hand.

  Laura sighed. �
��You know it’s nothing personal,” she told me. “This just isn’t the best time to be taking risks.” She raised her hand.

  I was disappointed, very much so, but, let’s face it, I couldn’t fault the logic behind their decision. It was selfish of me to want to act, anyway. I could wreck everything.

  “However,” Laura continued, “when we have sufficient time to prepare, I vote that Seth be gradually given acting duties.”

  “I’m okay with that,” said Travis. “Okay, Seth, staple your butt in front of the computer. We need skits!”

  * * *

  [ The stage is now serving as Jennifer’s apartment. She’s applying some makeup as the doorbell rings. She hurries over to the door and answers. ]

  CHARLES: Hi. You must be Jennifer.

  [ He’s tall, dark, and handsome, just like that massively studly actor who plays him, Travis Darrow. His clothes are nicely tailored and fit all the current fashions. In fact, there’d be nothing wrong with him if it weren’t for the hatchet imbedded in his chest. ]

  JENNIFER: Oh my God! What happened to you?

  [ Charles glances at his watch. ]

  CHARLES: Hmmm...my watch must be slow. I thought I was early. Sorry about that.

  JENNIFER: No, I mean...aren’t you in pain?

  CHARLES: In pain? With a vision of loveliness such as yourself in front of me? Not a chance. You know, I’ve never really cared for blind dates as a rule, but just seeing you makes me want to rethink that attitude.

  JENNIFER: Well...thank you, I guess. Do...do you want to come in for a drink first?

  CHARLES: That would be wonderful.

  [ He enters. Jennifer shuts the door (well, pretends to shut the door), unable to take her eyes off the hatchet. ]

  JENNIFER: Are you sure you’re okay? Maybe I should call an ambulance.

  CHARLES: Jennifer, I’ll only need an ambulance if you plan on breaking my heart.

  [ He removes his jacket, revealing a bloody dress shirt underneath. ]

  CHARLES: Where can I put this?

  JENNIFER: Oh, um, I’ll get that.

  [ She takes his jacket and, holding it away from her so as not to get blood stains on her clothes, drapes it over a chair. ]

  CHARLES: May I sit down?

  JENNIFER: Oh, sure.

  [ He sits down on the couch. ]

  CHARLES: I made dinner reservations for seven, so we’ve got half an hour to chat if you’d like.

  JENNIFER: Okay. That’d be...nice.

  CHARLES: You seem kind of distracted. Is this a bad time? Maybe we should do this another night.

  JENNIFER: No, no, it’s just...well...

  CHARLES: It’s the hatchet in my chest, isn’t it?

  JENNIFER: Now that you mention it...

  CHARLES: I’m sorry, I guess I assumed you’d be a little less superficial.

  JENNIFER: Superficial? How does being distracted by a hatchet in your chest make me superficial?

  CHARLES: I know, I know, I’m being silly. It’s just that ever since I was struck by the hatchet this morning, people have treated me differently, like there was something wrong with me. I think I make them uncomfortable.

  JENNIFER: Well, I won’t lie to you. It makes me very nervous. I really think you should see a doctor.

  CHARLES: That’s what everyone says! Good Lord, I think the medical community hires you people to throw a little business their way!

  JENNIFER: A hatchet in your chest is serious. You could bleed to death!

  CHARLES: But I’m not! Can’t you see that? The hatchet works as a seal, keeping most of the blood in. If people wouldn’t be so obsessive about the darn thing, it wouldn’t be more than a slight inconvenience. God, now I know what the sexual and racial minorities feel like.

  JENNIFER: Okay, look, I apologize if I was rude about it.

  CHARLES: Milton Berle used to dress up like a woman on live television, and people loved him. I get a lousy hatchet in my chest, and people treat me like some sort of aberration!

  JENNIFER: Was I really treating you that badly?

  CHARLES: Yes. I felt like less of a man.

  JENNIFER: Gosh, I really am sorry. I try to be open-minded, but sometimes it’s difficult. I was raised by conservatives.

  CHARLES: That’s okay.

  JENNIFER: Are you sure? There really is no excuse for the way I behaved. I wouldn’t blame you if you just walked right out that door and out of my life for good.

  CHARLES: Ah, but no exit from your life would be for good. It would be for bad.

  JENNIFER: You’re sweet. I guess I just judged you by your external injuries and not by the man within. Can we start over?

  CHARLES: I don’t know. Can you handle being seen in a elegant restaurant with a man who has a hatchet stuck in his chest?

  JENNIFER: If it’s you, I know I can.

  CHARLES: Let’s go then. I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you that you were the woman who would make me fall in love with being in love all over again.

  JENNIFER: Oh, Charles...

  [ They leave the apartment, arm-in-arm. ]

  * * *

  While Travis and Laura rehearsed the hatchet skit, I strained to come up with another idea.

  “Yo, Travis,” I said, pulling out the “Our Never-Ending Love” poem I’d written during his graveyard date. “Remember this? What if you were to just stand on-stage and read it?”

  “Hey, that’s a great idea.” He took the poem from me and handed it to Laura for her approval. “Okay, one more skit and we’ll have all the material we need.”

  * * *

  [ A kitchen. Heather is preparing dinner (miming it so we don’t have to set up an entire kitchen set, which would be pricey) as Jack strolls in. ]

  JACK: Hello, my little love munchkin. What’s for dinner?

  HEATHER: Just for you, my Jell-O Pudding Pop, we’re having lasagna. With my special chunky-style garlic bread.

  JACK: Mmmmmmmmmmm... sounds scrumpdillyishus. Yummy yummy yummy in my tummy tummy tummy. I sure like this You-Cook- I-Do-Dishes deal.

  HEATHER: Me too, just because I love cooking for my sweetie.

  JACK: And I love doing dishes for my sweetie.

  [ They rub noses. ]

  JACK: Speaking of which, what did you use those knives for?

  HEATHER: I used one to halve the garlic, and one to dice the tomatoes.

  JACK: Ah, I see. And you felt it was necessary to dirty two knives to complete these tasks?

  HEATHER: Honestly? I didn’t even think about it.

  JACK: Interesting.

  HEATHER: Interesting?

  JACK: Interesting that you gave no consideration to your role in increasing the amount of work I have to do tonight.

  HEATHER: It’s an extra knife to wash. It’ll take you five seconds.

  JACK: How very quaint. Five seconds is precisely the amount of time I would have guessed it would take you to run the garlic knife under water so you could use it for the tomatoes.

  HEATHER: Oh, so my five seconds aren’t as important as yours?

  JACK: Let’s not be petty, dear.

  HEATHER: I’m sorry. No one ever mentioned the Silverware Conservation Act of the Jack and Heather Cohabitation Agreement.

  JACK: Let’s not be sarcastic, dear.

  HEATHER: You can always cook, and I’ll do dishes.

  JACK: Don’t be silly, I’d scorch the sorbet flambé.

  HEATHER: Then stop complaining.

  JACK: I’m sorry. Here, I’ll set the table.

  [ He reaches into the cupboard and takes out some paper plates. ]

  HEATHER: Sweetie, I’ve been working on this meal for almost an hour. Use the good plates.

  JACK: You mean, the labor-intensive ones.

  HEATHER: This was supposed to be a nice dinner.

  JACK: What difference does it make? Is this a new recipe? Lasagna that sucks up the flavor of paper plates? Sponge lasagna?

  HEATHER: Listen, we’re not using paper plates, and that’s all I have
to say about that.

  JACK: I was just trying to save water.

  HEATHER: By killing trees? It takes years for a new tree to grow. Water just falls right out of the sky.

  JACK: Yes, but if that oh-so-unimportant water didn’t fall from the sky, your precious little tree wouldn’t grow! It would shrivel up and die, and there’d be no paper plates for anyone!

  HEATHER: Well, you’re ugly!

  JACK: And your mother has awful table manners! Remember that time at the restaurant when she had to sneeze and she plugged her nose and sneezed into her straw and sprayed Pepsi everywhere? Do you remember that? God, what a nightmare!

  HEATHER: Jack, let’s not fight any more.

  JACK: Awww...

  HEATHER: I love you.

  JACK: I love you too, but I thought of a really good one. Let me get a final jab in, and we’ll end the fight.

  HEATHER: Sweetie, if you want to use paper plates, that’s all right with me. I guess since you’re the one who has to do dishes, you should get to choose which ones we use.