The Trick Is To Keep Breathing...

Date: 05/17/04

*Beep* Testing out stream of consciousness... *Beep*

Warnings: Some sexual innuendo, slash, and mild adultery. Why mild? Because he's about to get a divorce anyway. Oh yea, the first-person narrative is told by a pissy male person who you will probably like out of pity, and hate because he's going to insult you a lot.

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I got married a couple years ago -- I swear, it seems longer -- to a nice young woman named Sally. We went out for about three years until we got married. Honestly, I wasn't the one who proposed. Apparently I took so long that she decided to go for it herself. Got down on her knee and everything. In front of everyone at a posh French restaurant Like a classic chick flick huh? Except for the male-female switchover.

I guess I'm pretty pathetic. I mean, what kinda guy waits until his girlfriend gets so impatient with him that she pops the question herself? It's insane!

Actually, my reason for hesitation wasn't that I was scared of commitment or anything. It wasn't that I didn't find Sally friendly and loving and attractive...I guess I just thought, "Is this as good as it gets?". Yea, I'm cruel and uncaring, maybe. But I never thought I'd end up twenty-nine years old and marrying a (I admit, pretty average) woman, settling down for 2.6 kids and a dog named Spot. Never in my wildest, most absurd dreams did I imagine myself as a banker in middle-class suburbia. I dreamed astronaut, rock star, professional surfer...anything but this!

Now you're thinking, "Hey, you big jerkwad, why don't you appreciate her? She loves you apparently, although I have no idea why. Go buy her some flowers!" I say to all you philogynists (I know this isn't a word. I don't want to hear your nerdy banter.), "Screw you!" Have you any idea what happens when all your life your parents have friends have expected you to become a doctor? Or maybe a famous actor? Perhaps a singer? Musician? And then just maybe, you disappointed them all by dropping out of med school, or drama school, whatever...to become a banker? No? Well then, shut your gaping hole and listen to me.

So right now I'm sitting in my room...correction...our room (note the disgust.) so I have almost no privacy whatsoever. I have a dish of chocolate chip cookies. I'm eight again and I have to share a room with my little sister. Ick. I have to listen closely for footsteps in the hall because I don't want to get caught writing in my journal. Yes, I am a grown man writing in a journal. I haven't got anyone else to talk to; all my friends are my wife's friends too, and...ah, yes. You know how that works, don't you? Don't pretend you don't.

As I was saying earlier, before my little tangent...I wanted to be a cowboy when I was seven. I got toy stirrups and a lasso, even. Then when I was thirteen I wanted to be a doctor, because my mom said they made a lot of money. I got a stethoscope and a midget doctor outfit. I was sixteen when I wanted to become a rock star. I formed a band and we got pretty far, but then high school ended and we broke up. We were really close to getting signed too. I was determined to get a Ph. D. in...something...so it never happened. The I turned eighteen and I wanted to be -- of all things! I'm still embarrassed -- a porn star. I got a whole new wardrobe that consisted of leather and fishnets and started hanging out in clubs...but nothing really happened. I got laid a couple times.

Those were the best years of my life. Now it's over. I went through college; associate degree, check. Bachelor's degree, check. Master's? Check. Doctorate? Er...no. I was twenty-six when I decided that nope, this wasn't for me, so I threw away years' worth of education and loans and went to become a lousy banker. At least I get a paycheck for it. Oh yea; I met Sally while I was working there and she asked me out. Ring a bell?

My cookie dish is now empty. Only crumbs left. What an amazing metaphor. I should give up being a banker and become a poet. I'll get a rhyming dictionary next time I'm out, I swear.

I'm an eight year old kid in an adult's body, I know. Everyone says so. Sally says it's endearing. I think I'm retarded in some indescribable way.

Uh oh. I hear Sally walking down the hall. Gotta go.

I think I'm going to file for divorce soon. Just another milestone in my life.

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I swear I didn't want it. Well, not at first. I should feel guilty, shouldn't I? Okay, okay...back up. You're confused, and it's understandable for mentally inefficient people such as yourself to be perpetually confused. I guess I have to backtrack.

So I'm working in my teller booth. A customer comes in and he wants to sign up with the bank. There are too many tellers open at the moment, so I offer to discuss it with him. We walk to those conference desks outside in the lobby and I turn on the computer there.

"Well Mr. Schaefer," I say with a cavity-inducing smile on my cheesy-ass face. Trademark of American Bank Co., of course. "What can I do to help you?"

Mr. Schaefer is silent for a moment, so I'm wondering if all those years of coffee and exams (Mr. Schaefer looks about twenty-seven, if I'm not mistaken. Just about the right time to have earned himself a doctorate.) have finally took their toll on his poor brain, when he opens his mouth and says, "Thank you. I was wondering if you could show me how to use the ATMs outside? They seem to be a different model than what I am used to."

I nod and paste on another plastic grin, then walk towards the door, motioning for him to follow me. He does. All this time I'm thinking what a dreadfully wrong assumption I made about Mr. Schaefer. This guy is a ditz! What kind of guy doesn't know how to use an ATM machine, as alien as it may be? I walk to the front of the ATMs and start explaining to him, step-by-step, the instructions for withdrawing money. He just stares at me and doesn't seem to be absorbing any of this in. I turn towards the ATM, my back towards him for a moment, and all of a sudden I'm pulled back into some bushes nearby.

What the fuck, right? Probably some sort of twisted bank robber taking me hostage, right? Serial rapist, right? Well...not so far from the truth, actually. He twists my head around (the man turned out to be Mr. Schaefer) and starts sucking my face. I mean, kissing me, not trying to devour my nose and other assorted facial features.

What scares me is I'm actually getting into it. I mean, yea, I should be completely freaked out by now. This is a man who's sucking face with me. He is a possible bank robber. He is a possible serial rapist. Hell, he's a possible spinster with fifty cats at home, for all I know. Yet I feel my legs get all wobbly (like they never get when I kiss Sally) and jelly-like. It reminds me of my time as a wannabe porn star. One night I fucked a girl so hard I couldn't walk for a few ours afterwards. Wobbly legs, just like right now. I respond in the mouth-mashing without even thinking. It's quite disturbing what the human body can make one do.

But eventually I regain my sanity (what's left of it, I suppose) and push him away. We're both panting, and it takes me another moment to catch my breath enough to yell at him. "What the hell was that?!"

He grins. "You liked it, correct? Call me Rys."

I want to backhand him. So I do. Simple as that. "Do you realize that, not only am I straight, I'm married?!" I hiss, eyes checking to see if anyone has noticed us.

"I am well aware of both. However, your body betrays your first statement, and every other human being betrays your second. Did you know that seven out of ten spouses cheat on their respective spouses? Especially in America." he says confidently. He rubs his cheek where my hand impacted his face, though.

Okay, so I can't hide my arousal. It was a kiss, goddamn it! It's a natural human reaction. So I told myself. It was a stupid reason, looking back on it. Before I can even say anything, he swoops down and pulls me in for another kiss. Once again I comply. I'm pathetic, I really am. He starts groping me (that words sounds so dirty!) and I am like putty in his hands.

"Let's take this somewhere else, yes?" he mutters, breathing coming in rapidly.

I mutter something stupid about it not being the time of day for my lunch break yet, but he chuckles and helps me to my feet. It doesn't work. I'm still all wobbly and jelly-like. So he carries me princess-style (Ugh. The horror. How can this bastard possibly be this strong? I'm easily a hundred and forty pounds.) to his car. To the backseat of his car, precisely. It's a shiny black Jag. Stupid rich boys and their perverse pleasures. He kisses me again and I -- accidentally, I swear -- kiss back.

Oh, who am I kidding? I am really enjoying this. The fact that he is man doesn't matter. I haven't been this horny since I was in college. So we do the hoinky-doinky in the backseat of his car, staining the leather seats with sweat, saliva, semen and other bodily fluids. Afterwards, I ask him about it, but he simply says he'll have someone clean it up later. Stupid rich boys, I tell you.

He asks for my phone number. I give him my cell number so Sally doesn't accidentally pick up. He tells me his number. All four of them. Home, office, cell, and personal assistant in case he can't be reached. Of course, in this world, everyone determines your success and wealth by the number of phone numbers you can give out. I once again feel the urge to backhand him. Really, I don't understand why I am agreeing to meet him again. For dinner. At a French restaurant even more posh than the one Sally proposed to me at. Rys gives me a deep kiss before he drives away. On the way home I stop by my lawyer and file a request for divorce.

So my life isn't perfect. Screw that. Things are looking up. This is not as good as it gets. This gets better. I guess the trick is to just keep breathing. Someday, some hot gay man will fall in love with you and you'll be set for life. Or not. But this applies for me, and honestly, who cares about you?