He never was a magician, but, then, I never was modest, so I suppose his naiveté was compensated by my drunken boldness. A night of drinking had gotten us there, that tavern reeking of age and youth, wrought with drowned sorrows and precursory, frantic pillow talk and… well, everything in between.
It was a Saturday night when I was still single, or at least not seriously committed, just months before I met the woman that I would knock up and eventually marry. Looking back at how wild I was, one might grow leery in regards to how domesticated I now appear.
What was odd was, Saturday, this town? Surprisingly, it wasn’t a ghost town; the students should’ve probably been on winter break, though I can’t recall for certain whether it was November, or February, or anytime in between. I only know it was cold outside, since I wore my knee-length black coat. I suppose pictures could be found to verify the approximate date; in those days, I always toted a digital camera with me, both as a novelty and a diary, of sorts. Those times with my friends were ones I wanted to remember.
So, I was brutishly intoxicated; my friend Thai was accompanying me, and I him, one another’s right-hand man were we both. Perhaps earlier that night our comrade Ray was with us; perhaps not. The benders on which we’d frequently been together run together, bleeding into one another to the point that the Night of the Stolen Tits merges into the Night of the Angry Injuns, garnished with the Night of the Livid Asian Flyswatter and chased down with the Night of the Flipped Foreign Ride, though approximations of times are possible here and there, life broken down, if not into nights, then phases. My twenties were one long phase broken with sporadic peaks or valleys or cliffs to break the monotony of the nightly adventure-seeking that only vampires and we got to enjoy.
But I digress! Thai and I were stumbling stupid yet superior, well-rehearsed in our smug way, the experience of the wino with soothed if unfulfilled ambition. Brain high on booze, mind high on life, guts soaked in their amber formaldehyde… it suddenly occurred to me, in our rampant tromp from one bar to this, from its one level to the next, from this covey to that corridor, amidst this crowd of younger folks letting us enjoy a not-so-distant glimpse back towards our own, almost like we were wearing masks to conceal our agedness in a crown of similar-enough distractions, all the while distracting ourselves from our own slipping grip on lighter times and darker hairs, that I had to piss quite considerably.
There was that something, that je ne sais quoi, in the air that made all men feel like Cary Grant or Hugh Grant, charming or charmed, and all women feel entitled. Drunk as we were, you’d think we were on a mission to drink the world dry, but I was still astute enough to realize that, in a line where the men’s room had always been, drunkards of the female persuasion were corralled, overrunning the men’s only haven for hiding or concealing vomiting rages. When drunk enough, words like “chivalry” and “charm” are replaced by concepts like autonomy and stubbornness and righteousness, and, even in the wrong, I’ll sometimes make the banal and meaningless a crusade for my undertaking. This was the MEN’S restroom; I walked in, past the women in line and, around the corner, the one hovering, squatting, over the almost certainly saturated toilet seat, a look of indignity on her face upon seeing my maleness, and pointed my flag into the neighboring urinal. I pissed not three feet from the squatter’s face, reveling in my righteousness, and, just when I thought the best was beyond improvement… it got even better.
“What’s going on here?” A female voice, clear and initial, followed by others.
“Is there a guy in there?”
The Squatter: “Yes. There is.” The indignant tone was inspiring.
Oh, like I had the audacity? I can’t recall her wiping before she pulled up her pants, but I was too far on to Plan B to really care. Offended by the females’ affronts and protests at the use of a urinal by my dick’s stream, I made certain to shine them on by walking past them all, all ducks in a row, my knee-length black jacket open with my now-drained pecker sticking out far enough so that not only did they get a very clear view of its veiny grotesqueness, but that Thai, awaiting my emergence from this men’s room, could see my cock sticking out in all its distasteful glory.
My comrade laughed, and feeling I’d accomplished something, I started to conceal myself lest I get arrested or pummeled. But Thai’s mission had just begun.
“Don’t put that away, yet. Come here,” said Thai, and blame it on the trust I had, the conviction with which he spoke, or the booze and its symptomatic agreeability, but I left my dick sticking out, covered only by good judgment and that evermore useful black jacket. I followed giddily, unable to anticipate the unknown.
Out onto the smoking patio, down the stairs outside, and through the crowded bar, Thai’s beacon was a dirty blonde and very attractive girl, probably twenty-two or so, and, in that grungy, dark tavern, easily the most attractive female. I had no clue what Thai, normally shy around women, was doing, and I’d all but forgotten my schlong’s relative exposure to the elements, so enraptured by and drunk in the moment as I was.
“Excuse me,” Thai said to his audience. She was with a guy, a taller fellow, if memory serves, but Thai and I were not in the mood to be adversely influenced, so his was a trounced presence before the fact. She turned uneasily towards Thai, this unfamiliar fellow with a writer’s wavy and unkempt yet styled hair and philosopher’s observation; she wanted to be brief, but polite.
“Yes?” she managed.
“I’m a very shy fellow,” Thai continued, “and one thing I do to break the ice is, magic tricks.”
If it had been the Polite Thing to run away screaming in order to avoid this interaction, I’m certain that the Audience would’ve done just that. However, on Planet Earth, the Audience stood there with that forced smile, warm in iciness.
Thai went on. “Would you…” He paused. “Mind… if I showed you a magic trick?” His smile, astoundingly, was sincere.
Reluctantly, hesitantly, she almost just muttered, “Uh… okay.”
When Thai started, his oration seemed well-rehearsed and professional, although, like I said, he never has, to the best of my knowledge, been a magician. But, then, he was never the most outgoing fellow either so, on this night, Thai was just full of surprises.
“Okay, keep an eye on my hand. No matter what, do not look anywhere else. Keep your head straight, moving only your eyes…” He began to wave his right hand, index finger extended, making invisible zig-zags and figure-8’s in the air, criss-crossing then up-and-down wavelengths. “… Keep an eye on my finger,” he reaffirmed. Had my wits been more about me instead of my joviality, I, too, would’ve been mesmerized.
As it was, for so averse an Audience, she seemed ensnared by Thai’s Magic Trick. She kept her eye on his finger, captivated. It was then, at their most magical and intimate moment together and ever, that his rhythmically moving hand strayed from its course laid between his eyes and hers, and his index finger, like a fishhook, yanked her eyes downward, downward, downward, until at long last its point was in my prick’s direction.
My knee-length black jacket, so perfect for flashing, flew open.
My cock was exposed, unexpectedly, unpleasantly.
“Oh, my God,” she almost screeched, turning towards her heretofore inattentive male companion, who remained ignorant for at least long enough for Thai and me to make our escape, chortling and giggling like mischievous scamps, no matter how the law may have viewed my exposure, his assault, out harassment.
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Later, Thai and I tried retelling the story. Weeks later, we tried reinventing the Magic Trick at the Orangutan’s cousin’s loft during a social event; it was met with a disturbed and disbelieving silence, and disgust hung in the air right next to my pecker.
Interestingly enough, this is just one incident of indecent exposure on just one drunken, flowing night where the cops seemed uninterested, preoccupied, or just altogether absent, and couth and decency have no welcome place or right. No fights were had, no overwhelmingly strong sensations of dissention were present. It was just another night in our crew’s archives, so one really has to ask, if this is average and normal, is there any hope for normalcy?
Domesticated, then, or caged, waiting for my next wild romp?
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