I’m buying toilet paper and beer at a corner store by my house. Shrill Pakistani pop music plays loudly and a lingering scent of cat urine mixed with microwavable Punjabi dinner clings to the air. I’m waiting in line, trying to look anywhere but at the chocolate pudding-stained child circling me. His mother is grossly overweight yet wears tight track pants that spell “SEXY” across her ass. The runt is begging her to buy him a drink of crushed ice and flavored syrup. I can’t pretend I’m not disgusted.
I allow my mind to wander. I wonder what it would be like to butt fuck the mother. Immediately, I regret it. Cheap advertising….
She drops a handful of change on the counter. Even the clerk looks annoyed. Now I’m spacing on a rack of sexual stimulants beside the cash register. I’ve seen similar displays at countless gas stations and corner stores, but never considered the potential. The vaguely erotic Powerpoint meets soft-core porn imagery helps me momentarily forget the human wreckage in front of me. Probably because of the name, I decide that “Weekend Prince” is my favorite.
On the cover is an Eastern European looking couple. The guy looks like an asshole. I hardly notice him. The girl is, at best, a 7. Yet something about the humble imagery feels safe, almost reliable — although not as reliable as its neighboring competitors, Stamina RX or the enigmatic VIM 25.
I wonder what would happen if I took all three. I envision myself beasting a leggy version of Peg Bundy, drenched in sweat, gritting my teeth, a tangle of red hair coiled around my fist. By the time I cum I look like a methed-out version of the Kool-Aid man blasting through the wall in a torrent of jizz. The fantasy is glossy, pornographic and heavily retouched.
Clearly jacked on sugar, the kid bumps into my leg. I grimace at his mother who still is counting her change. Using my foot I nudge the child away from me. I make sure his mother sees that, on top of beer and toilet paper, I’m buying Weekend Prince.
—
Kendra is a bartender at a trashy nightclub. We occasionally see one another on weekdays. Tonight she’s late, intentionally testing my patience. When she does arrive I’m lying diagonal across the duvet. I’m not sure why but I’m watching Candyman and the soundtrack is exceptionally loud in comparison to the dialogue, causing my shitty speakers to tremble. I can already tell she does not approve of the movie.
Frozen in the doorway, she scans the room. Immediately she notices a camera I have on my bed beside a small pile of empty supplement packets. She picks one up.
“Really? Weekend Prince? You didn’t really take this before I came over?” Thoughtfully, I look out the window in a way that suggests I’m fucking deep.
She laughs. The brooding mysterious vibe I was going for is suddenly ridiculous and deflated. Quickly I distract her by running off to make her favorite drink, red wine and ginger ale. When I get back from the kitchen Kendra is fucking with my camera. Instantly I panic and yank it out of her hands.
“Listen, this is serious shit. Imagine what would happen if you pressed the wrong button. You’d fucking kill my camera. Do you know how much this shit costs?” She cocks her back and says “Jeez” like I’m being unreasonable.
I scroll through the card, relieved that I was smart enough to have already dumped anything incriminating. I make idle small talk, yammering about prevalent topics like the last episode of <em>Dateline</em>, peak oil, what happens to schizophrenic children once they become teenagers, how much I bench pressed yesterday, the amount of gross people I saw at an outdoor concert and if drum triggers are ruining death metal. Her eyes gloss over when I get to the last part.
Sometimes I forget that nothing alienates women more than death metal.
She says, “So, do you feel anything?”
I’m not sure if she is referring to the pills or my general disposition. At that moment I’m aware that my nose is dripping with sweat. My face is flushed. I’m feeling so sped out that my hands are trembling. Nervously I turn on a band called “Disfiguring the Goddess.” She hates it. She says it sounds like angry gorilla robots and it gives her anxiety. For whatever reason I think this is really funny.
She rifles through my iTunes, which further puts me on edge. Naturally, she finds “Temperature” by Sean Paul, a guilty pleasure of mine that I’m not in the mood to hear.
More disconcerting than the shitty music is the half chub involuntarily growing in my shorts. Bobbing her head along to the music, Kendra notices my boner. She giggles and pokes at it with her toe.
“So Weekend Prince, what are we going to do about that?”
I’m beyond grateful that she spares me the indignity of having to ask for sex after potentially self-sabotaging the evening. I realize that I forgot to buy condoms when I was at the store. She makes me promise to pull out, and it’s an agreement I’m stoked to make.
One detail I find disturbing about Kendra is that she carries lube in her purse. Given the circumstances, I choose not to harp on it.
We fuck for an hour straight. She comes, I don’t. Too tired and bored to keep going, I eventually turn over and lay on my side. She instantly falls asleep.
My hard on won’t go away. It’s becoming painful. I think of blowing a load across the face of the fat mom in the SEXY track pants. I think about the face her crusty kid would make if he saw me do that. Miraculously, this puts my mind at ease and after an Ambien, it’s enough to deflate my cock.
I fall asleep, peaceful and dreamless.
WORDS: Paul K
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