They say grass is always greener on the other side. Greener when you're single, greener when you're married. Thing is, no one tells you how much work it takes to get it that green, not to mention the stench of the manure needed to keep it that way.
After five long, entirely inexplicable years of bachelorhood, all i can say is, there’s nothing enviable about being single. Not the meaningless sex, not the deafening quiet of an empty house or the constant worry of catching something, even when using extra-strength condoms. Beige should be the color of envy, not green.
But every once in a while comes a moment that reminds you of why colors like fuchsia exist. When you realize it's nice where you are, on your side of the fence, having no one to answer to but your conscience. A moment of fun that lingers in your mind like a teenager outside a liquor store.
He was sitting at one of the tables not more than a few feet away. I'd seen him before. Not in person, a porn flick. Not really into porn. The few movies I've seen never did much for me. This one did.
Something about this kid. He had those squinty far-away eyes that suggested mischief, dark buzzed hair, the velvety kind, and fiery tattoos that crept up from under his T-shirt and onto his neck. He was a good ol’ bad boy. Even his dimples were more naughty than naïve. But his most prominent feature wasn’t his face or even his tight little body. It was his flawlessly round, incredibly plump bubble butt.
He was there with his friends, talking, having fun. Not sure how it started. A word here, a smile there. Then, his hand grazed mine ever so slightly. A touch felt in two places at once.
We ordered drinks. Did very little talking. Not sure there was much to say. Besides, there were men all around him trying to get his attention. I watched him, amused by all the commotion. He was confident, outright cocky at times, beautiful.
It went on for a while. He wasn’t ignoring me, yet seemed too busy for anything to happen. I was tired, a bit tipsy, it was late. Just as I was about to go home, an offer. Would I like to join him? He’s got a suite at the Waldorf.
"You're staying at the Waldorf?"
"Because it's the best."
A room bigger than my apartment, a shower bigger than my room. His bed, white, big, like it was made for four people not two. Clothes on the floor, condoms, lube everywhere, next to the bed, on the coffee table, in the bathroom. I can't help but think I'm not the first one here, not the second either.
He rips off his clothes, fast, like he's late for an appointment. His skin's tight, shiny, the way only a 20 year old can shine. He hops on the bed, within seconds I'm naked too. This is not about intimacy. This is sex. Aggressive, fast, impulsive, like tearing the wrapper off a Snicker's bar when you're really hungry. Empty calories, the good kind. His beautiful butt, his disproportionately big dick, the alcohol, the sweat, all one big blur. Then a sigh, two sighs. Then it’s over.
The both of us collapse, heavy breathing all around, echoes of sex bouncing off the walls. I look at him, he's all sweaty, still beautiful, miles away though are bodies are still touching.
I get dressed, give him a kiss on his moist forehead, head out. As I hail a cab, a smirk on my face, a notch on my belt. Something to remember when I’m old and wrinkled. Grandpa was handsome once. And shallow. So shallow.
Almost everything in life has a color. Red's for warning, fear is yellow. Death, black and white's pure. Why is envy green, I don’t know. Maybe it’s ‘cause they say the grass is always greener on the other side. Maybe it's 'cause beige sometimes don't work. Maybe it’s ‘cause hot pink is just too gay.