Article: 261316 of talk.bizarre
From: phawk@teleport.com (Peter M Hawkinson)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: FTS - anerotica #1
Date: Fri, 01 Dec 1995 00:23:08 -0400
Organization: Mr. Coffee, Inc. - Bedford Heights, Ohio 44146
Lines: 108
Message-ID: <phawk-0112950023080001@ip-pdx05-38.teleport.com>

==========
These stories are my first attempts at writing anerotic fiction.
I hope they are as much of a turn-off for you to read as they were for me
to write!
FYI, these stories, while fictional, are rooted in autobiography :( If my
experiences inspire just one of you to forswear all sex and die a virgin,
it'll be worth it!
==========

#1 April of 1990

It was the night of the spring formal. A recent ban on student-sponsored
drinking parties lent a certain depression-era romance to the proceedings.
Rather than having kegs or a full bar, tables downstairs were stocked with
mixers and from time to time bottles of the hard stuff would appear, as if
by magic, on the dance floor. My job was guarding the cache of booze in an
upstairs office and slowly doling it out to the runners who brought it
downstairs. I was good at my work, devising cheesy speakeasy passwords and
hand gestures, and giving the attendees that casual nod that let them know
that I knew that they knew what was going on. 

I didn't mind spending the formal "on duty" for a number of reasons. First
and foremost, I was just getting back on my feet after a rather nasty blow
to the head three nights before. The brand new wrap-around shades I
adopted as part of my thug's garb concealed seven stitches over my still
swollen-shut left eye. Second, I was in no hurry to match or exceed the
calamity of last semester's formal, where my date, Jenny, was informed
halfway through the evening that I was a member of one of the bands she'd
gone after in the pages of the campus feminist newspaper. I knew who she
was when she asked me out (!), but didn't want to come clean until she got
to know me better; so much for that. Instead of romancing my extremely hot
co-worker, I wound up on the ropes insisting that I was only a complete
misanthrope and not a misogynist. Finally, I was worried about Carmen, who
had been over in Australia for the last six months, and who might not
exactly know she'd be coming home to find I'd moved on, since I hadn't
exactly told her that I was seeing other people. Not that every one hadn't
been a complete disaster, but I wasn't looking forward to trying to
explain. 

So the evening passed just as I wished, without incident. The balcony
outside the office hallway was where the nickel casino was operating, and
I took to greeting the cigar-chomping guests as they came up. I also took
to taking swigs off of bottles I liked before they went down, mostly
champagne and peppered vodka. I don't recall which big band played that
semester, it was either the Swingline Cubs or the Broadway Nine, but it
was decent bop. 

My plan was to jet at midnight when my relief person came on. And it would
have worked, too, if I had only stayed off the sauce, or even backed off
toward the end of my shift. But when the midnight hour arrived I was
seeing double, and, sadly, feeling single. The music had switched from
jazz to slow, nasty blues. I took a magnum of champagne with me down the
stairs and out into the crowd. Silke, the cute german number from one of
my conferences had an empty glass, and we even had a dance together, but
it was strictly friendly and afterward we both seemed ready to seek our
fortunes elsewhere. Next I literally ran into Charlene, nearly knocking
her over. The saving grasp became more of a clench, and we lurched around
together for a song or two. She was pretty undifferentiated from the
crowd, though, and wandered off toward her next encounter before long. 

And then I saw Joan, and she saw me, and all was lost.

I first remember Joan coming into the cafe where I worked. If it was slow
she'd dally over ordering, asking questions about the menu or whatever
tape was playing. She had this way of making eye contact that lasted just
a few seconds too long to be entirely comfortable. This went on for some
time, I don't recall how long, until one night when I approached her in
the audience at a show - I think it was the Tone Dogs. I suggested we go
for a walk and we ended up on the fourth story of a disused campus
building. It was a miserable conversation. I felt in over my head because
she was two or three years older than me and had already graduated while I
was a lowly sophomore. I had made the first move by opening the lines of
communication, and the least she could do was indicate interest or
disinterest, but she revealed little. I got the impression that she wanted
me to take control so that whatever happened would be my fault; she was
either savagely passive-aggressive or just even more of a geek than I was,
but either way I couldn't deal. 

And now I was too drunk to put up a fight. Dancing with Joan was
incredibly awkward, even drunkenness didn't help us get in sync. After an
unknown interval I looked around and saw we were the only people still
close-dancing. Everyone had either paired off and left or was just
whizzing around freestyle any old way. In one of the premiere guilty
surges of my life, I realized I was embarassed even to be seen with this
person. As I held her close, I worried that Carmen's friends would see.

Joan wanted to go for a walk, which was just fine with me. I grabbed a
near-empty tequila bottle on the way out the door. We went out to one of
the sprawling front lawns and sat down on the wet grass at the top of a
hill. I'm really, really glad I remember few details of our conversation.
I just know that I derailed the discussion the only way I could, by
getting physical. It worked in that she shut up when I started kissing
her, but even in my addled condition I got the sense that she was holding
still while I did things to her, that she wasn't going to let herself give
in to participation. Yet when I tried to excuse myself, she took on a rare
accusatory tone: "So that's it, huh? A dance, a few kisses, and then
goodnight?" I couldn't bear this accusation, and asked her to take me
home.

In bed at her house, I realised that at some point I'd lost my sunglasses.
I was peering at her out of my good eye, wondering how I could appear
anything other than hideous with my purplish ragged scar. She seemed not
to care. I'm not sure what she had me there for, since she never a) tried
to fuck me or b) tried to do anything else, but she still managed to act
pissed off when I took my leave the next day. For fear of throwing up on a
bus, I staggered two nauseous miles home.

-p