Happy Endings (Not the Disney Kind)

My mom called me yesterday after reading yesterday’s post.  It seems she is mildly uncomfortable about reading what things make me moist.  To be fair, I’d really rather not know what makes her moist, either.  And yet…I do.  So now we’re even.

Cue phone ringing in 5…4…3…2…

Love you, Mom.

This post is only going downhill form here, Interwebz.  Consider yourself warned.

So I’ve been frantically cleaning and organizing, trying to get the apartment back on the market.  ‘Cause, you know, that’s gone SOOOO well for us the last two times we tried to sell this fucker.  Shit.  I bet Zombie St. Joe has frozen to death by now.  Oh wait, I guess he’s frozen to undeath.  Whatever.

Yesterday, when I was rifling through some old papers, I found these quotes I scribbled down while attending an event entitled “In The Flesh” at a bar called Happy Endings.

Did I not warn you about this post earlier?

I thought we were going to a regular, plain jane reading.  Really I was going to hear Stephen Markley read an excerpt from his book.  Because I’m a stalker.  Obviously.  So imagine my surprise when we arrived at the crowded bar and heard a woman’s voice reciting, “…and that’s how I ended up topless in just my panties and nipple clamps,” over the sound system.

I looked at the girls I was with and shrugged.

The main room was overflowing with people, so we snuck down to the basement level to grab a drink and regroup.  It was a strange space.  Filled with strange people.  We walked by a row of white-tiled shower stalls bathed in red light.  In the middle stall, a middle-aged man with dark hair sat alone with a magazine.  His dark eyes silently followed us as we walked past the glass door into his space.  Surprisingly, we decided NOT to join him.

Past the bar, we found an empty black room, also bathed in red light.  Every flat surface was covered with SexIs magazine.  Another author took the stage and began reciting her piece.  “Ricardo and his cock-smith father.  I’ve fallen in love with my boyfriend’s dead dad.”

That was right about the time I figured out that “In the Flesh” did not refer to seeing authors in person.

After finishing a first round and listening to a rousing acappella version of “Party in the USA,” we climbed the stairs in the hopes the main space had thinned out some.  A long, low booth was open in the corner and we claimed it just in time to listen to a story about shape-shifting felines getting it on atop the Great Pyramids.  I never thought I’d hear the phrase “well-oiled” used to describe cats.  But I did.  Repeatedly.

While my group guarded our seats, I caught up with Markley at the bar.  “So um…this is…” I began.

“I’m going to need a LOT more beer,” he finished.

“Right.  What are YOU going to read?  There’s not a lot of throbbing cocks or heaving things in your book.”

He pulled at the edge of the label on his beer while shaking his head.  “Yeah.  I have no idea.”

“…ORGASM INTO THE COLLECTIVE NETWORK…” another author exclaimed into the microphone.

We looked at each other blankly.  “So good luck with that, I guess?”

Markley read his excerpt.  There was no sex at all, not even a single g-spot reference.  But there were many laughs from the audience.

My fellow Markley stalkers and I smiled and breathed a little easier.  “See?” I began by way of apology.  “That’s what I thought the night would be like.  A bunch of those.”  I was met with skeptical looks.  “Not that I have a problem with erotica.  But had I realized what kind of event this was, I would have said, ‘Meet me for a drink and some smut in a creepy old bath house,’ instead of, ‘You have to hear Markley read.'”

The next author took the mic and began in a husky voice, “Your semen is the hottest fluid I’ll have on my face.”

*sigh*

I swear I don’t know why I have the reputation that I do…


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