How to Piss in Public (20 page)

By the time Nemo was found, it was getting dark and I had to go meet Genevieve. It was also time to get some fucking coke. This was supposed to be a party, not a Pixar film festival.

Dinner with Genevieve was pleasant, but I was severely distracted by the imminent orgy keeping my dick hard under the table. The fact that she had no idea made things about thirty times hotter. “Let’s go back to my hotel,” I said after settling the dinner bill. Genevieve had a pretty good buzz on and I could tell she would be up for anything. I sent a text to Sally telling her to go to the bar downstairs.

In the taxi, something hit me hard. I still didn’t have any coke. “Do you have a guy?” I asked Genevieve. She reached into her purse and showed me a small bag of cocaine. I was so happy I grabbed her and we started making out.

By the time we got into the room she already had her shirt off and her bouncy little tits were winking at me like two innocent little Bambis. “Wait,” I said after stopping a French kiss with my tongue in midair, “I have a surprise for you.” I texted Sally the word “now” and got back to making out. Genevieve said, “What’s going on?” with my tongue in her mouth, and before we knew it, the door opened.

Like I said. Sally isn’t a genius. She was supposed to knock. Why
would a sex worker already have a key? Genevieve was startled by the stranger and I broke the tension by being gregarious and jolly like the owner of a Greek restaurant. “Ah, great, you must be Sally,” I said, greeting her with open arms.

Genevieve hid her tits with the blankets as I explained what was going on. “I got you a gift,” I said. Genevieve was confused and Sally smiled awkwardly. “She’s a masseuse,” I said as I undid her dress. “Let’s do a line,” I said to break the tension. I had pulled Genevieve’s bag out of her purse and was disappointed to see it was only about a quarter-gram (about as much as half a crushed-up Tylenol) but it still broke the ice. Genevieve dropped her guard and let the sheets fall from her boobs as Sally walked over without doing her dress back up. I laid out three reasonable lines and feasted my eyes on the four smiling little tits around me. When Sally’s turn came, she stopped about a tenth of the way in and pulled back holding her nose. “I don’t know how to snort coke,” she said, wincing. “It hurts my nose.”

“No problem,” I said, vacuum cleaning the rest up my nostril. Genevieve cheerily went to open the minibar but it was locked. I called downstairs and after providing my room number the guy said, “Wait, are you THE Gavin McInnes?” What an awesome thing to hear right after two giant lines of blow.

“Fuck yeah,” I said, remarkably full of myself.

“You want anything else besides your bar key?” he asked.

“Whaddya got?” I suavely replied like Marlon Brando leaning on the bar in
The Wild One.

“I’ll be right up,” he said before quickly hanging up the phone.

Both girls were now standing next to each other. I sucked Genevieve’s right booby, then her left one, and did the same to Sally. Halfway through Sally’s left one, there was a knock at the door. Sally closed her dress and Genevieve grabbed a bathrobe as a dorky redhead with a scruffy beard and glasses pushed in a cart with a pile of beers on the top and a bucket of ice. He also opened up the minibar. We shook hands and exchanged niceties and he asked me if I’d “like to do any of this.” He was holding a pillowcase-sized bag of coke. After dumping out at least a gram onto our little coke area he rolled up a bill and handed it
to me. I did the first one and everyone but Sally took their turn. “Her nose hurts,” I told him. He asked me some boring questions about Vice and we all bid each other adieu. Later, Whatsyourname. I got shit to fuck.

The second the door clicked shut, I tossed Sally on the bed and threw Genevieve on top of her. They began making out and I ripped their panties off—literally (chicks love that). Genevieve grabbed my neck and pushed it into Sally’s face. Fine. So we began kissing as I wrestled my pants off and my boner popped out. I flopped over onto my back and then sat up as Sally mounted me. Genevieve was behind Sally and just kind of kissing Sally’s neck and rubbing her tits on Sally’s back. It was AWESOME
.
I was frantically videotaping every detail with my eyes like Robert Conrad told me to but it was pretty difficult because I was wasted. Wait, where’s Genevieve? I reached behind Sally and couldn’t find her. I kept going down her back until I realized she was eating Sally’s ass. I was excited as a puppy on meth but the secret to good sex is to treat it like a girl’s record collection: no Rush. As Sally slowly rode up and down my wiener, she had Genevieve’s face buried between her cheeks. If there’s anything better than that, I would like to meet it and make sure it becomes president. I put my hands on the back of Genevieve’s head and pulled it so deep into Sally’s rear, she almost disappeared.

I pushed Sally off and rewarded Genevieve with some serious punitive boning. We covered all the bases. I had Sally sit on Genevieve’s face so we could make out as I fucked Genevieve on her back in a triangle position. I got both of them on top of each other and went from vagina to vagina, making sure every STD in the room was divided up evenly. The coke and booze made me last way longer than the thirty seconds I could normally summon in such a situation, but we all have to die sometime and my
petit mort
came around … now. I pulled out and committed my final act of brilliance, the snowball. Snowballing is when you cum in one girl’s mouth and she keeps it there so she can French-kiss the other girl.

“Don’t swallow it!” I blurted out as I filled Genevieve’s mouth with about a quart of melted wax. They were both sitting up and Sally knew
what was to come next. “Now kiss her,” I commanded. As they began a cum-soaked smooch session, I switched my mental recorder to HD and recorded about seven thousand frames per second. Since this went down I have probably beat off to it 3,030 times. That’s enough jizz to fill an ocean liner and it only took five seconds to “film.”

The girls showered individually and we listened to music on my computer, drank beer, and finished the coke. Peppered in this two-hour experience was occasional soft-dick sucking and numb-pussy eating and I think one of them even sucked my toes, but it was real sloppy and more like Sid and Nancy than an interesting porno. I’m happy it happened but after the initial decadence, it got old.Two days later, I booked the next flight home and thought about Blobs the whole time.

Circles or Strokes? (2001)

B
efore settling down, however, I had some unturned stones. Back in high school there was a mind-boggling knockout named Tricia who was so far out of my league, she got insulted if I looked at her. She dressed like a wealthy librarian and looked like Jessica Alba with a drinking problem. She was also a cunt, which made her twice as appealing. I love cunts.

As the years crept on, her currency went down and mine went up. By the time she was in her early thirties she had packed on some lard and I was a successful media mogul stationed in New York, center of the galaxy. It took almost twenty years, but we were finally on the same level. We started flirting via e-mail and talking about the old days and I made the commitment to hang out with her the next time I was in Toronto, where she now lived.

A month later, I was in town visiting Pinky, who had just recently moved to Toronto. He and I convinced Tricia and her friend to meet us at a reunion of a cheesy Canadian metal band called Helix. When we got there, I was chuffed to see she still had that cute doe face with her upturned lips and huge eyelashes but I was a little bummed to see her bum. It had become so large, her front side had grown a gunt (gut that
goes to the cunt) just to balance it out. The hottest girl in high school had turned into a Weeble. She wore clunky platform sandals that were a far cry from the stilettos that are my boner’s bread and butter. We hugged and grabbed a drink and after a few comedic jousts I realized she was really fucking boring.

The night was a bit of a slog but having the opportunity to bend over the greatest missed opportunity of my high school career made it worth it. After a slew of venues and dull conversations, Pinky took Tricia’s friend home and I got to work on the head of my high school’s in crowd.

Her apartment was a studio with a bed on the floor at one end and a couch with a coffee table at the other. Unfortunately, she also had two very furry cats, which put a huge dent in my plan because I am allergic as fuck to cats. Within minutes, I could feel hives on my face and a lump in my throat, and my eyes felt like they were wearing fur sweaters made of itchiness. Oh well, still worth it. Tricia said she had to slip into something more comfortable and I sat on the couch awaiting the lingerie show.

What I got instead was a frumpy bore in glasses, a ponytail, and sweatpants. No worries. I could still work with this. I dragged her over to the bed and started Frenching her with all the enthusiasm of a rejected tenth grader. “I look gross, right?” she asked, holding her glasses in front of her face. Before I could try to pretend she wasn’t a human letdown, she uttered, “We can’t have sex.”

Sometimes when girls say that they mean, “I only want to fuck if you’re really into it and you get me nice and horny because I don’t want to feel bad about myself afterward.” In college we were taught “‘no’ means ‘no,’” but my experience has been more like “three ‘nos’ mean ‘no.’” I took off her pants and tried to do the same with her shirt, but she wasn’t having it. “No,” she said, refastening her bra after I popped the clasp. We were still kissing, so I assumed it was still on, but when my hand slowly made its way to her bulbous mound, she uttered a second “no” and added, “Like, literally.” I told her “Like, literally” is a contradiction as I rolled her over to massage her back. Eventually it was time to try feeling her substantial ass. This went
well, so I rested my boner on her butt like a content lizard, and even though we both still had our underwear on, she issued her third “no,” my third strike.

Frustrated, I rolled off her and lay on my back. She explained she had just ended a long relationship and wasn’t ready. I looked down, and my dick yawned at me. She could see I was about to walk out the door. “But I’ll give you a blow job!” she said enthusiastically. This seemed like quite the jump from “Like, literally,” but I’ll take it.

Then she sat up and got a condom from her night table. “You need to put this on first,” she said like a brainwashed teenager.

“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “That’s what prostitutes do.” How did an educated woman in a big city in the twenty-first century get so fucking square? “I’d rather just not have one, thanks,” I said, cringing but angry.

“All right,” she said, “want me to masturbate you?” Ew. Is there a worse phrase in the English language? Say you want to jerk me off or better yet, don’t say anything and just grab the fucking thing. “Masturbate you” sounds like you work on a farm and need a sperm sample for the sows because they’re in heat.

“Yeah,” I said, desperately trying to make the situation less clinical.

“All right,” she said as she knelt next to my crotch and put her hand on my pelvis like a nurse. Then she looked up and asked one of the grossest/weirdest sexual questions I’ve ever heard: “You want circles or strokes?”

I was traumatized. I still am.

What the fuck are “circles”? You rotate my knob 360 degrees until the cum sprays out in a giant circle? You cup your hand around my dick and then spin around me like it’s a brass pole? Vaginas don’t Hula-Hoop. Where does the uppy-downy motion come into play? You
do
know how a dick works, don’t you? And what are “strokes”? Do you wrap your hand around the dick at all, or do you just “wax on/wax off” like the Karate Kid painting a fence? I didn’t say any of this but instead condensed it all into, “You know what? Forget it!” and rolled over in a rage. She shrugged and lay down facing the opposite direction. As I was drifting off and hating the entire universe, she
quietly said, “Just because I’m a sexual lame-o doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends.”

I sternly replied, “Of course,” and then added, “it does, you stupid bitch,” in my head.

September 11 (2001)

S
hortly before the day that polarized the world, I had met Blobs at our local bar Max Fish and she went from unicorn-I-will-never-see-in-real-life to kind-of-girlfriend. I was still getting blind drunk every night, however, so the courtship wasn’t as romantic as it should have been. From the day I met her to a few months before I married her five years later, we had a turbulent relationship where she was constantly dumping me for not being “boyfriend material” and I was constantly trying to get her back by pretending I was.

On the night before September 11, Pinky was in town again, and bringing apologetic flowers to my new lady was far from my mind. The beer pounding started the second he got off the plane and we were already slurring when we caught up with Matt Sweeney, musician Andrew W.K., and ex–Hole bassist/fellow Canuck Melissa Auf der Maur. They had rented a karaoke room and we all sang, danced on the couches, and poured beer all over the place until we got kicked out. It was a night of relentless partying and by six
A.M.
we were so hoarse we couldn’t say “good night.”

A mere three hours later, someone was pounding on my front door. It was Blobs. I figured she must have been furious I didn’t call her last
night. I opened the door and she frantically said, “Turn on the TV.” She wasn’t mad. She was petrified. Pinky was asleep on the floor. I turned it on and saw the World Trade Center shooting out smoke. As usual, the sensory overload gave me gas and as Pinky sat up to see what was going on, he was greeted by a dust bowl of shit wind blowing right in his face. He pounded me in the leg harder than I deserved, and as I yelled, “I couldn’t help it!” he said, “My mother’s in there, you fucking prick!” I had forgotten his mother lived in New Jersey and worked there. I’d just huge-farted in a guy’s face as his mother died. This is what the whole day was like, a juxtaposition of hungover jokes and the worst thing in the universe. It was like Beavis and Butthead do the Holocaust.