It’s a sexual comedy, but it’s not erotica. Another in the series of Hot Sex I Didn’t Have.
For more in sexual comedy in this series:
The kind of body a man gets from working on top of roofs installing things in the sun is one of the sad things I missed out on by pretending I was monogamous for this sexual comedy experience.
I’m with my best friend, the one that I had those (not so) hot threesomes with. We’re a little bit older than we were for the threesome experience, maybe twenty-three, twenty-four.
We get pretty, find somewhere to be. Driving on the way I actually use air conditioning. Very few places in the world can get me to do that. Outdoors it has that relieved desert coolness after a relentless day. The cement still throws heat back at us. Phoenix is an oven.
At the venue we down a few vodka and cranberries. It is not at all a good place to be by either of our standards.
A series of giant, open barns full of different drinking and eating establishments. Mostly beer drunk people who don’t have to walk very far to change scenes and selections of beer.
Astroturf indoors. Competing sound systems. High ceilings, picnic tables, and bright lights.
It was all awful and we wandered around for a bit before realizing we’d better head somewhere more to our scene if we’re to cause any trouble. But, just on our way out we saw these two nicely dressed guys, one of whom was wearing a jester hat. The other one in tight black jeans and a black button down shirt open halfway.
“I like your hat.” I say to the Jester, whose muscular arms bulge out of a short sleeve shirt. He looks preppie, not like someone who wears a jester hat regularly. I realize that it might be for exactly this purpose of trawling the ladies, and that I have just fallen into a trap.
“Thanks! Can we buy you a drink?” He shouts over the loud, muddy music. Gesturing to me and my friend.
“Sure.” My friend seconds my inklings with a sly nod to me.
We have another vodka cranberry and get through the basic introduction where they learn that neither of us live in town and we learn that they own and operate an up-and-coming HVAC company. Turns out AC is a pretty damn good business to be in in Phoenix, Arizona.
They’re technicians who are new to money, and are playing around. They’re good guys though, respectful and kind, hard-working and laid back.
“So what do you think of this place?” Jester asks, meaning the establishment.
“It’s awful.” I respond.
“Agreed!” says Jester. “Wanna come over and drink more vodka cranberries or just hang out at our place?” he asks.
I’m surprised they are business partners and roommates and like going out together on a Saturday night. I confer with my friend.
“Sure!” is our answer.
We’re in my car, following them to their place. Wide streets and even streetlights. Another city where there should only be desert, the whole thing feels like a planned community.
“Dibs on Guido.” Says my friend. We do not know either of their names yet, or we’ve forgotten them, or we just don’t care.
“Fine, absolutely, I am so not into the greaser look. Much prefer Jester anyway. Those arms.”
“I’ll admit he has a better body, but I like the slimy type.”
“To each their own.”
“You know you can’t cheat on that hot boyfriend of yours.” she says, referring to Tommy Boom-Boom, who I live with but am not dealing with being in relationship with well at the moment because of his alcoholism.
“Yeah.” I say, unsure.
“You know he’s hotter than Jester.” she says.
She’s right about that. Jester may have the body, but he’s just kind of bland. Tommy Boom-Boom has such powerful bad boy energy that it commands a room. He’s got a skull and crossbones tattooed on the inside of his bicep. Southern California boy. Plays basketball, uses a skateboard for transportation, and drives a vintage car and wears vintage glasses frames. Takes experimental photos, works for a film archive, and is a blackout binge drunk. This is in the late 1990’s, long before “hipster” put a name to it.
Jester, well, he’s an HVAC millionaire that apparently lives in a duplex with wall-to-wall carpeting in a suburb of Phoenix, AZ. Little boxes made of ticky-tacky that all look just the same.
It’s got a big screen TV and a puffy leather couch with sections, and some big chairs in the living room, some signs of having been recently moved into – boxes and piles of stuff not yet put away.
There’s a giant garage with a motorcycle and Jet Skis and a second fridge for drinks and a pool table and dart board and another big screen TV. We don’t spend much time in the garage, that’s clearly the man cave for playing poker and talking about what happens in the living room.
Jester is a normal American guy. Nothing special. Drinks beer. Watches TV. Works hard. Guido has him roped into building a business else he probably would have been an HVAC technician for life. He’s good. Visits his mother. Pays his bills. Shows up on time.
But there’s not much to talk about, I learn quickly. What you see is what you get. Anything but a jester.
Even at this proto-Zoe age, complexity is the thing that attracts me to a man. Jester is attractive on paper, but there’s no chemistry to tempt me. I may play it off that I was this chaste monogamous lady of the court or whatnot, but the truth is that had Jester been hot to me personally of course I’d have cheated.
Still, neither my friend nor I is conscious of any of this, we just know that one should not cheat on a hot dude with a less hot dude.
Soon we learn Guido’s real name in a way I still remember over twenty years later. There’s a bird. A talking one. We never see it. It lives in Guido’s room, mostly chirping and yelling a name.
“BOB!” … or possibly “ROB!”… or possibly the bird had it wrong. Also not quite sure whether the bird was calling Guido’s name or the name of his brother or cousin or other roommate or whomever the bird belonged to that wasn’t actually Guido up until now.
Maybe I can’t remember because I was too busy checking out Jester’s arms or just amazed at their full bar including multiple kinds of vodka, and indeed, cranberry juice. Multiple flavors of Ocean Spray. I have another. It’s my third and last for the evening and I’m feeling loose – but not stupid.
“She’s into him. I’m into you, but I can’t fool around. I have a boyfriend, and I can’t cheat, I really can’t. I’m telling you now, I don’t want to lead you on.” I say, the moment I get Jester alone.
He looks crestfallen, like a little boy who has had a toy taken away. I’m happy to see this, somehow. In retrospect I feel like a horrible human being. Even for his blandness I would have gladly fucked him once and he me, and monogamy is stupid.
“It’s all good. I’ll probably still try a little though, but I hear you.” he says, looking me in the eye.
The bird yells “BOB!”.
He rolls his eyes.
Later Jester toes the line, trying to see how far I will go. Snuggling with him in the chair. His massive arms around me. More muscles than arms should have, I think? Smelling so clean. Tender, soft, slow. The sexual comedy shows tragic undertones and I have to move out of the chair to resist him. I regret it.
Then he asks me for a kiss, no tongue, just a peck. I’m surprised he even wants these things, he knows they won’t lead to more and they don’t. I give him a quick peck on the lips.
I remember at this point seeing and hearing my friend making out with Guido on the couch and the living room floor. She was wearing velcro pants so everyone knew when Guido got to third base. The sound of the velcro scritching triggers the bird.
And we all crack up at that sexual comedy. My friend and Guido get it going a little further but then the bird just cockblocks us all by letting out a stream of “BOB!”s. I’m thankful, in a way.
My friend and I politely extricate ourselves, drive back to where she is staying, and cannot stop laughing about this sexual comedy for a long time. We never see Guido or Jester again. Too bad.
Other Hot Sex I Didn’t Have:
Thoughts on Monogamy: