Good Morning!
The only thing worse than hauling my ragged, hung over ass out of my OWN bed at 7am, is having to perform the same feat to extract myself from someone ELSE'S bed. Especially when it's in a city two hours from home and three hours away from a meeting with my boss. I'd made this situation for myself. I had a few too many rounds at beer blast and missed the last Chinese bus back to Philly. So why not have another drink? Right? The subsequent details were blurred. I was sure now of only one thing, it was going to be a long, long day.
I staggered off in search of the toilet, water, and my bearings. The steady traffic hum outside the windows, and the dronning throbb inside my head accompanied me on my stumble to the bathroom. I stood hanging over the porcelain, leaning one shoulder against the tiles, pissing and thinking. What was his name? I flushed, turned, and looked back into the corner bedroom flooded with deathray intensity raking light. My new friend lay nude on his back, eyes closed, sheets wadded up around his feet. Stocky little guy, brown legs and chest covered in short curly hair. Nice hands. Not a bad selection.
Name, Name, Name.
Alright, what did I have then? Fuzzy recollections of a comical cockiness, a Virginia or maybe North Carolina accent, fairly bright, and the repeated and completely un-ironic use of the word 'dude'. Hmmm. Okay, out into the apartment for some recon. An un-slept-in bed and signs of a female room mate were visible through the open door of the second bedroom. In the tiny living room, a satiny black baby grand piano took up most of the space. Two large oak and velvet gothic-y chairs, possibly repurposed alter furnishings, flanked a console. Nothing on it like bills or subscribed magazines with names and addresses, no personalized pads or stationary. Damn it. A tattered script without cover page under some playbills. Nothing. Then, the glare of morning light began to burn off some of the fog surrounding my dehydrated brain. Theater! I remembered something about playwrite or director. Wait. Of course, the vanity of show people! A quick scan of the walls and there they were; framed programs. Let's see... written by...starring... and finally, musical direction by:
J. Troy Hernando
Hah!
I found the kitchen and stood there in the sunlight. Even that early the sharply angled rays felt hot on my bare skin. I filled a glass from the tap and watched the traffic light change below, releasing the cars stopped on the unknown street. Downed that, and returned to the bedroom.
"Dude, sorry you have to get up so early," My host greeted me. His eyes were half open now, long lashes fanning liquid brown. His fingers were laced behind his neck.
"Yeah, it's rough, Troy" I replied, and hopped up on the mattress.
I'd figured that if I took a cab to Chinatown, I could linger for another 20 or 30 minutes and still catch the 8 AM orient express. Straddling his chest and easing my rising erection towards his soft smile, I added,
"You make your bed, Troy, you have to lie in it."
I staggered off in search of the toilet, water, and my bearings. The steady traffic hum outside the windows, and the dronning throbb inside my head accompanied me on my stumble to the bathroom. I stood hanging over the porcelain, leaning one shoulder against the tiles, pissing and thinking. What was his name? I flushed, turned, and looked back into the corner bedroom flooded with deathray intensity raking light. My new friend lay nude on his back, eyes closed, sheets wadded up around his feet. Stocky little guy, brown legs and chest covered in short curly hair. Nice hands. Not a bad selection.
Name, Name, Name.
Alright, what did I have then? Fuzzy recollections of a comical cockiness, a Virginia or maybe North Carolina accent, fairly bright, and the repeated and completely un-ironic use of the word 'dude'. Hmmm. Okay, out into the apartment for some recon. An un-slept-in bed and signs of a female room mate were visible through the open door of the second bedroom. In the tiny living room, a satiny black baby grand piano took up most of the space. Two large oak and velvet gothic-y chairs, possibly repurposed alter furnishings, flanked a console. Nothing on it like bills or subscribed magazines with names and addresses, no personalized pads or stationary. Damn it. A tattered script without cover page under some playbills. Nothing. Then, the glare of morning light began to burn off some of the fog surrounding my dehydrated brain. Theater! I remembered something about playwrite or director. Wait. Of course, the vanity of show people! A quick scan of the walls and there they were; framed programs. Let's see... written by...starring... and finally, musical direction by:
J. Troy Hernando
Hah!
I found the kitchen and stood there in the sunlight. Even that early the sharply angled rays felt hot on my bare skin. I filled a glass from the tap and watched the traffic light change below, releasing the cars stopped on the unknown street. Downed that, and returned to the bedroom.
"Dude, sorry you have to get up so early," My host greeted me. His eyes were half open now, long lashes fanning liquid brown. His fingers were laced behind his neck.
"Yeah, it's rough, Troy" I replied, and hopped up on the mattress.
I'd figured that if I took a cab to Chinatown, I could linger for another 20 or 30 minutes and still catch the 8 AM orient express. Straddling his chest and easing my rising erection towards his soft smile, I added,
"You make your bed, Troy, you have to lie in it."
posted by circleinasquare at 1:29 AM
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