Coors – Gwen Hilton

April 26, 2022

        “Have you given any more consideration to the orgy idea?”
        “Yeah I’m fine with it. I just wonder how long it will take to get that many people in a room. How are we gonna find them? Are they going to be tested beforehand?”
        “Why do you have to bring up testing immediately? It’s prudish. You don’t ask if I’m getting tested every time we meet up.”
        “Are you saying I should be?”
        “No, I haven’t had any time to see anyone else. I’m seeing you when I’m not working. I’m getting a degree too.” 
        “You say that like it’s a bad thing. I know you made it clear we’re not exclusive, but I’m only hanging out as often as you want.” This is a dilemma I will constantly encounter in the dating world. This is my first rodeo. I’m sitting across a patio table at a bar with a biergarten that I’ll never remember the name of. There’s ivy on the fence and five TV’s are running sports. It’s not my crowd, but I come when called. This is why we do this. 
        I drink Coors light. It’s on draft and the Coors company was the official sponsor of one of the colleges I had a stint at. Not the whole college, just the football team. Win or lose, we get sloshed. I think that’s a funny thing to think about. It’s too hot for a porter. If I order something snooty she’ll call me a fag again. Being a beer guy is such a shitty type of guy to be. So is gamer, music guy, and film guy. Seems like the options all catch flack. Maybe people hate passion? She drinks a Daisy Cutter. She gets to be a beer girl, but I guess Daisy Cutter is everywhere and she faces the social pressure of being seen as boorish drinking cheap beer. I have to bristle with boorishness to be a man. I like scotch, but she drinks so much and I can’t drink five or six scotches. I wouldn’t function. She starts up again,
        “On the topic of kink – is there anything you want me to do to you?”
        “No. I’ll let you take the lead there. I just like getting people off and having sex with someone I want to fuck.” She’s about 8 years older, covered in ugly tattoos, rich as shit, smart, mean, and funding a lot of my life. I have an apartment, but she wants me over every time she’s back in the city. She had me watch her birds. She’s got one of those parrots that you have to write into your will. Having a creature that’ll outlive me kick shit and paper at me made me understand why my mom didn’t let me get a bird. He never shut the fuck up. I did about two months of dishes trying to be kind. Opening her fridge for only a moment made the apartment rancid for hours. She was usually on business trips shopping her patented technology around. To say more would be illegal. She’s been different to me since I signed the paper. She’d frequently complain about living in her father’s shadow. He had hundreds of patents and she had three. A failure of a child.
        “Are you sure you’re not a fag? I’ve never met a man who wants to get women off. Do you still love your ex or something? You just left her.”
        “I hope you meet a higher caliber of man when you’re off trying to not fuck me next time. I’m not exactly much. I’m sure there’s a lot of men who are considerate of their partners. I can assure you this isn’t about my ex. I don’t understand why you ask if I’m a fag. We’ve established that I’m bi. Is it a problem? Plus, not every gay guy is some weak loser.” I left my ex maybe a month ago. She also was worried I was a fag. She wouldn’t dare watch Moonlight with me when I said I relate to the closeted experience. We were always up at 5:30 AM for the pride parade with her dyke friends. I’ve been seeing The Inventor on and off since about two weeks after my engagement ended. Our first date was the night I moved into my new apartment. I had tickets to a show. I’m just trying to get out there. 
        “I know not every gay guy is a loser. I’ve fucked fags stronger than you.”
        “Maybe we’ve met the same guys.”
        “Are you trying to make me angry?”
        “I thought we weren’t exclusive.”
        “Have you fucked other people?”
        “Yeah, with a condom.” We get more drinks. This comment secures my ticket for the night. I get Coors. She gets a Daisy Cutter. She had drinks with her coworkers before this so it’s my job to play catchup. She orders me Jack Daniels. I know my whiskey order, but she’s buying, and likes ordering for me. The Jack is disgusting and I immediately turn to the Coors. Now I think I get her plan. I say, “Is there anything I can do for you in bed that doesn’t require extra people?” 
        “Of course. I want you to piss on me. No shit stuff though. That’s disgusting. I want to fist you. I want to have my ass eaten without you asking to fuck it after. This seems to be especially hard to find.” 
        “I’m fine with all of that. Are you wanting me to piss on you tonight?”
        “Are you stupid? After all that beer?” Here’s where I start to worry about who’s around me. How loud am I? She wants everything in public. She hates that it makes me anxious. I’m not trying to become a sex pest for someone who isn’t kind to me.” 
        “My bad. Sorry I don’t come with watersports experience to this gig.”
        “You don’t come with experience to anything. What’re you in school for right now?”
        “I’m working toward a history degree. Maybe I’ll write a book someday. Right now I’m taking anthropology and Spanish this summer.”
        “History of what?”
        “I get to pick my emphasis. I say something different every time. The gist is that it’s an emphasis in American fringe politics and labor history. I write a lot about violent labor struggles that have happened in the US. Longshoreman, Huey Long, the Haymarket affair, coal miners and Pinkertons, Lucy Parsons. I really love the stuff.” I’ll waste my capstone paper writing about the revolutionary potential of the No Wave scene as a response to the New Wave and the culture shifting period of art that encapsulates the bands that played CBGB and Mudd Club. Swans, Talking Heads, Blondie, Sonic Youth, David Geffen, the birth of radio alternative rock – that’s the revolution man. I was tired. I still am. 
        “You know I’m not going to pay your way. Why do you want to fuck me? I make machines that eliminate jobs. Just because I come from a good family doesn’t mean you can hitch on and stop working. I only understand that you’re a student. I once was too.”
        “You’re in a grad program. You still are. I didn’t think you would front my life. Tell me when you have a concrete number of jobs eliminated and we’ll hash out feelings. While we’re on that topic do you want me to split the bill?”
        “No. I wouldn’t have ordered so many for you without asking. I’ve seen your bank statement. C’mon. What is this? I told you to show up.”
        “Nothing is guaranteed. I don’t want to piss you off. Why do you have to bring up my bank statement?”
        “Just a reminder you don’t get a free ride even if we wind up a couple. Also, I’m going to Atlanta next week, Thursday to Tuesday. Do you want to come? It would be nice. Hotel living.”
        “That’s such short notice. You’ve seen my bank statement. I can’t. I have work.” She uses the money to push away my openness. I ask straight questions. The money is just one more reminder that this is temporary, transactional, mutual benefit, destined to extend past use-value. She’ll try to meet a guy in Atlanta and kick him out of the hotel room. Something just won’t be right. She’ll take me to one of her family’s cabins for a weekend to make up for it. She’ll pay for John Dillinger’s favorite steakhouse and we will eat four courses. She gives me the gift of trying many foods for the first time. I always provide something for her too in the end. I don’t like this negotiating tool. She says,
        “You’re pushing back tonight. Any reason?”
        “Don’t you want someone to hold their own?”
        “I know you can hold your own in a conversation already. Let’s get another round and go, but I’ve got one more question. It’s important I try to get to know you. Blur the lines a little. What’s your favorite moment in history?”
        “Hearing about Mao’s Long March in my modern China class was a humbling experience. To imagine any American man surviving something like that is bordering on impossible for me.”
        “Do you have to be so fucking single minded on this communism shit?”
        “I’m sorry. It’s a fixation, yes. Do you have a favorite moment in history?”
        “I do. Thanks for thinking there’s more than rocks in my head. Do you know about Catherine the Great?”
        “The horse fucker Catherine the Great?”
        “The one and only.”
        “Is that the reason?”
        “What kind of face is that? You could never understand the raw power of a horse.”
        “I think I do. I saw Mr. Hands as a kid. Do you understand the raw power of a horse?”
        “How would you respond if the answer was yes?”
        “I guess I’ll never have to worry about if I’m too small again.” 
        “What kind of answer is that?”
        “An accepting one.” I am not sure how many drinks I’ve had at this point. She doesn’t know I had two tallboys to calm the nerves before this. Every time I drink a tallboy alone I recite the Dennis Hopper Pabst Blue Ribbon line from Blue Velvet to myself. I get lost in the conversation. I can feel my bladder bursting so it must be a lot. I can’t piss in public bathrooms. Weird issue. I hope I’ll get that sorted one day.
        Her place is close to this bar. I wouldn’t have guessed that based on the path my phone took me from the Green Line. Everything she wants to go to is two miles from a train. We walk by restaurants and she tells me what she orders there. While passing some locations she’ll recite a date anecdote. She’s got a strong memory after all these drinks. Her building has three floors. She’s on the second. A record I bought for her is in the hall. She likes The Eagles. She pushes her ass into my face when we’re walking up to her apartment on the second floor. No underwear. I grab the railing so I don’t fall back down the stairs. My bag is heavy on my back. There’s an anthropology book pulling me back and the inside is filled with lazy highlighting indicating a pathologized look at genital trauma, human sacrifice, and the domestication of grains. Dying at a hookup isn’t my ideal way to go out.
        Her apartment is filthy. She lives alone in a two bedroom. I can move into the second room, but I have to pay rent. I’m trying to still drink a little freedom after the end of my engagement. The table is covered in photo books. Kim Kardashian’s selfie book is on one side and some erotic photographer I’m dumb to not recognize the name of is on the other. She offers me scotch. I decline. She says she needs to shower before we fuck and pours me a scotch. The scotch is a middle high priced bottle of a brand I don’t drink. I like something peaty or a good vanilla as a dominant note. She got this bottle from a boss or a boyfriend or some combination of the two. He’d like me. Everyone likes me. She puts the glass in my hand and tells me to come to the bathroom. Her bathroom is filthy. I sit on the toilet and take a sip. This scotch is fruity and sweet. I should be grateful. Once I’m done tasting I speak.
        “So how do you want to be fucked tonight?”
        “I want you to eat my ass. You said you would. You’ll have to eat my pussy first. How’s that? Want to add anything?”
        “That’s fine. Could you be a bit dominant?”
        “It turns me off that you want that you know. But, I loved breaking in boys in college.” She flashes a pin-up pose in the shower. I chuckle. I remember the time she alluded to flaying a boy’s back. I would let someone fuck me to death. 
        The Inventor finishes up in the shower and we go into the bedroom. She towels off. She instructs me to get naked. I walk up to her and kiss her. “Fag.”
        “I would really like you calling me a fag if I got the sense you liked me just a bit more. I can be transparent.” 
        “I’m fucking you aren’t I?”
        “I think this is where your and my love language differ.” 
        She kisses me. Likely in an attempt to shut me up. I walk backward to her bed. She has red lights all around her bedroom. Her bedspread is orange. Next to the head of the bed is a prairie wood dresser filled to the brim with dildos. On top there’s three separate speaker systems, a PAX vaporizer, and a Hitachi magic wand. 
        “Do you have a playlist you want me to be dominant to?” Of course I do. Nine Inch Nails, Deftones, PJ Harvey, New Order, Type O Negative. I lay in bed alone and imagine a happy woman getting railed to these songs enough times and they make it on. She fumbles with the device. I text her the playlist. Shuffle. Track one is “Feiticeira” off White Pony. We’re off to a good start. I think about the days when I was a DJ. I used to really love music. I slide down the bed, wrap my hands under her legs and rest them on her hips. She makes a deliberate effort to lock my head in. She pulls me closer and I sputter. Chino Moreno moans “First untie me, untie me for now.”
        We work a groove until I’m told to use fingers. She pushes her hips into the bed and thrusts her pussy up into my hand. I don’t feel like I’m really doing much to help, but sometimes all it takes is other flesh in the room. Then we both use fingers and she gets herself to cum. She prides herself on her ability to multiple orgasm. I would like to consistently orgasm. 
        “Eat my ass now.” She says it as she flips over. I’m happy to oblige. I know I can do it well. Competition here sounds slim though. Bottom of the top barrel? Top of the bottom? Always the lingering concern. I put both hands on her ass and start to work my tongue around the rim. She’s starting to make something like surprised sounds, interjected with noticeable in-breaths. I feel less anxious about whether we’re doing something boring. My eyes are open and my mind is drifting. Booze gets me tired. In this light some of the freckles on her ass blend in with the walls. I hate to disappoint. She sighs and mumbles a half thank you into the pillow. 
        We keep at this until she tells me to fuck her. I can’t get it up. She tries to get me hard. I can’t get it up. I blame the drinks. She asks if I’m too drunk. I might be. I wouldn’t drive. I can’t get it up. I’ve done all this shit drunk before though. We solve this dilemma while puffing on her vape. She tells me some dumb shit about dry vape being better. People aren’t just handing out drugs to me everywhere I go. I’m happy to be high. She brings up that she paid for tonight and I better get hard soon. This is how it goes more than it doesn’t with us. 
        “So gayboy since you can’t get hard can I fuck your ass?”
        “Yeah. No one ever wants to. Do you want to use a toy or your hand?”
        “Could you fit a fist?” 
        “Probably.” She pushes me on my back and spreads my legs. I don’t understand why she didn’t have me shower too. She puts her face in my legs and I feel wetness. “No. Stop. Fucking only don’t lick.” She doesn’t stop. I crawl up the bedpost. “Seriously, don’t try and eat my ass. I’m not into fucking receiving like that.”
        “I’m sorry.” She’s grabbing the lube now. She pours a generous helping on her hand and makes that pinching hand shape. PJ Harvey switches to “Physical (You’re So)” and I open up my legs. When the guitars hit I loosen up. She’s laughing. Her hand is in my ass up to the wrist and my stomach is distended before me. I love to be used.
        “I’m impressed you weren’t lying.” She doesn’t need the explanation. I’ve had my fair share of objects up my ass. She moves her hand around until I grind my hips into the bed. The moment I take a little control she’s slid out of me. I’m starting to feel like an experiment. “Can I tie you up?”
        “If you do – don’t do anything funny. I’m really trusting you here.” I had been tied up once before in Brittany’s basement. Marty used cables while Brittany played Resident Evil: Code Veronica X. He shoved a Rock Band drum stick up my ass. My Abercrombie shamrock boxers got stuffed in my asshole. I had to throw them out. I never got to that Resident Evil game. People say it’s great.
        The Inventor cuffs me with my hands above my bed. She ties a clove hitch knot around her bedpost and uses it to secure the cuffs. She ties my feet together with a double bowline. I can twist around, but I can’t go anywhere. “Reptile” is up next. “Do you have that knife you always carry?”
        “Why are you asking that now?” This is too much of an answer. She leaves the room to find my bag. I try to focus on Trent’s voice. “She spreads herself wide open to let the insects in.” 
        When she comes back I beg her to not do anything. She’s just playing around. This is dominant. She uses the spring action to open the blade. The Inventor traces my leg. She moves the tip of the blade to my thigh. I twitch. I try not to struggle. I’m cuffed. I’m so fucked, man. I try to think about how much Coors I had. I remember that Coors was founded by Adolph Coors. She puts the serrated part of the blade against my balls and laughs. I’m shaking a lot now. “Why can’t you get hard?”
        “C’mon this isn’t funny. This is scary. Stop.” She puts the flat end of the blade under my flaccid cock and lifts it up to her face. I try to not move. Adolph’s son Joseph was a prominent contributor to the John Birch society. Isn’t this my just desserts? She works hard for her money. I can’t get it up. 
        “You like to be marked up, right?” Yes. That happened. I didn’t think I’d have my own blade turned on me. One of my friends always asks me if I have my knife when we’re drunk. I usually say yes. He says it’s gonna get turned on me one day. I say it has been. He forgets every time. He only asks it when he’s pretty drunk. 
        The Inventor carves her name into my left leg. I feel the tension in my muscles if I think about it too long to this day. It was disgusting. The iron smell of blood mixing with that lingering scent of jelly and shithole. Another project patented. I don’t remember getting untied. I fell asleep in her arms. She took me out to breakfast. I saw her a few more times. She found me a few more after I told her to stop contacting me. I wonder who takes care of her birds now.