need a scapegoat for what doesnt work out in my life, and I hurt
people doing it."
was like they had some government support network for ex-girlfriends to
spread dirt on you the minute you did something wrong.
Ever slap two thawed
pork chops against the hood of a Cadillac on a frosty, February morning?
This was the sound Camerons feet made every day when he dropped
them from the sanctity of sleep to the resounding sobriety of a cold,
wooden floor, glimmering in barren purity, stretching impeccably across
his entire studio. And so it seemed that with the rise and fall of the
sun, every new day was yet one more through which Cameron must suffer
the annoyance of not being dead. It seemed that way every day until today.
The telephone, a coiled viper of venomous verbalization, is a brutal way
to shake one from slumber. Yet, at the deafening surreal existence of
twelve thirty on a Saturday morning, this was precisely what plucked Cameron
from his blissful dip from consciousness.
"Hello?" Cameron spoke in an irritated whisper, rattling the
phone against his head in the black, cloudy stupor that accompanies the
unexpected raping of ones dreams.
"Hi." It was Steff. She spoke with a vulnerable, nasal tone,
like a voice on those 911 phone recordings on TV emergency shows.
"Yeah?" Cameron asked with a yawn, hoping she would get to the
point, a practice of futility. "What is it?"
"Oh, well you left your James Thurber thing over here. You need to
pick it up today so we can finally get all this over with." All this?
That didnt sound right.
"W-w-wait a minute," Cameron stammered, a reddening wave of
dominance cascading like a hormonal avalanche to the ends of his extremities,
"what do you mean by all this? Are you insinuating that there is
the need for a label to the mild amount of effort involved in transferring
my few possessions that I may have accidentally left at your apartment
on the few occasions I even stayed overnight?"
"Cameron, does everything have to be so horribly difficult?"
An even weaker twinge had taken over Steffs battered vocal chords.
"You are the one who always talks about scapegoats; I cant
believe how you can turn on me!" Her words held so much worth with
those who hadnt dated her.
"As I recall," Cameron began, pull-starting his little gasoline
generator of witty argumentative rebuttals, "it was you who was a
fucking cunt and cheated on me in your hometown, and dont try that
different area code exemption rule on me; youre the woman, you are
supposed to be the virtuous one."
"Oh now we are playing role games, Cam? Fuck that. I am just going
to toss the fucking Thurber w-whatever it is to the curb and"
"ITS A PORTRAIT," Cameron shot forth with the angst of
a Smashing Pumpkins groupie. "Its not a thing, its not a w-w-whatever;
its a fucking portrait, its lines on a page and can be recreated
so dont twist it around on me. Jeezus, what are they teaching you
business majors anyway?"
Silence. Not the silence of anger, but the silence of shock, a shock that
someone could hurt you so easily.
"Goodbye, Cameron, I hope you feel better about yourself now that
you have taken control of the conversation. You just always need to be
Cameron, a self-imprisoned holocaust victim, laid still as a corpse in
his foldout coffin. He stared at a faded Jamaican flag tacked to the ceiling
for eons, (actually, only forty-five minutes) contemplating what he saw
to be the end of any contact with Steff indefinitely. His pining had been
fairly successful. It was only this morning that everything had become
clear; the origin to it all had finally been made visible. Cameron had
to put Steff and her insistence on prolonging the inevitable behind him.
The past is the foundation and destruction of a revolution; I want evolution.
The evolution of a breakfast: in the beginning there were eggs and milk;
a great heat emerged and the two life forces emulsified, only to meet
the ultimate boon of melted feta cheese and the almighty mushroom; the
birth of an omelet.
This was now the plague of Cameron at a shadowy one thirty in the afternoon,
as he stumbled over Nietzsche and Foucault while attempting to clothe
himself, his shivering package embracing the newfound warmth of boxer
briefs in the frigid chill of his cold, wooden studio. Sitting alone,
in his voluntarily dark and malnourished studio, he was happiest. Reading
slowly yet astutely, Cameron studied the works of Chekhov and Dostoevsky;
crime and punishment; pain and redemption.
Cameron marveled in the reliability of his food co-op. On the outside,
his smoke-stained, crème-colored refrigerator looked like some
run-down, fifties import out of a David Fincher movie, yet was housing
to a sanitary, well kept assortment of fresh foods for cooking a variety
of pallet-pleasing, gourmet entrees, even tofu for those eccentric wok
occasions. "Eating well, no more TV dinners
" And it was
only a seventy-dollar charge per month for nutritional enlightenment.
The evolution of an upright citizen: in the waters of a hot shower a man
can wash his sin away, covering up the funk of impurity with the sharp,
angelic scent of Irish Spring soap; a shave to show an honest face; a
comb to straighten what roams free; roll-on, antiperspirant godliness.
I wonder how many times a day the Pope brushes his teeth. Cameron emerged
from the shower, slender, sinewy limbs dripping in the glistening humidity
clinging also to the walls and mirror in his cramped bathroom. At least
it is a private bathroom; no more TP seat covers
Staring at himself
naked, he was not ashamed of his thin, barren physique, but marveled in
its nihilistic refusal to die. Fuck the gym; that is so artificial. Embracing
your healthiness in a cement compound that destroyed wildlife areas and
farmland... Everyone is so in tune with their Chi. He chuckled to himself
in his cynicism.
Despite his rampant trashing of the mainstream, Cameron knew it was a
good sign. At least I feel something. With the speed of time-lapse photography,
his mental conversation had ended and he was now completely dressed and
ready to venture out into the labyrinth of drum shops, lattes and video
games that a large city had to offer. Like many other days, Cameron had
assembled the apparel of a sophisticated stoner: polished leather shoes,
soft jeans or corduroy pants, multiple, non-matching shirts and of course,
dark sunglasses. His brown hair fell just over his glasses and dangled
loosely by his temples, but thanks to the lard-heap of gel Cameron insisted
upon using, it wouldnt be free to move for long. In his red pleather
jacket rested a stash tin, a bic lighter and a pinchiethe bare minimum.
Into his CD player went Sweep the Leg Johnnys new release, and out
the studio Cameron strolled, leaving a slouchy kitten dubbed William the
Conqueror yawning in his wicker basket.
Cheeks had been up since ten thirty, when he revived his girlfriend, Elena
to the taste of "serene" chamomile tea and toast. Elena adored
that nurturing aspect in Cheeks, and they loved to vegetate within the
warmth of Cheeks plush, cozy apartment for hours on end. A good
many weekend nights had been ended with a four-hour movie marathon from
within Cheeks abode, frequenting such films as Fight Club, Run Lola
Run, and anything directed by Kevin Smith.
Cheeks was the type of trusting, romantic dolt that could devote himself
on end and not think twice about it. This made him a very good friend,
but an easy tool to manipulate. Cameron had looked out for Cheeks, warding
off the party whores who would latch onto Cheeks for some various, selfish
agenda, like prick teasing him to death to make themselves feel prettier.
Elena made Camerons job a lot easier.
Elena was a girl that Cheeks had met in one of his classes. Elena, for
a long time, didnt know Cameron. Cameron used to have contempt for
the girl; she had stolen his friend, but upon actually meeting her and
becoming aware of her sharp wit and hilarious ability to prod the honesty
out of most situations, Cameron gave Cheeks an official "toke of
approval on the girl situation." Elena, she was a good woman too,
she looked out for Cheeks the same way he did for her. She valued him
like a lock of Fabios hair, and in that resided the respect in which
their relationship was founded--a mutual concern for and reliance upon
Three o clock in the afternoon; three knocks at the door, spaced
out like that of a detective on a drug bust. In response, Cheeks fumbled
a pipe out of his shaking hand and into his lap, spilling ash everywhere.
Meanwhile, Elena wailed without sympathy from the bed in response, laughter
echoing expansively through the thin walls of the apartment. She rolled
off the flip-n-fuck giggling, and swayed in slow, heavy steps across the
dark blue carpet (which somehow was supposed to match the tan wallpaper)
and finally to the door. A peephole is a marvelous evolution, an instantaneous,
Louis and Clark-style exploration into the outside world. Residing outside,
chai in hand, was Cameron.
"Open the door you fuckin dyke," Cameron demanded with
a smirk from the street, shaking the moisture of a misty day off his jacket.
Elena, a golem in response to Camerons "joke," unlatched
the chain and invited inside the vampirish terror that was one Cameron
"Thats the thanks I get for feeding your cat last week?"
Elena asked as she quickly cut off the crisp, winter winds intrusion
into the apartment, slamming the door and chaining it shut. "You
need to take better care of William, Cam," Elena cautioned with the
know-how that accompanies a veterinary degree, "or he wont
attach to you." Cameron bowed in monk-like attrition from behind
the chai and sealed the lie with a warm hug; a hug that had gotten him
out of many a shit storm before; girls loved that hug.
"CHEEKY!" Cameron called across the room, causing Cheeks to
again fumble the bowl out of his fingers, this time while cleaning it.
Cheeks could clean a piece better than anyone; once this steamroller saw
so much action, it was completely clogged with resin. Twenty minutes later,
Cheeks had the thing cleaner than the china in cabinets that your grandparents
Cheeks and Cameron had both picked cotton at the same plantation of a
high school, and upon finding similar interests in music, humor and recreational
tendencies, became far better friends upon escaping to the same college.
They shared rides home and smoked the whole way.
Upon locating Cheeks, scrubbing away from the sanitation of the kitchen
at some glassware in a yellowed, porcelain sink, Cameron began with the
dramatics of a General Hospital rerun, like he usually did.
"What up compadre, yo I got some shit to tell you man," Cameron
declared, forewarning of the rant to come. "So guess who calls me
at like nine in the fucking morning?" Cameron began, asking rhetorically.
He didnt have time to answer his own question.
"Actually," Elena cut in, "it was more like twelve thirty."
She had the inside story. Shit. Cameron was amazed how fast word traveled.
It was like they had some government support network for ex-girlfriends
to spread dirt on you the minute you did something wrong. "I talked
to Steff this morning right before she called you. She wanted me to pick
up your stuff for you, but I insisted you would pay her at least that
much respect." That was the assumption of a foolish carpenter.
"Heh, think again E; I stuck it to her cheatin
heart like any self-respecting person shouldve done." Cameron
felt guilty about the way things had turned out, preferring to savor the
drunkenness and not the vomit of his relationship gone awry. The pair
had long been unhinging, however; like most things, if you werent
growing, you were dying. The evolution of a failed relationship
In the beginning there was courtship. Not the hokey, flowerful sense of
courtship, but the realistic, considerate and expressive sense of courtship;
the type of courtship that exists when you care about someone so much
(or at least you tell yourself that you do), you just cant fuck
around. Sure, there was romantic sentiment; it was the icing on the cake,
sweet with the taste of Camerons cooking and exploration of the
arts. The humanities, it seemed, possessed a similar passion for indulgence
that one can find in an interesting, attractive woman. Camerons
quick wit and Steffs infatuation with beauty mixed like vermooth
and gin, and things grew.
Things grew into comfort. This comfort grew into laziness, a laziness
of rented videos and repeated sexual indulgences. This was the basement
lifethe hybrid of life that kills most young relationships; its
so much easier to sit alone in your basement and piece it up all night
than it is to go out on the town and eventually make it home, like back
when you were trying to win her over. This was the beginning of the end.
"So you gave her shit," Elena scolded, brow wrenched at a torqued,
obtuse angle. "You are the most egotistical"
"We can make false accusations all day," Cameron interrupted,
taking the bull of reason by the horns, "or we can cut the fat off
this big ball of lard to find the one, ultimate chunk of truthitude at
the core of this bundle of illogical nonsense." He was on a roll;
their attention was his. "May I continue," Cameron asked with
an emerging smirk.
Cheeks was starting to get nervous about the overly sarcastic argument.
He didnt understand the terms of Cameron and Elenas friendship;
it was forged on sincere respect for the other, and thus all bullshit
was eliminated. Sometimes toes got stepped on, but it was never either
of their intentions; calling each other off-sides showed a hell of a lot
more consideration than just standing by like every other idiot that was
too lacking in confidence to stand up for what was right. The evolution
"Cameron, lets just smoke a bowl and relax in the kitchen,"
Cheeks pleaded, trying to break things up like the chubby little barkeep
he was deep down. His efforts were timed like a NSA assassination, as
Camerons eyes lit up like fireflies behind his shades for all to
see. Thankfully for Cameron, he didnt have time to escalate the
argument to something more damaging.
now youre speaking my language, Cheekster,"
Cameron reported, marking his change in attitude with his distinguishing
grin, "pack it up; Ill hit you back later." Later being
One nugget of marijuana quickly shuffled loose its mortal coil, and two
nineteen-year-old guys now fell victim to the paralysis of the munchies.
Elena hadnt smoked yet; she was considering it, if by "considering"
you mean tempted at every turn to join in the love parade exclusive to
only those who burned the root.
"Elena, my dear," Cameron trumpeted, addressing her grandly
with a Turkish Gold trumpeting from the corner of his mouth, "take
me to a party tonight and introduce me to women." Such a quick counter
from being a parasite under the microscope only moments ago. Cameron:
1; Elena: 0.
"Why? Why should I Cam," she reasoned almost too logically,
"whats to say you arent going to shit on this one because
how would it go? Too nice?" That was a good
question. Cameron, surprisingly enough, had found the answer just this
"Well after my conversation with the queen of monogamy this morning,
that is after she woke me up at the ass crack of dawn to bitch about my
" Cameron again was cut off.
"It was twelve thirty!!" Elena steamed, amazed at Camerons
ability to bend the truth like a wad of play-doh to fit his argument.
"No matter the specifics," Cameron countered, again dodging
the bullet of logic by millimeters, "I came to the revelation that
being angry is easy. I cant just lie on my ass and expect things
to come my way. I have to act, not react. So, take me to a party tonight
and I will demonstrate my newfound admiration for the natural habits of
some fine, young lay-days".
"Natural habits??" Elena was dumbfounded by Camerons soliloquy;
it was so distant from his usual attitude, like he was reading his opinions
out of a book of cliff notes.
"Yeah," Cameron quickly replied, losing himself in a wave of
virtuosity, rising like driftwood on its crest, "I had a TA last
semester that has been coaching me along in my writing, but solely by
definition what he says seems to go beyond school." Such admiration,
I hope this doesnt sound sexual. "He seems to know the answers
to questions I cant even begin to form with language." Breathe in.
"What he told me," Cameron stated as softly as a secret, "was
that the frustration I have been experiencing comes with intellect."
This made good enough sense to Cameron; he was a clever guy. "So
when I enter a public setting and my little social sex antenna clicks
on, I compare everyone in the room by my own standards for cleverness.
Yet, in doing this, I ignore the possibility for a completely different
type of intellect." Breathe in. Cheeks had a look on his face like
a calculus book just hit him in the forehead at mach three. Cameron continued
"None of it really hit home until this morning," Cameron explained,
taking note of the glare on Elenas face saying, "Just bitch
about Steff again." "Steff and I got in an argument, she and
I both were very brutal to each other." Cameron felt the guilt brewing
inside of him, a churning vat of whispers for only him to know. "And
after it was all over," Cameron continued, his own voice now bending
in its harsh tone, "I saw that nothing had been accomplished."
Cameron turned his back to his friends under the shame of his own tears,
like condensation on a teakettle ready to scream. "And this anger,"
Cameron stammered in a shudder of release to an empty corner, "all
of this that I carry with me, it doesnt solve anything." Pant;
wheeze. "I need a scapegoat for what doesnt work out in my
life, and I hurt people doing it." A rip in the wallpaper now occupied
Camerons attention, his fingers nervously inspecting its edges.
"I cant do this anymore," he reassured himself, the wallpaper
and his friends, "because as my TA says, everyone is clever
in their own fucked up way, and the key to finding happiness in
others is not to get stuck on finding someone to blame when your intellects
dont match, its in accepting the mismatches as part of the
relationship pseudo-lottery and holding out for your quasi-jackpot."
Cameron wheezed in emotional exhaustion. Cheeks had a smirk on his face
and nodded in agreement with Camerons words, but had the hint of
his "just a little too fucking abstract for me" face peeking
out from his raised eyebrows.
Elena sat there for a moment wrapped in a bedspread and silently considered
the stunning, humble honesty to Camerons revelation. She also wondered
if pseudo and quasi were muppet babies, but her mind couldnt wander
"So here I stand," Cameron declared, quickly emancipating himself
from the threat of being identified as sensitive, "knowing how to
deal with what lies ahead of me; all I have to do is be real and meet
people. You, Elena, must make it happen."
"Well," Elena bided, while thinking over her evenings
plans, "I am going to a house party with some girls from my floor
tonight. You two could come with." Elena lived in a dorm. Cameron
had his own thoughts on the life support of disconnected dorm life, but
it was not like he was complaining about the situation; it was a good
deal that Cheeks and Elena had worked outshe spent the night at
Cheeks on certain occasions and her residency in a dorm meant possible
inlets for Cameron to explore within her circle of friends. By accomplishing
this, Cheeks and Cameron could once again hang out at their previous,
obnoxiously inseparable rate, now while simultaneously juggling the girlfriend
Ask Cheeks about this strategy and he would deny it. Cameron, as usual,
had a contrary belief about their tactics and saw no shame in chasing
girls Elena knew; it was a good window through which Cameron could escape
his first impressions, which were usually his falling point with women
because holding his tongue was a habit seldom practiced, not to mention
his tendencies to spew projectile bullshit as if it were vomit and he
There were many advantages to rummaging through girls of Elenas
acquaintance, but the best aspect in Camerons eyes was the simple
fact that the friends with whom women surround themselves often share
similar ethics and ideals, and Elena was a pretty cool chick.
Nine thirty rolled around quickly, if by quickly you mean, "after
a large amount of weed cached in various pipes and washed down with a
pizza." Cheeks threw on a sweater and some cologne. Cameron was dressed
to depress, thwarting any attempt at a tradition or pattern to his dressing
habits; he wore what pleased his fingers as they browsed through the closet.
The evolution of a fashion-oriented culture.
In the beginning, there were the conformists. Sociologically, it is human
nature to conform, and rebellion is the result of extended intellectual
development and the sense of criticism by which it is accompanied. When
everyone conformed, there was much joy; the trendsetters felt important
and influential, and the weak lackeys thereafter found confidence in their
ability to follow suit.
Then, a great revolution befouled this harmony with a demand for ethics
and intellectual representation in opposition to materialist indulgences.
With this came the emergence of an angry subculture, swearing off the
materialist ties of the social conformists plaguing society with their
blissful ignorance. Instead, they turned to an alternative fashion and
music scene, constructing a bitter rivalry within the socially elite to
see who can win the race to enlightenment. Apparently, via dyeing ones
hair black and wearing second or even third-hand clothing, this quintessential
subversion will lead ultimately to nirvana. Literally.
Obvious enough to Cameron in the wake of his recent mental remapping,
this "reverse-structuralism" would lead inevitably to failure
in its demand for an institution to replace the one prior; the evolution
of a failed revolution; certainty and assumption the tragic flaw. Its
all straight from the mouth of Paulo Freire.
Camerons own course of action seemed obviousdont be
certain. By building up expectations and reliance upon assumption you
segregate yourself from your ultimate range of potential. The night ahead
was a blank chalkboard.
Cameron, despite the seriousness of his past relationships, was virgin
to a lot of things.
"I know a few girls who are single, Cam," Elena mouthed to the
hollow chasm of Camerons consciousness as she threw on her jacket,
bringing him screaming from his vacuous explorations and back into the
blaring illumination of reality.
"Great," Cameron replied in an uplifting manner that fit him
like a Doberman in a tutu. "I am up for meeting anyone you deem cool
shit." Such trust Cameron displayed in Elenas judgment. Yes,
thats right, I said YOU could pick out girls for me! So it was decided,
and was done.
It seemed like an instant and they were in the dorms. Ahh, the familiar
smell of social isolation in the evening. Herein lie row upon row of students
who lean on the crutch of drug abuse and beer binging to combat their
lack of social ties. Foreign and exempt from the culture of the city (and
yes, there is one) surrounding their university, these students have no
ties to their surroundings and will seldom reach out to take in what exists
beyond the streets of the college and surrounding housing.
Faster than stereotypically imaginable, the girls on the floor had been
rounded up and crammed into the only working, stuffy, ghetto-fabulous
elevator that smelled like three days worth of malt liquor and vomit
had been somehow implanted into the hard, plastic interior of the dimly
lit deathtrap. Fourteen bodies each weighing on average one hundred forty
pounds. Maximum weight
Where do they post that anyway???
Cameron had previously engaged in the usual "beer and circus"
antics of college life, clinging to the coattails of his former dorm mates
a couple of times his freshman year. He found the party scene to be one
ephemeral, draining cycle. In terms of intellect, the women he met seldom
had more to offer than a night of Cartoon Network at home, and none of
the innocence. He could see their own selfish agendas wofting about them
like the sorrowful stench of a djambe drum circle, dread-locked, deodorant-opposing
hippies banging away. Why else would they need alcohol to get them laid,
that is if men in fact are as horny as all the man-hating lesbians want
us to think? To Cameron, it seemed like feminism had somehow changed ideologies
from "up with women" in the sixties to its current motto, "down
with men." Cameron, oppositely, was amused with the puppet show people
enjoyed forcing upon one another, oblivious to the significance of their
Cameron, Elena and Cheeks brought up the rear of the caravan, the group
walking briskly to avoid the chill of the February air, quickly wrapping
itself around the frail frames of the scantily clad women leading the
pack. The party bumped on only a few blocks from the dormitory, and soon
enough the cavalry had reached the fort, each shaking off the breath of
a deathly winter wind as they entered the sanctity of a house sweating
from the inside, coughing forth bellows of hot, sticky warmth. The evolution
of a fire code violation.
In the beginning there was a house. Not your typical, occupied, cluttered
house, but the shell of a house; a house stripped down to its barest minimums,
anything of value locked safely away from where "guests" could
Then, the word was spread, indigenous peoples leaking out word of the
gathering. And then, once the slightest hint of a party slithered its
way down the streets of private housing and into the nearby dorms, the
students came like masses to worship, idolaters to metallic kegs stacked
higher than God himself. Statistically, more than half of these masses
"The mix is warm," Cheeks warned as he dipped his five-dollar
plastic cup into the cooler full of whop. Elena was off in search of mixed
drinks. Cameron didnt mind the temperature, as long as the mix called
for an ass load of liquor. He was a camel at an oasis, sucking in as much
as he could before venturing out into the desolation of the dance floor.
The fruit juices masked the liquor almost completely, but Cam could still
feel it, burning below. Nine drinks and now Im good. Thirteen? Ehh,
Yet, instead of dancing, Cameron had found his way into the sweaty, back
corner of the crowded basement to toke a pinchie-full of mid-grade Buddha,
adding a calm, relaxed attitude to his drunk that was so vividly consuming
him. Yet, despite his best-laid plans, Cameron remained in the shadows,
not interacting with many of the girls to whom Elena had already introduced
him. This isnt where I need to look. Why cant I follow through
with my intentions? I talk so much and do so little.
"Excuse me," a red-haired girl said to Cameron, grabbing him
by the arm. She had that "snotty till I give you head"
aura to her, and one of those fancy, petticoat jackets in her arm. Something
I can do? Let me rephrase that
What can I do to get you to be perfect?
"Are you taking coats," she asked. Wait a minute
What?" Cameron was astounded by the fire-crotchs
ignorance; he stood there, jaw agape.
"I asked you if you were taking coats," the fire crotch repeated,
"you are standing in front of the coat racks. Dont you live
here?" Cameron whirled around to find the eyes of forty or so silhouettes,
stacked neatly in rows, staring him down from the shadows. I am such a
moron. Of course she would assume
No matter, just get out of this.
"Uhh, no but for you I can make an exception," Cameron said,
managing to stamp "HORNY DRUNK RETARD" square on his forehead.
"Actually," the fox said, shaking her fluffy tail in rejection,
"my friends and I have to leave now. Sorry." Why cant
she just be honest? There is so much more respect in honesty. Cameron
slid away from in front of the coat racks and to an even darker corner
near the stairs.
The dagger of drunken depression plunged into Camerons side, sweeping
the strength from his legs and sending him crumpling back against the
wall and then onto his ass. No one had yet to notice, Cameron was already
hidden in the shadows of the stairwell. He clenched his fists and squinted
his eyes to hold back the tears of an internal collapse in his chest.
So this is vertigo. It felt as if all strength, both physical and emotional,
had been suspended from him, and now only Cameron and his thoughts lay
in symposium. The veil of confusion was pulled away, and from deep inside
of himself, Cameron discovered an answer: himself. With all this circular
bullshit he kept reintroducing to himself, he was only drifting further
away from the warm shores of contentment. There were no reasons, only
questions. You can only dredge through the same possibilities for so long.
Fresh blood was needed.
At that moment, Cameron emerged from his shivering fetus of intoxication
and arose to the tall, slender sophistication that originated in his very
marrow. He swallowed back one more splash of lukewarm whop from his crumpled,
semi-transparent cup, pitched it into the darkness and looked out among
the masses. The shepherd and his flock.
Then, just as he had come to terms with the indecipherable complexity
of the circumstances containing him at present, a beautiful girl emerged
from the crowd like a savior in the Nile. Yet, instead of beginning with
verbal communication, she proceeded to immediately rub her ass against
Camerons genitals to the beat of Sir Mix-a-Lot. And your name is?
Cameron, gelatinous as a rotting squid on a spike, continued to lean motionlessly
against a support beam until the girl lost interest and retreated in confusion.
A smile meandered its way across Camerons face, dripping in subversive
stubbornness, as every other guy in the room shook their head in confusion.
At least she wont remember it tomorrow; now everyone probably thinks
Im a flamer. These clothes arent helping me out in that department
either. No matter, this is all just acting anyway
Soon enough the man of the hour had his homophobia under control and he
again remained at rest, his back to the pillar; potential energy. So this
is what it feels like to have a backbone. His amazement with the plethora
of beauty surrounding him had changed more quickly than the seasons in
a calendar, to a horrid aftertaste of dissatisfaction. Cameron saw Cheeks
and Elena nestled away by the keg, so content and so at home. From this
sight Cameron could feel only envy. He wanted so much to find what they
had discovered long ago, but compromise himself? Nonsense. What did Elena
say to me? Lose all hope
Cameron buttoned up his jacket and lit a cigarette he had bummed off a
B-string football player earlier that evening, his own full pack resting
snugly in his jacket pocket. Cheeks noticed the preparations across the
room, but Cameron faked a smile and waved, soothing Cheeks sense
of obligation for the time being. A smile is the easiest thing to fake.
Cheeks would call tomorrow to catch up on what he missed, a whole lot
of nothing. As Cameron ascended the stairwell, fleeing the dungeon, he
felt only remorse, a remorse that he had fooled himself into thinking
he could be strung along by his cock like every other guy in the basement
he had just bid adieu. Perfume drenched his nasal passages in the imagery
of French whores smoking long, stuffy cigarettes as he scooted through
a circle of girls crowding the entry way. A few of them gave him cock-eyed
glances that Cameron couldnt differentiate between wanting his body
and solemn disapproval of his perceived independence. He took his chances
with the latter.
Deep down, Cameron cared more about the imaginary pimples on his ass than
he did about going home with some tramp that, with a little help from
her trashy friends, could assemble the colors of a bag of Easter M&Ms
with their collective tank tops. He exhaled one big lungful of smoke in
the face of the haughtiest-looking girl of all, her breasts as characteristically
overplayed as her condescending brow. As her eyes winced and she coughed
amidst the opaque, twisting decay that he had summoned forth, Cameron
could only grin in the defiance of a puppy shitting on an oriental rug
instead of on a nearby newspaper.
And with that, a whirl of red pleather marked the Sexual Avengers
exit from the party as he stumbled out the busted screen door and into
the night alone. For once, Cameron thought, being alone is okay. He didnt
know whom or what he would encounter tomorrow, but he found a little peace
in that. Finally, Cameron had done some evolving of his own.
© Nathan West 2002
Previously by Nathan West
The Bone Whittler
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