Sexting Mom

Last Saturday, I was the featured storyteller in an improv series called Lafayette Famous. I was asked to prepare three true stories from my life to be delivered onstage, while the improvisers created scenes based on themes from each. This is the one of those true stories, written as a monologue.

Story 2: Sexting Mom

So when I was in college, I dated this guy for years and we had a very healthy sex life. And we were actually very sweet to each other too: We would walk to class together and often run into each other on campus.

Well one day, I pass him on Rex Street and we kiss each other and we keep walking in opposite directions. So I arrive at my Louisiana Folklore class and I sit down, and I get a text from my boyfriend and it says the grossest, most sexually explicit thing I’ve ever read.

Then I get a text from my mom and I hurry up and close that and go back to my boyfriend’s text.

So now he and I are sexting, right? And now I have to top his text, so I write something even more graphic. I’ve probably said grosser things by now because I’ve gotten more creative with age, but at the time, my response painted a pretty disgusting picture of what I wanted this boy to do to me — using words like “ride” and “squirt” and “chest.”

So I send it, and I wait for a response. But nothing. 10 minutes and nothing.

Then I get this sinking feeling in my stomach and I check my outbox and realize something:

[LONG PAUSE]

I accidently sent the text to my mom.

Sitting there in my Louisiana Folklore class, I have a full-blown panic attack and turn beet-red and grip the edges of my desk and make all these weird noises and Dr. Wilkerson comes over and she’s like “Hey, what’s wrong?!” And I say, “It’s my mom!” Which is a very scary thing to say.

And then my mom texted me back.

And it said:

“That was obviously not for me. I’m very disturbed.”

And I didn’t go home to New Orleans for three months.

Meeting Audrey

Last Saturday, I was the featured storyteller in an improv series called Lafayette Famous. I was asked to prepare three true stories from my life to be delivered onstage, while the improvisers created scenes based on themes from each. This is the one of those true stories, written as a monologue.

Story 3: Meeting Audrey

I recently became a godfather and I’d like to tell you story about the first time I met my goddaughter, Audrey.

My cousin Lauren was due on October 24th and she lives in New Orleans, so I made sure that I was in town for that entire weekend. Well, the due date comes and goes and the nurses tell her that they’re just going to induce the following Tuesday.

So Saturday morning, my best friend John tells me he has an extra ticket to this big Halloween Party called Hell’s Gala that night. So I’m like “Yeah, I really really want to come, but my cousin was having contractions earlier and I should just check in with her and make sure the baby isn’t coming tonight.” So I call Lauren and she says, I’m here at the hospital but they might send me home because my contractions aren’t nearly close enough together.” So I took that as, “Go ahead and party.”

So I dress up as a slice of pepperoni pizza and I paint my face with little olives and pepperonis and me and John go out. And we have a long history of pushing our night to the max where we fit everything possible into one night and we will drink like monsters and its only by the grace of God that we’re still alive—and I fucking mean that. So we go to this pre-party at this GORGEOUS loft in the warehouse district and we have a photoshoot in their copper clawfoot tub and John walks up to one of the party guests and he’s like “UM. Are you on American Horror Story?!” and I’m like “Just because she’s a black woman does not mean she’s Angela Bassett. And the woman actually tuned out to be Lynn Whitfield from the Tyler Perry movies and I was like “Well, you were close.”

We finally head out to Hell’s Gala where we make this big scene and then we grab a cab to Bourbon where run into my friend Travis. And this is where things get hazy.

The next thing I remember is sitting in a cab at 3:30AM and looking down at my phone to see 26 missed calls and a text that reads, “she’s here!” So I flip OUTTTTTT and I tell the driver to drive faster and I get to my car, and I drive all the way to Ochsner in Metairie and throw the car into park right on the street and I’m sprinting down hallways, screaming “LABOR AND DELIVERY!” And somehow, I find my family in one of the waiting rooms and I run over and I’m sweating and they’re just staring at me. And that’s when I realize I’m still dressed up like a slice of pizza. And everyone is laughing at me. So my aunt Lisa comes out from the back and ushers me into this dimly lit room where there’s this baby and I just see her and I lose it. I’m crying and I’m in love with her. And I’m promising to buy her a car and ponies and pay for private school and then they let me hold her and I’m kissing her and sobbing and I’m overwhelmed like I’ve never been before.

This goes on for hours. I climb into bed with Lauren and I run my fingers through her hair and I’m kissing her. And at no point does it occur to me that this behavior is odd and my parents are staring at me. And finally, at one point, I put on Dancing In The Moonlight, and I dance all over the room with this baby in my arms because I wanted to be the first person to dance with her.

And while the song is playing, my phone dings, so I check it and there’s a text from my friend Travis who I ran into earlier on Bourbon.

And it reads, “Hey man. Is that ecstasy kicking in yet?”

I Should Go

I should go.

I should be going.

As soon as I open my eyes, I’m going to grab my underwear from that chair by the window, and my shorts from under the bed, and my shirt from wherever I tossed it — wherever that is.

My shoes are by the front door, I think. Loafers with tassels. Why did I even do that? Oh right, because I couldn’t find my flip-flops this morning.

Shit. I should go.

But I think I’ll stay a little longer.

I hope you don’t mind. This is usually the part where we both get redressed and stutter through mindless small talk. So what are your plans later? How long are you in town for? What do you do, again? These are just things to be said so that we don’t have to face our own indignity in front of someone who just discovered how [and who] we really are. But we’re not doing that right now. I mean, we might do it eventually. But right now, you’re laying on your back and I’m laying on my stomach and half of our bodies are overlapping — all the way down to our feet and all the way up to our cheeks — and you are warm.

You don’t smell like anything but your own skin and I like that. I inhale it and I’m the only person in the world inhaling it. Being here with you makes me the only person in the world doing a lot of things and that makes me want to stay, among other reasons.

Every time I have the compulsion to go, it feels like a struggle. I’ve wanted you for so long and now that it’s happened, I don’t want to press my luck. Because even though you’ve got your shortcomings (like your shitty job and your exboyfriend baggage), you are extraordinary to me. And being here with you feels like I’m being rewarded for something I don’t deserve. So leaving before I overstay my welcome feels like the right move.

It goes without saying that the sex was incredible. This makes four times, right? Four times since the first time a year or so ago. Remember when I used to visit you at work just so I could kiss you outside on the street? That seems so far away from this moment. And just so you know: I’ve never lingered like this before and I hope you don’t think I’m clinging. Usually, if I fuck someone under similar circumstances, I bail immediately or practically shove them out the door. One time, I told a guy that he had to leave because my mom was on her way. It was eleven at night and my mom doesn’t even live in the same city as me.

You bury your nose into my neck and kiss me there. I consider guiding your mouth up to mine, but right now, I just want to feel you wanting me. It’s easy to fake yourself into thinking someone’s into you when you’re giving direction. Then, you glide your hand down the prairie of my back and I open my eyes just enough to see through my eyelashes. It was overcast this morning on the drive over here (I called it, cloudy with a chance of shame). But now, judging by the dull glow behind the window, it feels like the clouds only came out to keep us in bed together. If it were sunny, I might be more inclined to leave. And I don’t want to leave just yet.

Slowly, you lift your head and raise yourself up onto your elbow. You look down at me with sleepy eyes and smile. We stare at one another you touch me with your fingertips along my jaw, from my ear to my chin. I wrap one arm around your waist and I bring my palm against the side of your face. Then I kiss you and roll you onto your back. I plant my hips into you and you rock you head back over the pillow. I lift my torso with both arms into a push-up position so I can see all of you. Then, I shift down and lay my head on chest. We do all of this without saying anything. But then again, I don’t think I could if I wanted to.

The truth is, I’ve pretended other guys were someone like you. I’ve faked this feeling before. I’ve acted my way through scenarios that weren’t nearly this genuine or comfortable. Even your breathing is perfectly paced. I slow mine to catch up with yours until we’re in sync. We rise and fall together. I exhale soft, steady streams form my nose and mouth and feel you doing the same above me. From your chest, your nipples look like little pink Sherpa huts. I look up towards you and your eyes are closed. Part of me wishes you would open them and look at me, but I’m glad you aren’t. I don’t know how I look right now and I’m pretty sure my perspective is better than yours.

I should probably be going, right?

I should go.

But what If I miss the inside of your mouth?

The shape of your ass?

Your skin?

What if I spend the rest of the day thinking about this?

What if I spend the rest of my life thinking about this?!

Better not take that chance.

Better hold you like you need it.

Better graze your lips with the backs of my fingers.

And then you say, "Don't leave."

So I stay.

Lifeless Bodies

The first reported death by cuddle corpse was on the news about a month ago. Since then, 12 bodies have been found in the arms of his or her very own surrogate sleep partner.

After the first few reports, the stories began to feel colorless and trendy to me – like a small meningitis outbreak or like when a bunch of kids bring guns to school, independently but consecutively within the same month. The whole thing felt annoying and faraway until this morning, when Daisy Liss was found dead in her home, tucked tight next to her cuddle corpse.

Daisy didn't work in my department, but I saw her in the parking tower every evening after work.The last time I saw her, she was jogging to her car, the clump-clomp of her saddle oxfords echoing through the third floor of the tower. I didn't call to her, but when she drove passed me on her way out, I smiled broadly and waved. Daisy was a slender woman with a wheat-colored bob and razor-cut, blunt bangs. She wore ankle-length skirts and carried her beige, shapeless purse with both hands, pressing it tightly to her ribs at all times. When she saw me from her car, she did not smile back. Her face looked sullen, but then again, I only saw it through shadowy glass and only for a second before she turned away and sped off. Now, I can only assume she was hurrying home to climb into bed with her cuddle corpse, where she would remain until this morning when the police would find her starved, fetal form spooning with a low-functioning comfort robot.

The 13 deaths [now 14, including Daisy] didn't necessarily occur within the month since the first. In fact, the publicity from the first case prompted good neighbors to check on the reclusive and the recently withdrawn. That's when the bodies were found. Before that, the media hadn't latched onto the term "cuddle corpse." They were just SleepMates and they were surprisingly popular — the result of a beautifully executed global ad campaign. All SleepMates are made of the same white memory foam, but come in a variety of sizes. Inside the torso is a small machine that simulates deep breathing, causing the chest to rhythmically rise and fall. At launch day, nearly half a million SleepMates were sold.

Around the office, I can’t go anywhere without hearing the buzz of Daisy's name. A worldwide, trending epidemic has finally come home and everyone is finding a way to localize the tragedy, as people tend to do with such things. Daisy Liss was a skittish woman of few words, but somehow, everyone knew her differently; more lively, I guess. But in my head, I picture her grey and malnourished, intertwined with another lifeless body. I leave the office before 10AM because there is no use in sticking around. Nothing will get done today.

So far, the most common form of death is starvation, although two have been declared suicides. One woman — an assistant to the Mayor of Sacramento — chased a bottle of Valium with a tall glass of iced tea before crawling up next to her child-size SleepMate. A few days later, a man in London was discovered with a plastic bag over his head. His SleepMate was dressed in the clothes of his recently deceased boyfriend. Before the gay guy’s suicide, I’d never heard of anyone dressing up a cuddle corpse, but apparently it was pretty common.

I cross Rendon Street and slip inside Greta’s where I order biscuits and gravy with an orange juice. I am alone except for the wait staff and a young hipster couple. They are each looking down and staring at their phones in silence. My food comes, I eat, and I pay the check. Hipster girl and her boyfriend still don’t speak. I’ve stared at them staring at their phones this whole time and neither one has even looked up. I wonder if they fuck.

I wonder if they fuck and then have to check Facebook and Instagram to see if they missed anything.

I wonder if they’re fucking other people because this relationship is unstimulating.

I wonder if he holds her.

I wonder if she’s the intimate type.

I wonder if we’re all headed down this road and these guys are just ahead of us.

I wonder if we’re fucked. 

The bells on the front door jingle and I look up to see Kipling Breaux walking towards me; his wide, square frame backlit by the morning light coming through the windows. I jerk my chin in his direction and he returns the gesture. “Have you been to the office yet?” he asks, taking a seat across from me. “Yeah,” I say. “I bailed.” The waitress comes by to clear my plates and Kip orders Maker’s on the rocks. “The partners just sent an email telling everyone to take the day off, so I’m getting hammered.” He puts down his phone and rolls up his sleeves. “I wonder what size corpse Daisy owned,” I say outloud without actually meaning to. “Medium-size adult male,” says Kip. And Miranda says she had it all dressed up.” The waitress returns with Kip’s drink and he orders another right away. I ask for Jack and Coke because I might as well. “I was talking to a girl on Tinder this morning and I told her the dead woman worked in my office and she told me that SleepMate.com can’t even keep up with demand right now. You would think all the corpse-related deaths would cause the business to tank, but the exact opposite is happening. The infant model and the adult male in sizes large and extra-large are all sold out!” I bite the inside of my mouth and look out the front windows. “It becomes the person you miss most,” I say. He shrugs. “Or the person who won’t love you back.”

The waitress glides by, carrying a tray of sandwiches and onion rings. She rounds our table and leans over my shoulder to hand Kip his drink. When she grabs mine, something shifts on the tray and startles her — causing the drink to pour directly onto my shirt and pants. “Shit!” she yelps. “I am so sorry! Let me get you a towel.” She sets down the tray on a neighboring table and darts off to the kitchen before I can say, “It’s completely fine.” Kip, unfazed, shotguns his drink and swipes his phone to check Tinder.

Daisy’s passing has completely freed up my afternoon.

The weather’s pretty and I’m pretty buzzed, so I decide to have a few more drinks on the patio at El Carbon, but first I have to change my shirt. I keep a spare on a hanger inside my office, so I head back down Rendon. On the way, I pass a digital outdoor board with a rotating ad for the SleepMate. It pictures a pretty mixed-race woman asleep on her side with the profile of a cuddle corpse behind her. The logo and website appear in the bottom right corner under the headline, Fall Asleep Quickly. Sleep Soundly All Night.

The entire office feels like a haunted house. Even the florescent lights are flickering, and that’s weird because they’ve never done that before. I walk through rows of desks and eventually pass Daisy’s, which has already been cleared off — the contents probably sent home in a box. I wish I could remember what was on it. Did she display pictures of family members?

Did she keep a sweater on the back of her chair?

Did she stash candy in the drawers?

Who was she projecting onto her cuddle corpse?

Did she relish her slow death?

What was she thinking when she slipped away?

Wait.

Where is my extra shirt?

It was right here!

It was hanging on the back of my door just a few days ago.

I swear.

It was right here.

Wasn’t it?

Wasn’t it?

Anonymous Fun

I slow to a crawl until I finally spot the address and then I park across the street. It’s early enough to expect morning joggers, but I don’t see any.

I am wearing the shirt I slept in with fresh underwear and a pair of blue gym shorts with Comeaux High School printed across the thigh. I did not go to Comeaux High School. These gym shorts used to belong to someone else. “Can I borrow these to wear home?” I asked, already sticking my feet into them. “Sure,” he grinned. “I probably won’t bring them back,” I said. Still naked, he got out of bed and strutted over to me. He put his hands around my neck and stuck his face in mine. “If I let you borrow them,” he breathed into my mouth. “You’ll have to bring them back at some point.” I rolled my eyes up to meet his. “You’re letting me hold your gym shorts ransom?” He reached down and grabbed my dick. “You’ll be back.”

I haven’t seen him since.

These gym shorts — the blue ones with Comeaux High School printed across the thigh — they are part of a collection that includes t-shirts, boxers, hoodies, and other gym shorts taken from guys I’ve slept with — each one swiped in haste before a kiss on the cheek and a promise to text later. There isn’t any “stashing”; I just integrate them into my wardrobe and wear them without ritual. Often, I can’t wash the boy out of certain items but that doesn’t bother me at all. In fact, I’d prefer if each retained the odor of its former owner. My two favorite scents come from a Tulane University sweatshirt (Andes Mints) and a Hackberry Cardinals Baseball shirt (burnt hair and stale sweat). But these gym shorts — the blue ones with Comeaux High School printed across the thigh — they just smell like my fabric softener.

I get a text that reads, “You here yet?”

I stare at the screen for a moment before typing, “I just parked.”

“Ok. The door is unlocked. No small talk, remember?”

I don’t respond.

I exit the car and cross the street. Finally, a morning jogger: a twenty-something of mannequin proportions. I want to equate her running posture to a graceful animal of the plains like a gazelle or a springbok, but I’ve never actually seen either run — in person, that is. I have seen a golden retriever run [in person], and that has to do, I guess. Unlike the jogger, the clouds are not hard to describe. They are metallic and appear to be bolted to the sky like God’s art installation. Don’t get me wrong: I’m a fan of his work, but sometimes the presentation feels smug. I can’t speak to his early work, but I’m assuming it was less sanctimonious — the same shit we say about the early work of every artist.

The jogger passes by and smiles at me, but I can’t manage to return one. I feel grim.

The front door is unlocked. I step into the foyer. Inside, there are three numbered doors and a spiral staircase winding up from the center of the floor. Somewhere in my head I hear an enthusiastic talk show host yell, Let’s see what’s behind Door Number Two! My heartbeats are so much louder than my footsteps. I exhale and quietly open Door Number Two.

The only light coming into the tiny living room is filtered through a thin purple curtain that is draped over a solitary window. I quickly close the door behind me and stand there waiting for my vision to adjust. Without saying a word, I gingerly kick off my shoes and place them neatly next to one another — a small act of affection they can’t feel. I walk toward him, indecisive about what to do with my eyes while he keeps his gaze fixed to his fist and erect dick. I kneel next to the couch and finally look at his face. I’ve seen his face in pictures and twice in the flesh, but never up-close like this. He is strikingly handsome; puffed lips, emerald eyes, and a boy band haircut. We are both still, besides his arm, which is rising and falling with the rhythm of a carousel horse. It’s just a blowjob, I tell myself.

I think about boy bands.

I think about guys I actually like.

I think about getting a haircut.

I think some background music would be nice.

I wonder if he likes me.

I wonder if he’s enjoying this.

I wonder what his parents do.

I wonder if there’s such a thing as a “depression boner.”

I consider stopping.

I consider writing about this.

I consider going for a run later.

I consider grabbing Chipotle on the way home.

I realize Chipotle isn’t even open yet.

I realize I’m starving.

I realize I've never been described as "boy next door" and that weirdly upsets me.

I realize he’s about to cum.

And then.

All of a sudden.

He does.

And it’s over.

By the door, I jam my feet into my shoes with one hand on the doorknob. “So,” he says. “What are your plans today? Big Saturday, huh?” I look him right in the eyes when I say, “No small talk, remember?” I don’t slam the door, but I make sure it shuts securely. The neighbors might misinterpret this. Outside, the clouds are gone but the joggers are up and down the sidewalk. I slide into the driver’s seat and start the car. Finally, some background music.

I drive and I hate myself in waves. When the tide in my head goes out, I feel vaguely self-satisfied — like God and his metallic clouds. But when it comes in, I feel like a fucking cannibal. I pass Parc Sans Souci and see families. So I reach for my phone and I give my mom a call just to feel connected and little less like no one.

I Would Like To Be Scrambled

The waitresses at Mel’s must be tired all the time. I know none of them actually work a 24-hour shift, but that’s the vibe they give off — like each one is on her third Adderall and perpetually waiting for the next smoke break.

I am scratching out words when a waitress comes over and stands across the counter from me. Her hair is in a saggy, feral bun and her collar is smeared with whipped cream from [what I assume is] someone’s pecan pie. “What can I get you, sugar plum?” she asks. “Just coffee for now,” I say. If she says anything else, I don’t hear it because I’ve already shoved in my earbuds. To my left are four boys in various styles of gym short tucked away in a booth. I choose the one I’d fuck if ever given the opportunity: the one with the slicked back hair who looks like a kid I taught when I was in grad school — before dropping out to focus on my career. This boy, he reminds me of a forgettable student with an unforgettable face and a swagger that put the other students at ease, but put me on edge.

My class was an introductory copywriting course, and none of the students had a gift for it. This should have frustrated me, but it didn’t because I mentality checked-out of my teacher role and began planning my dropout strategy after the second week. But until I could execute it, I went to class, did my best to appear engaged, and then I would go home and jack off — sometimes thinking about one of the boys from class. And the guy sitting in the booth over there; he’s a dead ringer for one of the guys I’d use to cum — alone in my room at four in the afternoon.

He and his friends are close enough for me to eavesdrop, but I’ve still got my earbuds in and I’m enjoying the same Wild Ones album that I’ve had on a loop all day. Plus, I really don’t give a shit what they’re talking about. They don’t look vile enough to discuss pussy in public, but I’m sure their conversation isn’t too far from debating a BuzzFeed article.

“Anything else I can get you, sweetie?” says the waitress from over her shoulder as she slides a heaping mound of thick-cut onion rings onto a tray with a bacon cheeseburger and an order of biscuits and gravy. I tug out an earbud for courtesy’s sake. “Sure,” I say. “I’ll take Cake and Eggs, scrambled with salsa on the side.” “Hot or cold?” she asks. I don’t understand the question. She can see on my face that I don’t understand the question. “The salsa, boo,” she says. I’ve never been given this option before. “Oh. Um. Hot. No. Wait. Cold.” She grins and snaps back around before popping something into the microwave and slamming the door. Part of me wishes she’d ask what I’m writing, but then I’d have to lie because I don’t want her to know it’s about her. And about the guy over there who looks like another guy. And eventually, about me.

I don’t really want her to know that I’m here — at 1:58AM on a Wednesday because I’m having a hard time and I’m trying to make myself feel less panicked by writing — because I’m supposed to be a writer and this is supposed to make me feel purposeful. But I’m not sure it does. And [worse] I’m not sure it ever has.

More onion rings. Nachos Supreme. And then my Cake and Eggs. She sets the plate down and part of me wishes she’d compliment my notebook. But then I’d have to lie because I don’t want her to know the last time I wrote in this notebook was three years ago when I brought it with me to Alaska. I don’t want to see her embarrassed face after I tell her I remember Alaska so vividly because I was genuinely happy for several consecutive days — and that’s rare for me. She doesn’t really need to know that I cling to moments of true happiness because I never know if I’ll see another. I don’t want to scare her when I say, “People who claim to have no regrets make me want to vomit.” And that I’m sitting here with my short stack, and scrambled eggs, and bacon, and hot salsa, and cold coffee because I need to feel something besides small, and antsy, and misunderstood, and shipwrecked.

The boys from the booth are paying their bill at the register now, so I lean back to scope out my guy’s ass. Not bad.

I flip the pages backwards and read the last thing I wrote before this; the last Alaska entry. At the bottom of the page, it reads, “You don’t love Caleb.” Caleb was a dancer on the cruise ship with whom I briefly fell in love. This last line is a nice reminder that I am often wrong. I smile to myself and think, Fuck me, could I be anymore self-loathing right now?

It’s 2:36AM and Mel’s is packed with customers in various stages of drunk. My waitress — I didn’t even catch her name — shuttles hash browns and patty melts above her head and people flag her down for ketchup bottles and extra creamer. I think about a line from Amy Hempel’s short story Jesus Is Waiting. A traveling, lovelorn narrator says, "I would like to be scrambled and served with sausages at an all-night diner.” You and me both, sugar plum.

My waitress swoops by and trades my dirty plate for a handwritten bill for $6.70. I’m tempted to write “Thanks for not asking any questions” on the back, but instead, I just slip a folded twenty under the coffee mug before slipping myself past the drunk, joyful customers and into the night like I was never even there — a ghost with nowhere else to haunt.

The Pornstarfish

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