Three Ton Coworker - The Light Switch
". . . swaddled, lifted, and / held by God, suckled on heaven's nipple, do not sob the flesh- / y mess of eggs and lust, sperm and hurt, the slimy floor of / booze, musk, and promises; sleep, safekeep, angels angels angels." —Gordon Massman, "1379"
After the hiccoughing stopped, and the swelling around my eyes subsided; after the last of the sopping tissues was rounded up, and thrown into the already overflowing waste basket; after I was able, finally, to breathe normally again, I just sat there for an hour, and stared at the wall. My eyes felt empty.
Some weeks ago, as I was turning off the light in the den before going to bed, I was arrested by the thought that the vast majority of my sexual encounters had been bad. Bad and disappointing. I stood there then, for several minutes, with my hand on the light switch while I made a list in my head. I realized, of course, that I was the common denominator.
Eventually, I turned the light off and went upstairs to bed, where I tested the hypothesis that since the only constant in my disappointing sex life was me, I would then necessarily be bad in bed with myself. I had never before noticed my callouses so forcefully.
I don't remember how I talked Francine into coming back to my place with me. She and I had both had plenty to drink, and I don't suppose it matters much. There was a moment, though, just as the last of our clothes were about to come off, when the whole list sort of traipsed through my mind. It should not have surprised me then that just as poor Francine was about to climax, I whispered the phrase "common denominator," and instantly lost my erection. She left just as my crying jag was starting to get interesting.
They could have been tears of joy, I suppose. It is nice to know nearly unequivocally that one is a failure. It helps a person figure out where to stop focusing energy so that one might then be successful elsewhere.