2B
Wednesday, November 18, 2015 // The Statement
T
he phrase “orgasm tsunami” gets thrown
around a lot nowadays. More than it
used to. Why, back in the ‘70s, they
didn’t even have tsunamis. And God didn’t
invent the orgasm until 1993 (the year Alex was
conceived).
But lately, it’s like everybody’s trapped in
a frenzy of sick, wet ecstasy, collapsing onto
beds, hammocks, and gas station bathroom
floors, rolling over to their sex lover, heaving
out, “Wow. Oh wow. I mean, wow. Philip. You
changed me.”
So imagine Alex’s surprise when he returned
home one night, drunk on cheap, lead-based
wine, to discover his penis not literally flailing
about like a loose garden hose, swinging around
like some kind of epileptic snake.
(Editor’s Note: Penis joke required. If exclud-
ed, writer’s pay will be deducted from $4 to
damp salmon tail.)
The boy was surprised to be single, funny
as he was. Example: What did the entomolo-
gist’s wife say to her husband when his bug was
depressed? Your fly is down. Right? Where shall
he toss your bra?
So he got Tinder (because he hadn’t used
enough protection).
At 2 a.m., Alex checked his phone. There was
a text. From a girl. A girl girl. A Tinder girl girl.
We’ll call her, “Bartleby the Scrivener.” Asking if
Alex wanted to hang out. He said, “Yes,” and
started applying moisturizer.
Now, we know what you’re thinking. “Nyah.
Tinder’s trashy. It’s only for garbage people.
Where’s my meat cleaver? Nyah!” You disgust
us, Sharon.
Alex scurried around the room, doing push-
ups to inflate his 15-year-old boy pecs, spraying
“Smells of Rain and Life” Febreze, squirting his
Walgreens cologne and flicking on the mood
lighting: a lamp. The boy would’ve been less
nervous if he was someone other than himself.
For example, a crab.
At 2:15 a.m., Bartleby the Scrivener arrived,
saluted, and slid past Alex’s “Hey there,” before
offering a bottle of gin and whispering to the
empty apartment she was, “really high oops.”
The girl had brown curls, heavy eyes — weighed
down by this and that and a man-boy named
“Trev” — and a forehead mole like a red sniper
dot.
She splayed over the couch and smacked her
lips, the hem of her crop-top sliding up and up,
all the way to Heaven-knows-where and then
some. Her bra peaked out and waved at him. He
waved back, then stopped and darted his eyes
back and forth.
His wristwatch ticked.
When the boy tried to speak, he felt like a
9-year-old on top of another 9-year-old inside a
trench coat, playing at adult like, “That so, Her-
man?” or “Well, ma’am, I think you have a lovely
bust.” Or like what he actually said, which was:
“Gin then?”
He poured it all between two glasses. It
smelled like his uncle.
He handed her a glass and clicked “Shuffle”
on Spotify.
Oh, she may be weary
...
Wearing that same old, shaggy dress, yeah
yeah
(Otis Redding Sex Noise)
Try a little tenderness.
The Scrivener sipped her drink and stroked
her bumblebee tattoo. God, how he wanted to be
that bee. Be that bee. God how he would be that
bee. Buzz.
Alex took a long swig of gin (90% Gin. 9%
Coke. 1% Leftover Puberty).
Alex: “I like your tattoo.”
Scriv: “I actually have ten. I just got a new one
too.”
Alex: “Oh yeah? Where’s that?”
Scriv: “Somewhere. Maybe you’ll get to see it
later.”
Alex: “Oh — wow. That’s the best thing any-
one’s ever said to me.”
A few minutes later, Bartleby scoffed about
men, and Alex said:
“No, no I hate men, generally, I mean, like,
95% of men are terrible, so like just be decent,
just be basically decent and, and you’re golden,
you know?”
He tasted his sweat and waited.
Bartleby laughed. “It’s a really good thing
you’re funny.”
The carbonated gasoline drip, drip, dripped
onto his tongue, and the taste wasn’t wholly
unsweet. It’s a really good thing you’re funny.
“Oh,” he said. “Yes, it is ... is a good thing. I’m
really lucky. Because the rest of me is such shit.”
Bartleby protested, “No that’s not what I
meant, it’s not an insult,” but Alex said, “No, it’s
OK. I know what you meant, it’s fine,” and they
were better for his saying so, but also because
they would both die one day and wanted to see
the other naked in the meantime.
The two went on like that for a while, swap-
ping nonsense and drinking gin. Well, him
drinking his gin. Her not drinking her gin then
offering him her gin, then him ... drinking her
gin.
And then, it was getting to be about that
time, the night bleeding through the blinds like
smoke and the gin concussing him and she was
still high and beautiful and dry as all Hell, and
neither noticed the lamp light dim or the moon
run low or the way the boy was so awful and
would be terrible to kiss and even worse to dry
hump.
And then, his brain went off, alarmed, ring-
ing and ringing. And what do you do when your
brain’s got an idea and it won’t shut up about the
thing? What do you do?
Alex got up, forgot himself, and kissed her.
On the lips. Bullseye.
And she kissed back, just so perfectly too,
wet and full.
And the song changed:
The next thirty minutes are ad-free,
Thanks to the following sponsor ...
But they didn’t stop.
The next morning, the smell of desper-
ation and potato skins swam in the space,
and something else, something like the
deep end, dangerous and significant and
unsafe for underage rabbits like they
were, and she laughed about what-was-it.
And I turned to her, to all of them, you
know, when they laughed, and I asked,
“What’s so funny?” And they giggled and
whispered, “Nothing. You’re funny.” And
I nodded, nodded, nodded, and thanked
God I was.
If Alex’s column makes you forget about
death, email him at adbnard@umich.edu.
He needs to be distracted too.
Another Thing: I got so kissed
B Y A L E X B E R N A R D
COVER BY LUNA ARCHEY, PHOTO COURTESY OF DEB COCOROS OF THE POTTER’S GUILD