Awakenings and French Songs

Awakenings and French Songs By Nell Iris I slam the door to the men’s room stall so hard, it bounces back and hits me on the elbow. With an undignified yelp and a grimace, I close it more carefully, turn the lock, and lean against the door. Kneading the sore spot on my elbow, I groan. What’s wrong with me? Today is my birthday and my friends took me out to celebrate as they do every year. This year, they surprised me with a foam party and a very kind and thoughtful sentiment of “even if you’re old in body, you need to stay young at heart.” Real nice. Usually, I’m a big fan of foam parties, even though I haven’t been to one in ages. The bubbles bring out my inner child, and I can’t help bouncing around, waving my arms, and singing along to the music like I’m a teenager again. Most of all, I appreciate the abundance of half-naked guys getting all slick and soapy. I love sliding my chest against a slippery body and the not-so-secret hand-jobs under the foam where no one can see what’s going on. But today, I wasn’t the least bit tempted to throw off my mesh T-shirt and fling myself in the middle of the writhing masses. As soon as my friends disappeared onto the dance floor, I stomped to the dry, suds-free bar, where I spent a couple hours dodging invites from horny guys and downing one drink after another until I remembered I had to work early tomorrow. Dealing with insurance companies sucks on a regular day. Doing it while hungover is torture. So I downed a bottle of water, slithered away from another set of grabby hands, and marched to the bathroom. Just to take a piss, not to hide. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I let out a sound somewhere between a huff and a groan. How come I feel so old compared to yesterday? One day older, thirty-six instead of thirty-five, what’s the big deal? I let my hand drop to my side and bang my head on the door. To be honest with myself—and where else is a man supposed to be honest with himself except hidden away in the bathroom?—I’ve felt like this for quite a while. Like I’m unsatisfied with my life, but don’t know with what exactly. Work is boring as hell, but the decent pay and good benefits make me want to stay. It’s not like I’ve ever had any high-flying ambitions about what I want to do with my life anyway. My friends are great. My apartment is small—more like a closet than a real apartment—but it’s close to work and the rent is cheap. And how many square feet does a single guy need? So what the f**k is wrong with me? Why am I so unhappy? Not knowing drives me crazy, and if my hair hadn’t been cropped so closely to my head, I would have pulled it out by the roots in frustration. I heave a sigh. I might as well just text the guys and get out of here. I pull my phone from the back pocket of my painted-on jeans and start typing a message to Dylan, when someone, without warning, sticks his erect d**k through a dingy-looking, duct-tape lined glory hole I didn’t notice earlier. The head is dark purple and already glistening, a clear indication that the owner gave themselves a little hand before offering me the treat. How thoughtful. “Suck me,” he hisses from the other side of the wall. “What?” My question comes out like an aggressive bark. “Suck meeeee,” the stranger repeats and waves his c**k like it’s a wand, as though he’s Harry freaking Potter trying to cast a spell on me. “How about checking if I want to first? Ever heard of glory-hole etiquette, asshole?” “You never say no, Iggy.” I scowl at the d**k as though it can see me. How the f**k does this guy know my name? And while what he said might be true—I’ve been called a slut more than once since I discovered what my c**k is for—a little common courtesy never hurt anyone. “Yeah, well, today I do.” “Don’t be a bitch.” “Great way of convincing me, dude.” The erection flags a little and I fight the impulse to flick it and force it back to where it came from. Someone give me a medal for my restraint! “Come on,” the guy whines. Whining. A huge turn-on. Not. I roll my eyes. “You don’t even have to get down on your knees. Just toddle over here on your short, little legs and put your mouth on my meat.” That’s it. I’m leaving. As I unlock the door and exit the stall, I curl my hand into a fist and slam it hard against d**k-Dude’s door when I pass it. “Making fun of my height. Very original. And attractive.” “f*****g midget.” d**k-Dude’s roar makes everyone standing at the urinals turn and stare. I shrug at them and roll my eyes again. I’m surprised I haven’t made them pop out of my head these last couple minutes. “Because calling me a derogatory name so makes me want to suck your small-ass d**k,” I throw back and storm out of the bathroom. I want to add that five-three is way taller than the average little person, but I stop myself. Arguing the finer points of being short versus being of short stature with a belligerent i***t seems futile. Fuck this s**t, I’m going home.