I am not having sex tonight, but I am doing it.
The long and the short (but mostly the short) of this lyrical conundrum involves a public foray into exhibitionism that I probably should have avoided, because last year I made the same mistake and ended up with a scrotum on my forehead. Tammy Kopko is (still) winding down her reign as a liquored-up late-night Barbara Walters hosting the Cocktail Hour cabaret-cum-talkshow at the Peacock Room, and has once again asked me – he whose dangly bits are hardly the stuff of measurable legend – to play celebrity guest host to her “Sex” episode. Why? Presumably because my asshole has lips of its own.
“My rider states clearly that there will be no teabagging,” I John Waters from my backside all the way up to Tammy’s hooker wig. “No teabagging!”
If my memory serves me correctly, this whole affair will go down like a crucified libido, tension and disbelief writhing on the floor together covered in some kind of plasma-like lubrication until a pink cloud of insufferability plumes up to suffocate any remains of reason. People will get drunk and leave the room prematurely like johns at a Travelodge. I, meanwhile, will French-kiss doomsday, fuck Armageddon and predictably make an ass out of myself. It’s all a bit like knowing about the abortion before the sex or fucking to the sound of a Hoover, and that’s what makes it fun.
That, and props.
“Here are the plantains and the condoms.” Tammy rustles through a sack. “And here are the accessories for the vibrators.”
There’s still some time before the phallus-shaped apocalypse, so I’m making myself feel busy by drinking and scowling flaccidly in the corner, away from the blow-up dolls. A “dancer” named Amanda engages me for a few minutes on the fine points of ass-clapping as exhibited at MBI hangout Cleo’s, and we both rue the fact that there is not enough ass-clapping going on in Orlando, especially at her beloved Rachel’s. I try to clap my ass before realizing that I’m sitting on it and it doesn’t have any fat cells or rhythm. Then I switch my attention to Liz Langley, another of tonight’s guests. After recently getting the phoned-in ax as part of the Sentinel’s endless budget cuts, she’s now reading tarot cards at Pom Pom’s and teaching the art of hip-swiveling. She’s wearing dangly noisy things.
“Lucky!” I swivel on my scrotum while avoiding the implied career prophecy smacking my forehead. “Writing is sooooo boring!”
But sex isn’t, or at least it shouldn’t appear to be, so as Tammy stage-moms the imminent cries of “showtime!” I do my best to feign erectness and ooze lechery. An attempted group entrance to the tune of Kelis’ “Milkshake” is flubbed because the tiny sound guy is drunk; instead the Friends “I’ll Be There for You” song – the usual, sexless show theme – pipes in, and Tammy has a pre-show meltdown.
“I pay him good money!”
Anyway, a few minutes later, all is well and good and baking beneath unnecessary spotlights. I’m on a couch with Tammy and Jamesson (who is introduced as having his own column in a bar glossy, What’s Happening magazine, and apparently can’t feel the prophecy slapping his blond forehead either), and we’re making exaggerated small talk of the microphone-on-your-mouth variety: an “omigod!” here, a “woo-hoo!” there. Bring on the dancing whores … er … horses.
What follows is a fabulous mess of epic proportions: A doctor from the Hug Me program who says he can’t get laid explains how to put on condoms (tip: You’re supposed to “pinch the reservoir” at the tip!), a contest follows which somebody who may or may not be the ex-girlfriend of a Weekly staff writer wins by applying a condom with her mouth to a plantain wedged between a man’s thighs (did she bite the reservoir?), Liz Langley belly-dances a demonstration, Liz Langley gets teabagged by shot-boy Jarred, and I confess that the only time I ever had girl sex, said girl leaked menstruation all over my college mattress, thereby rendering me a homosexual for the ages. The end is nigh. Apocalypse, now … please.
No such luck. The final “presentation” comes from somebody calling himself “Uncle Cheese,” who has a public access show called Pimps of Pinellas (which is a bit like penis with “nelly” sandwiched in the middle) and is wearing both a bandana and a baseball cap. The stereotype is only worsened by a lap dance from the aforementioned Amanda, and then duly cramped by a teabagging from Jarred. Which was better?
“I’ve got blue balls,” Uncle Cheese Velveetas.
“If you had blue balls your dick would have to be hard,” I intolerate lactose into my microphone. “And I don’t see much going on down there.”
Jarred falls on the floor, feigns sex with a blow-up doll and the crowd slowly filters out. Emission accomplished.
But not really. While all this is happening, some sort of kerfuffle involving my friend Karen buying shots for the miniature sound guy and herself on his tab is unfolding, one that ends up with said drunken knob-twiddler – in a fit of douchebaggery – accusing her of mooching and even getting the management involved. Good money, indeed.
“You can walk around with this attitude,” she reminds him, shortly, “but you can’t even ride Space Mountain.”
He’s not having sex tonight, email@example.com