In 44 days I will be 30
I am writing a trashy novella in honour of my upcoming show in the Toronto Fringe Festival: The Queen’s Eulogy (it’s a play performed in a pile of trash). Enjoy.
Fourth Part: Sex with the Noble Man in the Bar Bathroom
The Noble Man leaves the washroom with his head hung but I don’t often believe that sad looking men are actually sad so I don’t feel bad for him. He sits down beside me. His smile is doubtful which I find fucking rude.
I ask him, “what?”
“I thought you would follow me. To the washroom.”
“Someone had to finish your beer.”
In the time he spent apparently waiting for me in the bar washroom, I finished both of our beers.
“Should I get us another round?” His face is no aimed away from mine as if he hopes I tell him to leave me alone.
He either wants me to be a trashy weirdo bathroom-fucking “HEY BUD”-pick-up-line whore or he wants me to leave him alone.
“I don’t know, right now I need to pee.”
I don’t wait for him to look at me. I just get up and go. I turn my head slightly, as if I am turning to make sure he is watching me but then I look back to the washroom and walk, straight line, dick-determined, fine with having a Noble Man follow me wherever I go because he is blonde and blonde boys are angry. When the internet is unavailable to me all I can hope for is to get fucked by an Angry Blonde Boy Noble Man.
In the washroom, a woman washes her hands. I stare at her. She looks up. I hand her paper towel while looking her up and down. Her white shirt is the colour of turnips, slightly hued by the grey undertones in her skin. Either she is my future or she is my past.
I give her the advice my mother always gives me when we’re exiting bathrooms together because it is useless if not for reminding a person that a bathroom is full of germs so you might want to Get The Fuck Out, I tell her, “You should use paper towel to open the door. It’s a germ-free exit.”
She exits without taking my advice because she is obviously ok with germs.
I am alone in a dirty bathroom and I am waiting for an Angry Blonde Boy Noble Man. I look in the mirror. Between graffiti nods to RIGHT FUCKING HERE and I AM WASTED and WOMEN SPREAD QUICKLY and JOAN, I see: dried pink lips, black eyeliner smeared under each eye, nearly all the way to my cheekbones and untamed, sexy-as-fuck curly fro-for-days hair. I pool water into my hands. I cover my face with Wet.
The door opens. I turn to look, face dripping fluid, shirt catching the drips, staring at an Angry Blonde Boy Noble Man.
He is not smiling. He hurries over, pushes me against the dirty, wet counter and unbuttons my jeans. Our mouths are completely open. He is sucking my face with arduous greed and I fucking love it. I rip my shirt off, grab his chest and guide his head direcly overtop my tits.
“You’re welcome,” I whisper.
He looks at me. Sweaty. My sweat, his sweat, all over his face.
“Tell me your name,” I demand.
“James.”
I laugh. “That won’t work. I really hate that name.”
I unbutton his pants. His dick is instantly in my hand. He moves my hand away, pulls my pants down, my thong down to my knees, lifts me on the counter, rips everything off and we fuck, facing the door, sure as anything that the entire bar can hear me as the Angry Blonde Boy Noble Man makes his way In with his hammering cock and his sad fucking eyes.
He stays quiet and sad-looking until the instant he finishes. He only lasts a few thrusts until he yells “I’M SORRY,” and I feel it all over.
Without thinking I say, “It’s ok? It’s ok. It’s ok.”
The Blonde Boy starts crying. He is still in me. I lean sideways, grab him a paper towel and wonder about his mother.
“I don’t really want you crying in my pussy.”
“What?”
“If you’re going to cry…could you like…leave my pussy out of it or leave it out of my pussy or just pull out, could you take your cock back please?”
Offended, he states, “Well, that’s fucking cruel.”
He moves away from me and uses the paper towel I gave him for his tears to clean up his penis, his thighs as he locks himself in a stall and sobs.
I hop off the counter and stare at my ass in the mirror, wondering if I have any diseases but also wondering if graffiti JOAN or DESTINY or SUGAR GIRL were watching. I wet a paper towel and wipe what I can away. I wipe my thighs. I get dressed. I take my lipstick out of my pocket and re-apply it. I wipe away blackness from my cheeks, from anywhere.
I leave the bathroom.
At the bar, sits a new sad blonde boy, reading a book, looking angry.
Rachel Ganz 