Oh, Men - Matt Hogan

It’s the dark corner of the bar and I’m sitting on a black sofa across from my girlfriend Sylvia who’s on the other black sofa, texting somebody, probably Joe, who hasn’t called her in a week and she’s pissed. We’re trying to stay hidden because all the guys in here are creeps tonight. She finishes her message then picks up her empty Heineken bottle and frowns at me. I wiggle my empty bottle back at her and she mouths through the deafening music, “I’ll go get more.”
As Sylvia gets up I flip open my cellphone. I missed a call, which depresses me. I listen to the message, from Cass, who says she’ll be here in ten minutes, but that was a half hour ago so she should be here by now, but she isn’t.
I close my eyes, thinking of Todd, who I regret breaking up with and remember the last time we made love, in his bed, at his apartment, before he moved away. I let my hand fall to my breast, let it linger there, feel myself getting wet, and, because I can, sit here and get myself aroused to nearly the point of orgasm, with nobody noticing, thinking of the way Todd used to kiss my breasts.
If I were a guy I wouldn’t have this luxury. A guy has to fear his own physical arousal in public. A guy can’t stand up with giving it away. He has to beware his own erection. Not so for girls.
I open my eyes and see a guy at a table staring at me. Unfortunately I make eye contact with him and out of reflex I smile, and so he gets up and sits next to me. On the way over I notice that he’s got a bit of an erection, so maybe he was watching me touch myself, letting himself get aroused and didn’t care either. Or maybe he’s got a unnaturally large bulge, or maybe he’s got a sock in there.
He says, “Hey,” in a deep, confident but playful voice, a big hand reaching for mine. “I’m Brad. What’s your name, dollface?”
“Angelina,” I say, smiling, but no teeth, trying, and failing, to let him know I don’t want him here.
“That’s a nice name,” he says. Then, “Hey, we could be another Brad-gelina.”
I take a swig from my empty beer bottle, get a drop, and just say, “Yep.”
He tries to recover, and asks, “Can I call you Angel?”
“Um,” I say, trying to look confused and unpleased, “If you want to.”
He goes on. “So what do you do, Angel?”
“I work at a clothing store downtown,” I say.
“Oh yeah,” he feigns interest. “My ex used to work at a clothing store.”
“Oh yeah?” I say plainly.
There’s a pause so he decides to fill it with, “You know, you have really beautiful eyes, Angel.”
I already knew that. I get that from guys like five times a day.
“Thanks,” I say, instead of “Fuck off.”
“Why don’t you and your girlfriend come sit with me and my buddies?” He looks at me really strange when he says this.
“No,” I say, “that’s okay.” He pouts like a little fucking kid. “We’re just about to leave, anyway,” I lie.
Just then Sylvia shows up with our beers, hands me one, and Brad says, “Oh, just about to leave, eh?”
“We’re leaving after these,” I say without looking at him.
Sylvia sits down, looks at Brad, then at me, then again at Brad, who’s got his arm around me, sort of, on the back of the sofa. Before I can signal for help she says, “I’ll leave you two alone,” and gets up, stranding me. She disappears into the crowd.
I look over at Brad, who’s smiling like a jack-ass, like he’s just won something.
“So,” he says.
“So,” I echo.
The music’s been turned down, but I wish it hadn’t. That way I could plausibly ignore this guy. I try my best, though, closing my eyes and leaning back, but when my head falls on his arm I spring back up, open my eyes, and see his stupid grin. Then he winks at me. He actually winks at me. I manage not to burst out laughing and just smile, which, of course, he takes as a good sign.
Slowly, trying to be sexy about it, this Brad guy leans in and starts kissing my neck, breathing uncomfortably hot, moist air on my skin. I laugh now, but again he takes it as a good sign and says, “You like that?” and puts his hand on my knee. What a dork,
I’m praying for the lights to turn on, for the bar to close, because that’s my only out. I’d tell him to stop but I don’t want to be a bitch. His necking is getting sloppier and louder. He starts to moan. Does he really think this is attractive? I’m really drunk.
Finally he stops, looks at me, smiles. I take a swig of beer and he takes a swig of his. He lifts my chin with his beer hand and kisses me. It’s the first even-close-to-sexy thing he’s done. I take another swig of beer and he looks around, maybe to see if anyone has noticed his score. He probably feels very proud.
We talk for a little while about mundane crap and he keeping mentioning his nameless “buddies” and “bros” and the cars he used to own. He asks me what clothing store I work at and as I answer he starts slurping my neck again and moves his hand higher up my thigh. What is with guys? Fucking clueless.
Suddenly he reaches up my skirt, as if I wouldn’t notice, and starts to rub the outside of my underwear, like that’ll get me off or something. Then he fiddles with my panties, trying to get crotch part out of the way so he can finger me, presumably. He inadvertently tugs at my pubic hair so I say, “Watch it,” and he laughs, as if to say, “Oh, you’re a frisky one.” No (I think but don’t say), I just don’t like getting my pubes pulled out.
I squirm a bit and spread my legs, trying to help the poor guy out (he doesn’t have a clue) and he keeps whispering, “It’s alright, it’s okay,” like my dog died and I’m eight or something.
He finally gets the panties out of the way and slides a finger in me easily, probably thinking that it was him that got me wet and not Todd. He pokes away into the side of my vagina, doing nothing for me, his curled knuckles grinding into my thigh, which feels like it’s bruising. He whispers an “Oh yeah” into my ear.
I take the beer out of his hand, the one over my shoulder, and pull it over my breast, but he just lets it lie there, limp, like a disturbingly weak handshake, and eventually he takes it off. I guess he can’t do two things at once. He’s pretty focused on rubbing the one side of my pussy. I sigh, disappointed, and he moans, “Oh yeah,” again.
I think he’s forgotten that I’m here, which is actually a relief. I reach for my beer and chug the rest, which I don’t think he notices. His bottom lip is stuck on my neck, dried there. He’s slouched over me, only his hand up my skirt is moving.
Sylvia, thank god, finally reappears. She sits back down on the black sofa across from me and gives me a funny look. I roll my eyes and she taps her wrist and I nod. It’s time to go.
I push Brad off me and he withdraws his hand from my skirt. The first thing he says is, “Where’s my beer?” so I pass it to him without saying anything or looking at him and he chugs the rest and pulls out his cellphone from its belt pouch, flips it open, reads a text message, laughs.
Sylvia and I stand up and grab our purses. I adjust my skirt and Brad looks up at me. The lights turn on and the music shuts off completely. I say straight-faced, obviously insincere, “See ya, Brad. It was nice meeting you,”, and he gives me a big, dopey, douchebag smile.
We walk out of the bar and Sylvia finally says, “Who was that guy?”
“Just some creep,” I say.
“Ugh, what is with guys?” she wonders aloud.
“I know,” I add rhetorically.
We light a couple smokes outside the bar and walk down the street. After a while she asks, “Where are all the nice guys?”
I take a long, deep pull on my cigarette and answer, definitively, “There are no nice guys.”


History of Everything - Matt Hogan


motherfucking right: post-dated last month: upper-crust soufflé, lower-case Table: west-side divide: something to do with slime: unique in its effect: why not a parlez-vous if that’s what they call it?: suddenly there: a tetrahedron is a shape: masculine mass killing: motherfucking right: a tetrahedron is a shape: high and low: game old same old: ravens and stuff: ghosts get real: happy ending: motherfucking right: homohomohomo: some people are all like Ah yeah, but it’s all relative to: and on the TV: or biology, neurology, science that really doesn’t: the desire to sleep: entire collectives spun around a bunch of times: motherfucking right: there’s big circles and little circles: big penis telescopes: motherfucking right: Atlantis, maybe: Back to the Future: the one about sticks and stones and bones: they keep telling me to lose weight: goats can sing: math and myth look alike: a place for everybody and everybody in their place: motherfucking right: then the lights went out, the baby-sitter got killed, usually: stereos and fridges, today: magic is long gone, Moses: you can’t really dig to China, can you?: if I believe I have laser beam eyes I have laser beam eyes: nobody notices no how in your note pack, fool: it goes one, two, three, four, hit it: there’s some people outside: it was all quiet after words: sanitizer in your eyes: just another dinner party with the neighbours: don’t you wish you had a carpet so your dog could pee on it?: infrastructure is a big thing: the colour green and the colour blue: there’s no need to shout: I never liked sci-fi but when the aliens came down I believed them: everybody has prostitutes: motherfucking right: worms don’t have it so bad: but unfortunately, I have to float: pliers are stronger than some things that aren’t pliers: motherfucking right: the good life: greetings: very intellectual: overalls, too, but not the shape.