You’re the guy. You’re the guy at the Christmas in July party on Van Nuys Blvd wondering how he got to a party on Van Nuys Blvd. You’re the guy at the party on Van Nuys who the bleach-blonde girl wearing water-wingies with a slutty green elf costume decides she is going to fuck, because she can. You’re the guy who was just there, who would have otherwise been at home watching eighties Saturday Night Live skits, eating your sister’s Special K.
You slip four Jello shots down your throat. You have a little bit of a belly and know you aren’t big. She’s coming to you. Her skirt jingles. She wears tinsel around her wrists, below the water wingies. You say great outfit, do you live in LA, who here do you know? She shrugs for each answer and you get her a drink. You try to see what color her eyes are beneath her fake eyelashes. You think she may be taller than you even without her heels, and you consider going to the bathroom to immediately shave your balls so you look bigger, but you remember that it never really works. You are that guy.
You’re the guy who does stand-up comedy part-time downtown, and you only identify with being Mexican now that it makes you funnier. You’re the guy who never drinks alone and always drinks too much with friends. The guy who gets teased by his friends for only liking Mexican women, and for loving his mother and his sister. This girl isn’t Mexican. But that doesn’t matter. You’re the guy she’s zoned in on.
You’re the guy who makes sure that the girl with water-wingies doesn’t take acid because you know she decided to fuck you already, and fucking someone while they’re tripping and you’re not would be no fun. You lead her away from the patio where the thirty year old ponytail with a mushroom necklace is talking about harmony and a temporary transcendence from our false realities.
You’re the guy with black-rimmed glasses who smells like Suave coconut shampoo because it reminds you of your Aunt who makes tamales the right way. You’re the guy to almost push away the chick with water-wingies because you know you’re not big, but of course, you don’t push her away.
You’re the guy who lets her lead you into the bathroom by the strings of his swim shorts, and you’re the guy who suppresses his pain when she bites your lip too hard, fearing what else she’s capable of. The guy who tries to kiss her the same way he’d try to kiss a girl he knows actually likes him and you are the guy who tries to not think about why she’s beneath him, why she’s still wearing her water-wingies, and why this is you and not some other lucky bastard with a belly.
You’re the guy who would remember more of how the fake Christmas trees around the chaotic apartment on Van Nuys were decorated – with bras, panties, Beanie Babies, stretched out condoms and Precious Moments ornaments – than you would the face of the girl with the water-wingies.
You’re the guy who covers her up frantically, sloppily, with a beach towel with turtles on it when someone walks into the bathroom. The guy trying not to have very many thoughts at all as this girl wiggles and worms and chirps and coos from under your belly.
You are the guy who just happened to be there, not watching Saturday Night Live.
You’re the guy who falls asleep that night with a spinning head, trying to think about his Aunt’s pork tamales with green sauce rather than the girl with water-wingies, or his mother’s mismatched nativity set that she leaves out all year. She jingles. You’re the guy.
–Art by Rona Keller
jordan Sneakers | Supreme x Nike Air Force 1 Low ‘Box Logo – White’ — Ietp