I do not mind hearing myself moan during the act of intercourse; thank goodness for this, otherwise I would be greatly distracted from the pleasurable side effects of sex.
I do not mind hearing my partner moan. I do not even mind hearing my roommates moan, so long as I am not doing homework.
But hearing my mother moan while being fucked by her weird-ass boyfriend who I swear gave me a sinister, evil look today – that is a whole different story. I mind that very much. In fact it is sheer traumatic agony.
This is why when I heard deafeningly loud groaning sounds coming from her bedroom (I was downstairs), I immediately started running in circles, frantic, at a loss for what to do; I looked about my surroundings wildly for some sort of escape, solution, something to make this disgusting horror stop, I paced to and fro, grasping at my ears, and finally I noticed my keys sitting on a table by the garage door – I snatched them and sprinted out to my Yaris, stepped on the gas and sped away from the house at precisely 67 mph.
I didn’t even have time to grab my coat.
There was nowhere to go that late at night – it was 11 p.m. – other than Borders, which was fine by me. I began studying Laughter in the Dark, which I just finished reading, and which I plan to re-read multiple times obsessively until I memorize and absorb precisely whatever it is that makes Nabokov so goddamn wonderful.
I also purchased “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men” because it opens with a three-page-long sentence and there was some clause in there that amused and disturbed me about a penis curled up beneath the Speedo swimsuit of an academic man reading Newsweek. I have begun reading like a maniac, the way I used to in high school and middle school, and I plan to read a preconceived combination of writers that will lead me to acquire a style that is a melding and flowering of all of theirs. Stylistically I wish to combine Oscar Wilde, Vladimir Nabokov, Truman Capote, Mary Karr, David Foster Wallace and Hunter S. Thompson. And of course all the classical Russian writers whose use of psychology, philosophy and strange little details merge to create insight that resonates and inspires.
Anyway, enough of my amateur intellectual talk.
When I awoke today, and descended the stairs pursuing the mouth-watering scent of my grandmother’s ham soup, my mother greeted me in the kitchen with a series of insults, accusations and curses at the top of her lungs, slamming things and stomping her foot, the jist and sum of which went something like this: you are an ungrateful, spiteful whore for taking your friend Evan upstairs last night and closing the door to your bedroom as you guys did god-knows-what in there, and you totally did it to embarrass me in front of all of my friends, and you are an alcoholic and smoker just like your father, you dumb, worthless prostitute who has inherited all of your father’s negative traits. She did not stop saying these things, in a variety of different and creative ways, even when I left the room, even when I left the house (according to my sister).
This is what happened yesterday. I watched Avatar – the most brilliant movie, which had me in convulsions and tears and which I swear was made just for me, and which I will write a review about tomorrow or sometime soon – with Evan, and then we came to our house for my mother’s holiday party. I had been expecting to have difficulties parking but there were no cars in our cul-de-sac. Evan and I parked and as we walked toward my pink McMansion I said, “I can’t believe how amazing that movie was!” And I was so happy to have seen it was Evan, despite his immaturity during the Avatar sex scene, so ecstatic that a friend with an appreciate for fantasy comparable to my own (we both read Sword of Truth together) had seen this masterpiece of a movie with me, that I leaped into the night sky, laughing, and Evan caught me and spun me around like a baton. Then we entered the house for the holiday party, for which my mother set out close to 50 chairs in the living room, but nobody was occupying them when I arrived, the bustling happening party I had envisioned was actually just a few awkward people staring at each other in the kitchen in silence as my mother nervously made exclamations about eating soon as she awaited more guests. The first thing I asked my mother was this: Where’s the alcohol? She said she didn’t have any. I was upset because she had said she was going to have alcohol. So Evan and I made a quick run to Trader Joe’s for some 2-buck-chuck (some random employee there saw me picking up the bottle and said, ‘Are you old enough? You look like you’re 14.’ Taken aback and offended I said, ‘I’m definitely 21.’ Evan told me later I should have said, ‘Keep workin at Trader Joe’s, lady’) and then we sped back home and poured ourselves glasses and we drank wine while my mother awkwardly caressed her strange boyfriend beside us, and Evan tried to engage him in conversation but to no avail; nevertheless, he hit it off with one of our neighbors and the husband of one of my mother’s coworkers as they discussed the public education system in America and the Chargers. I love Evan because Evan is smart and can get along with anybody. I don’t love my mother’s boyfriend because he doesn’t make any effort whatsoever.
At some point Evan decided he wanted to search the Internet for Avatar porn; he was convinced that even though the movie had just been released, someone somewhere had already uploaded Avatar porn onto the Internet. I led him upstairs and my mother attempted to stop us, in vain: “Where are you going? Your room is a mess! You can’t take mens up there.” And much to our surprise, there was no Avatar porn, anywhere, even when I removed all of the filters on my Google search.
Then we decided to watch “Public Enemies” on my laptop. We started to watch it but my mother came into my room and said: What are you doing? You can’t have mens in your room. Watch the movie downstairs. We ignored her and kept watching the movie on my laptop. She returned. Finally I sighed and we took the movie downstairs and endeavored futilely to hear the movie: my mother and my grandmother and her guests were chattering loudly in the kitchen and we could hear nothing.
So we decided to go to the hot tub. We had some cigarettes and wine and Evan imparted the wisdom and knowledge he acquired while studying martial arts in Asia, and explained to me in detail how I can defend myself against rapists by murdering them. It was a good, relaxing chat, with the steam rising up from the Jacuzzi and mixing with the cigarette smoke, dissipating into the cool night.
Then we went back inside and watched the rest of Public Enemies – everyone had gone, by that point. Then Evan left and I prepared myself for bed: my usual ritual involving brushing my teeth, washing my face, removing all of my makeup, putting on a loose T-shirt and grannie panties and warm socks, placing a glass of ice water on my nightstand, glossing my lips with Vaseline, and finally putting my sleeping mask round my head. I put Piojito into her cage in my bedroom and threw a blanket over it and then I curled up in bed with “Laughter in the Dark.” I was just about to put it away and fall asleep when I heard a faint knocking at my door. I assumed it was my sister so I ignored it. Then a key turning softly in the lock, and the door crawling open with a prolonged creaking. My mother’s creepy face poked in from the side and she surveyed my bed intensely.
“Where is that man?”
“Evan? He left, obviously.”
“He better not be here.”
“Go away.”
“Mens can’t spend the night with you.”
“Whatever dude, you’re being creepy, leave me alone – and lock my door.”
“No.”
She left and did not lock my door. I got up and locked it.
She has been acting like a crazy bitch ever since the other day when we were driving back from dinner and she said, “I am going to have Gino spend the night.” And my sister and I said okay, so? She said, I just want to make sure you don’t mind. I said, “I don’t mind. I’m going to have a man spend the night with me in my bedroom, too, soon.” I said it as a joke even though it wasn’t funny. My mother said, what? But you don’t have a boyfriend? I said, so? She said, “Only mens who you are serious with can spend the night. Like Gino, my little bird, I am serious about him.” I said, “I’m serious about my man too. Serious about gettin’ down.” I have no idea why my sense of humor was so vulgar that night. But my appalled mother has been torturing me ever since, to have her revenge.
Anyway, bonnuit.
