Saving Face... It Lives On

I was guided to the washroom, a reversal of roles no doubt, but I allowed it to be. She took my hand and placed it onto the small of her back as if to say, is it not you who should be coercing me? It was around 10:30 according to my best estimates and the “coupling off” was already in full force. The usual “hook-ups” were pervasive once our diluted and repulsive alcoholic concoctions began to take their toll (or so we would like to think). This was a ritual, and one that I harnessed with extreme complacency on the basis of teenage development and experience; we have to do all these things, right?

As we entered the quixotic setting, that is the basement washroom of today, awkwardness swept over me. Even to the most oblivious of observers, the rigidity of my motions would have been axiomatic. Like a school child building a castle from blocks; uncoordinated, blundering and unnatural, no doubt a seeming repellent to most. Yet, she seemed indifferent; ignorant to my inherent anxiety and tension as I readily considered the possibilities forthcoming. As if to further signify my situation of detention, the door was tightly shut behind leaving only faint jovial voices reminding me of my attachment to the outside world.

We stood there, silent, unmoved, as though we were two combatants in a chess match waiting for progression; none was to come. At that point she asked, “Are you having fun tonight?” I responded in a skill-less fashion with a meaningless, “Yeah, how about you?” She chose to ignore my feeble response and reverberation, clearly loathing it and pleading for something else. It is at this moment in which I pressed forward knowing I had to do more. I turned the lights off with surprising finesse and decided to make my move. I leaned in, eyes closed, letting the unconscious deliberations of my body take over. To my relief, a response, her insipid lips contacted mine spurting a moment of necessary personal comfort. This continued for what seemed like an eternity as I incessantly pondered in a formulaic way over the correct positions of my lips and tongue; the constant question of how I was doing echoed through my head. All those years of pornography and cheap Hollywood erotica had to be paying off.

It is then, when I soon felt her hands creeping around my sides and moving to the midst of my back with a clutch of desperation. She pulled me in, closer and firmer almost instantaneously causing my anxiety to heighten and penis to erect. Hormones took over as blood rushed with fierce and constant force to my head and my penis, causing a noticeable rise. At this moment I realized that the ever powerful pressures of teenage drama left me with but one choice; a decision I was unwilling to make but felt compelled to do. With great apprehension and a winch of force, I met the clutches of her hands on the base of my back with tactical strength. Slowly but, very deliberately I took her hands and placed them at the now, bulging part of my pants. The kissing suddenly stopped, her lips went still. In sensing this moment of fright, I irrationally nudged to the bulk in my pants and asked, “do you want to, you know, give me……?” Her face went blank, like a dear caught in the head lights with cars coming in both directions; she was frozen with an expression of discomfort and clear trepidation. I cursed myself for following the progressions I had been taught by mainstream pop culture throughout my life. I cussed myself for succumbing to the unrelenting pressures of teenage masculinity and stallion-like ideals; BULLSHIT, BULLSHIT, BULLSHIT.

The awkwardness and tension was unparallel, a force of shame and humiliation I had never felt before. It was these emotions that determined my next move; as if in a flight of panic to alleviate my shame, I frantically attempted to save face. “Dyke”, I snarled under my breath, with what I hoped seemed like power and domination. She stared at me with those innocent eyes, tears building, as she attempted to break down my fabricated wall of machoism; I would not allow it, for the envisioned lambasting from my male cult was overwhelming. I once again cursed under my breath some profanity I had little knowledge about, “I knew you were a fucking lesbian”. No response, but none was needed, her emotional expression told it all. At that moment I exited the washroom realizing the vulnerable state I had deliberately put her in; face was saved, teen culture lived on.

The evening progressed with remarkable ease as the alcohol continued to take its toll. It was winding down; the usual culprits now found themselves sprawled on the floor in states of obvious vulnerability. Curled up, shirts stained; an aura of pure dishevel. Cans and bottles scattered the floor as though they were fallen leafs on a fresh fall day. Emotionally precarious souls had done their job for another night as feelings were desiccated to nothingness.

I walked the streets that evening pondering what I had achieved or rather, what had been achieved on me. Shame and humiliation were emotions I was not yet ready to take on. But I did not care. Face was saved and teen culture lived on.