The Talking Cock

I'm wearing a wool sweater in the club. I'm not sure why I chose this outfit, I'm sweating like a fucking pig. I'm pretty sure I saw this look on a billboard and thought at that very moment, Natasha, you should dress like that. And now, dressed like this, I feel the stream of body sweat seeping down my back. The strobe lights hit me in the face, piercing my eyes as the comforting image of sweatpants and the baggy XXL Costco t-shirt I stole from my dad's closet appears in my mind. I should have been born a man - I have the sweat glands for it. But here's the thing, though I'm sweating my ass off on the dance, I'm in the fucking zone man. I'm fucking pumping it on the dance floor, I'm full of passion.

 

Men are trying to approach me presenting the two-step to me as a sign of courtship, but I'm dodging those motherfuckers, letting droplets of sweat spray onto their faces as I electro-slide out of the way. I know what they want, but the two-step never got anyone laid.

 

My friend, Christina, is dancing across from me, moving her hips sensually from side to side. Her long, silky hair flows from shoulder to shoulder as the light catches her bronzed cheek. I notice her sensuality in between my jerking arms - I'm in the middle of the robot. In the midst of my jerking arm, I feel a sudden shiver crawls up my back - I've felt it before, searching through my memories I can‘t make a connection.

 

"I don't feel safe," yelling into my friend's face.

 

"I don't think that's the song, I think it's Rhianna's --"  I cut her off, shaking my head anxiously. "Someone's watching me," yelling into her ear as I lean in, however, I quickly go back into an alert stance. I take out a Kleenex from my pocket and start wiping off the red lipstick I'm wearing. "What are you doing?" she asks. "I don't know," anxiously wiping my lips, "I shouldn't have worn this," letting the crimson red bleed into the kleenex, "I feel weird."

 

"Natasha, you have red lipstick smeared all over your mouth now," she says unimpressed. "Go to the bathroom and wash it off."

 

"I can't."

 

"What do you mean you can't?"

 

"Someone's fucking watching me!" throwing the kleenex into an empty wine glass, "I told you. I'm serious, I feel like these angry eyes on my back."

 

She takes a couple seconds, still dancing, looking around the room. "Well," she says, her eyes staring past my shoulder, "there's this guy with long hair staring at you."

 

"Where's he standing?" asking without turning my head.

 

"He's beside the DJ booth," yelling back, "but he's like really staring at you Natasha...actually, it's really creepy. He's like smashing his cigarette into the ashtray... but like smashing it. Do you know this guy?"

 

A waiter walks past me, I turn my head, tapping him on the shoulder, "can I get a glass of water?" I ask as my eyes drift to the table next to the DJ booth. Our eyes meet, I turn around quickly, b-lining it to my jacket. I grab our coats, handing one to my friend, "we have to go."

 

"Cause of that guy?"

 

"You remember that guy I told you about, the one that drove the Audi?"

She looks at the ceiling roll-a-dexing through every dating horror story I've ever told her, "is that the one whose mother --"

 

"No, remember the guy that told me he wanted to have my kids five minutes into the date and was yelling at me, calling me a liar?... the one who smashed his fists into the sink at the cafe."

 

"Chicken legs?"

 

"Yes!" I say with enthusiasm, though still anxious, "yes, yes, yes, this is why" getting my arm through the sleeve of my jacket, "we need to go."

 

She starts to put on her jacket, "okay, calm down, the first thing you need to do is go to the bathroom, seriously, your face is covered in red lipstick."

 

I shake my head, "I'm not going to the bathroom, no way. I'm not walking past him and the bathroom has one exit."

 

"Okay...Jesus, hmm, then, uh, just keep your head down until we get out, you're giving off a strong clown vibe."

 

We talk through a large group of people, towards the exit. I can still feel the eyes following me as I dodge my way through shoulders and clouds of smoke. A large black guy shuffles in front of me, blocking my path to freedom. In my peripherals, I see his friend, a tiny Nigerian man, peeking his out from behind him while sipping on his drink through a straw. They're wearing blazers in a club, they‘re here on a mission.

 

"Hi there," he says to me, grinning. I don't like his grin, it gives off an Evangelical have-you-heard-about-the-Lord vibe. "What's your name?"

 

Here's the thing, he's met me before. I see him every weekend at the clubs and every weekend he does the same thing. He b-lines it to me, says hi, grins, asks me "what are you doing tonight?" and then tries to get my number, I reject him and then he waits until the next weekend to do it all over again. Only this time, he has his small Nigeran friend next to him, so I'm assuming his tactic is slightly altered. He just looks like a guy who needs to have the biggest dick in the room. 

 

"I'm Natasha," tilting my head down. 

 

"And what are you doing tonight?"

 

I cover my mouth, "I'm going home," as I try to budge past him.

 

He quickly glances at Christina who's standing behind me doing a conservative two-step as she waits for me to walk past them, "Why go home when you can spend your Saturday night with me?" grabbing my arm and pulling me into him.

 

"I'm not interested," keeping my head down.

 

He releases my arm, as his oversized, chubby finger, wrap around the back of my neck, his fingertips squeezing the sides of my neck, "see," pressing onto my Juglar, "...now I'm tired of hearing this fucking excuse from you Serbian women."

 

My hand goes flying in the air, ramming against his arm, I drop my hand down from my face, exposing my clown-like mouth, "you do not want to fuck with me right now, you got it?" keeping my facial expression neutral, "I will fucking slice you, okay? Now is not the time to fuck with me, comprende or do you need me to translate that for you?" He stares at my mouth slightly horrified as I continue pushing past him, b-lining it for the front door. I look back, seeing if Chicken Legs is still there - he's gone.

 

"Where'd he go?" turning to Christina with panicking eyes.

 

"Who?" she says, breathless behind me.

 

"Chicken legs! The only fucking reason I left the club!"

 

"He must have left before us..."

 

"Listen, he's crazy. He wants to strangle me, I fucking saw it," checking the time on my phone, "He's probably in the club next door or in a fucking alleyway...I'm gonna walk home, it'll be quick."

 

"Uh," confused by the series of events, "do you want me to walk you home?"

 

"No, it's fine, he doesn't know where I live."

 

I turn away and start walking towards my house, I pass a homeless man that's semi-squatting on a piece of cardboard. He keeps tipping over to one side, with the only thing supporting him being an almost-empty bottle of vodka.

 

"Hey," a raspy voice calls out.

 

I look at the homeless man as he looks up at me. I continue walking.

 

"Hey! I'm talking to you!"

 

I turn around, "yes?"

 

"I can see right through you, y-you know," as his head drunkenly falls to one side.

"What does that even mean?"

 

He raises the Vodka bottle into the air, "you're not about the dick."

 

I shake my head, thinking my ears are plugged, "excuse me?"

 

"I s-aaid, the dick isn't important to you, you know...you don't listen very well."

 

"Okay, listen, man, I don't need you to---"

 

"You're about the passion," releasing a burp, "you want raw passion...that's why you get the crazies."

 

I stand there, nervously looking around as I run my hand through my hair, "aha,“ scratching the side of my neck, "listen, if you and that guy are in on this together, you're really sick. I have to go."

 

He laughs softly, "I t-told you, I know what you need, you need passion...a passionate dick!" he says, toppling over his vodka bottle while releasing a small burp. "You can see it in your face...in your smile, you're crazy for passion," he clears his throat, a group of people walk by, staring at us, "you don't care if it's a big dick or a small dick," gesticulating a tiny dick with his two chubby fingers, "you just need that energy."

 

"Why don't you just tell the whole fucking city!" throwing my hands into the air. I start walking away slowly, but stop, pivoting around quickly, "what do you all fucking want from me? I just wanted to go dancing and I have to deal with this shit. Look at you! You're fucking drunk on a piece of cardboard!"

 

He shakes his head, "it doesn't matter. Listen to me," slamming the Vodka bottle against the concrete, "you'd rather have a small passionate dick than a giant one!" 

 

"I know!" I yell back, feeling the heat rise up my face. "You think I didn't know that?," I walk up to him while taking out my wallet, opening the change compartment, "here, just fucking," I say, flipping over my wallet, spilling the change in front of him, "take it, just take it all."

 

"No!" he says, swatting me away with his flimsy hand, "No money!" his tired hand slowly lowering down by his side, "I needed to tell you who you are," he mumbles. The last couple of coins fall out of my wallet, spinning in front of his feet, "it's time for passion," he mumbles,  with his voice slowly drifting off. He suddenly throws his finger up in the air, I jerk back, "it's your time!"

 

I slide my wallet back into my pocket, nodding my head. I squat down in front of him, my hand stroking his head, combing his unwashed hair back, while my other hand slips into his. I give his cold palm a squeeze, "all you dicks apparently know what I need...you're just lucky cause you're right." His eyes shut momentarily, I let go of his hand, stand up and continue walking home. 

 

"You need a passionate dick," he mumbles as I walk away. I wave my hand in the air mumbling to myself and reach for my phone, "Christina?" 

 

"Are you okay?" she asks on the other end of the line.

 

"I was just talking to this homeless man an---"

 

"A homeless ma--"

 

"That's not the point, Christina. How come, how fucking come everyone with a dick knows what I need?"

 

"Oh god, here we go."

 

"I know what I need!" proudly yelling into the phone as I walk up a hill, "I need passion, I need fucking passion" my breath shortening, "raw passion! I'm an artist, and artists need passion," breathing heavily into the phone, "I need a passionate--" I hang up the phone, bending over, resting my hands on my knees as I try to catch my breath, "dick!" I take another breath, continuing to walk up the hill, "and a fucking gym."