She Came Over to My Place
She knocked on my door at
12:32 am, to ask me if I could turn down the music I was blasting at
unquestionably odd hours of the night. I'd been blasting Bathory all night, which
I should have known was not a neighbor-friendly decision, so I told her I would
turn it down if it made her happy. In the process of telling her I'd do that if
she so wished, she could smell on my breath the distinguished scent of bourbon.
She asked me what I was drinking and I told her it was W.L. Weller Bourbon, the
finest Kentucky Whiskey I'd ever had. She said she'd never tried it before, so
I invited her in for a taste. I cleared my couch of the guitar case, two
jackets and blanket which had been adorning it.
I turned Bathory down and she sat down on my couch while I poured her a glass. It was clear to me that she only felt comfortable sitting on the couch of a total stranger because she had initiated the conversation by knocking on my door. Had I knocked on her door at this hour, she surely would not have invited me in.
"Do you want anything in it? Coke, maybe?" I asked. "In fact, Diet Coke is all I have. I guess I could mix it with milk if you'd like, but that seems a little gross." I hoped she would laugh, because I thought it was kind of a quaint little joke. She didn't laugh.
She said she'd take it straight, which I doubted. I drank it straight myself, but had pretty strong suspicions about her ability to handle real liquor on its own merits, untainted by the convenient dilution of a carbonated beverage. I did as she asked, seeing as how she was my guest. I handed her the glass.
She lived in the apartment directly above mine. Every day, every night, for the past 20 months, I'd been able to hear her exceptionally loud footsteps as she ran to and fro in her apartment, seemingly always in some kind of commotion and battle-command with an unseen and unheard force that beckoned her to run and jump at every whim.
But now she was sitting in my apartment, on my couch, drinking my bourbon. My Kentucky whiskey.
"How is it?" I asked her, politely, still not knowing her name.
She sipped it and took a moment before answering. "It's not bad!" she replied. She didn't specify what she liked or disliked about it - she merely thought it was not bad.
I'll admit that she gave me her name upon my following introduction of myself, but I cannot for the life of me remember what it was at this time. For this I am solemnly sorry.
As she sipped at the glass of bourbon, I sipped at mine. She noticed the guitar, bass guitar, and other recording equipment strewn about the floor of my apartment, and became a bit curious. I can't blame her.
"So what's all this? You record music?" she asked.
I could tell she was only trying to make conversation, but I replied in some kind of way that suggested I was taking her interest seriously.
"Yeah," I said. "From time to time I like to make some music."
"What kind of music do you make?" she asked me.
This was the kind of question I'd always feared a woman asking me. It's easy, almost sexy, when you tell a girl you make hip-hop, or indie folk-rock, or electronic music, or even emo. Girls love guys with low self-esteem, who make shitty, pedantic, trendy music that appeases their peers and gives them a credibility unsupported by talent and artistic merit, but gets them by merely on their ability to appeal to a sub-intellectual, talentless, undiscerning crowd of self-loathing teenage consumers. Having built up my own appreciation of my self-perceived musical genius in my own mind, I was finding it difficult to admit to her that I, in fact, didn't make any kind of music she would be familiar with or even care about. I told her I played black metal.
Let's pretend her name was Sophie. It wasn't Sophie, but I can't, for the life of me, remember what her name actually was. Sophie raised her eyebrows, which is a friendly way of saying, "I'm not familiar with that, but I wouldn't be lying if I said I was a little bit interested in what that means, and what it entails."
I took this to be a good sign. I sat on the couch orthogonal to the one on which she was sitting, and began to explain to her the history of Goatfucker, and how I viewed the creation of black metal as an ultimate artistic expression and an achievement of monumental proportions that no other music genre provided in terms of over-arching extremity and philosophical adventures paired with aesthetic pleasantry. Sophie wasn't convinced.
Sitting in the middle of the living-room floor, my hardly-hidden remnants of black metal recording sat vacant and lonesome, waiting for a man of isolation-mastery to continue the process of recording once again. Sophie observed this island of recording equipment and asked me if she could hear the music I had been working on.
Even more fearsome in their unholy and un-gratifying solutions than the wretched questions of "what kind of music you play?" were the prospects of playing, for a beautiful young lady, the recordings of the destructive and soul-vanquishing sounds of black metal. No woman worth her naturally enhanced beauty would find the sounds of black metal worthwhile. I often thought there could be exceptions in my younger years, and that the attractive young ladies I ran into at metal shows could prove to be of merit and fantastic worth. This mistake was made only more apparent through my years of dating and associating with women of the kind of ilk who find black metal to be sexy. Oh my. Terrible. How it is that I can justify its sexual appeal within my own mind is strictly my own business. Sadly, this immediately insightful train of thought had not made itself apparent to me while conversing with Sophie, so I decided to play for her some of the black metal I had recorded on my digital 8-track recorder.
If there's anything women love less than impotent Korean nerds who sit at home playing Final Fantasy and WoW for 24 hours a day, my guess is that it's probably 25 year old men who are getting PhDs in particle physics and simultaneously taking themselves very seriously as black metal musicians. I base this hypothesis on the following consequences.
Sophie was astounded by the music I played for her, which sounded a little less than "nicely polished" emanating from my 8 year old Fostex MR-8 8 track digital recorder. In fact, she sounded astoundingly un-impressed, and almost disgusted.
"So this is what you call music?" she asked me.
"I do call this music... yes," I responded.
"This is hilarious," she said. "Muse and Wolfmother are so much better than this crap, just so you know."
I hadn't mentioned Muse or Wolfmother at all in this brief period that I had known her, but she felt it was imperative that I knew they were better than me. Fine. I told her I respected her opinion. I said this because I could tell that, without her pants, she would be amazingly attractive in a totally sexual way.
Turns out that I was right, because after only one glass of bourbon, Sophie was absolutely hammered. Even though she lived a mere 18 seconds from my apartment, she asked me if she could sleep at my place. We had known one another for a total of 20 minutes, so I said "absolutely, you can."
I laid some blankets down for Sophie while I tried to further explain to her what it was about black metal that I loved, and what made me play it for 6 years so endearingly.
I suppose she was listening, between the bursts of "have to piss!", and "you should see these pictures of my mom I just found in my old photo albums". I knew she was drunk, and she wouldn't remember anything I said, so I told her I didn't give a fuck about her mom or her photos. She ended up not caring.
By about 2:00 am I decided I should try to appeal to Sophie's mind set, so I played some Beastie Boys. She loved it, and got "funky" and all of that. By "funky" I mean that she took off my pants and tried to have sex with me. By "tried to have sex with me" I mean that she "completely succeeded in having sex with me."
I didn't ask Sophie about her sexual history, assuming she was the clean and innocent girl I always pictured while watching her walk from her car as I walked to my own car each day to go to school.
I ain't gonna lie. Sex with Sophie was pretty amazing. Sophie's an absolutely outrageous girl who does things I could never imagine before knowing her, and is open to anything her partner wants to do. We ended up spending almost 12 hours together experiencing sexual exctacy and euphoria. The irony of it all is that I would have impregnated her if it weren't for the W.L. Weller-flavored condoms I happened to have in my bedroom. Those condoms saved us from an impractical pregnancy and in-arguably ugly baby, and somehow spread Syphilis to 54 people we hardly knew (through mutual sex).
****
Sophie still lives right above me, and I can hear her whenever she's running across her floor to answer the door for some sexy stud who is giving face-time to some kind of booty call. But in all honesty, I just love to love.
I turned Bathory down and she sat down on my couch while I poured her a glass. It was clear to me that she only felt comfortable sitting on the couch of a total stranger because she had initiated the conversation by knocking on my door. Had I knocked on her door at this hour, she surely would not have invited me in.
"Do you want anything in it? Coke, maybe?" I asked. "In fact, Diet Coke is all I have. I guess I could mix it with milk if you'd like, but that seems a little gross." I hoped she would laugh, because I thought it was kind of a quaint little joke. She didn't laugh.
She said she'd take it straight, which I doubted. I drank it straight myself, but had pretty strong suspicions about her ability to handle real liquor on its own merits, untainted by the convenient dilution of a carbonated beverage. I did as she asked, seeing as how she was my guest. I handed her the glass.
She lived in the apartment directly above mine. Every day, every night, for the past 20 months, I'd been able to hear her exceptionally loud footsteps as she ran to and fro in her apartment, seemingly always in some kind of commotion and battle-command with an unseen and unheard force that beckoned her to run and jump at every whim.
But now she was sitting in my apartment, on my couch, drinking my bourbon. My Kentucky whiskey.
"How is it?" I asked her, politely, still not knowing her name.
She sipped it and took a moment before answering. "It's not bad!" she replied. She didn't specify what she liked or disliked about it - she merely thought it was not bad.
I'll admit that she gave me her name upon my following introduction of myself, but I cannot for the life of me remember what it was at this time. For this I am solemnly sorry.
As she sipped at the glass of bourbon, I sipped at mine. She noticed the guitar, bass guitar, and other recording equipment strewn about the floor of my apartment, and became a bit curious. I can't blame her.
"So what's all this? You record music?" she asked.
I could tell she was only trying to make conversation, but I replied in some kind of way that suggested I was taking her interest seriously.
"Yeah," I said. "From time to time I like to make some music."
"What kind of music do you make?" she asked me.
This was the kind of question I'd always feared a woman asking me. It's easy, almost sexy, when you tell a girl you make hip-hop, or indie folk-rock, or electronic music, or even emo. Girls love guys with low self-esteem, who make shitty, pedantic, trendy music that appeases their peers and gives them a credibility unsupported by talent and artistic merit, but gets them by merely on their ability to appeal to a sub-intellectual, talentless, undiscerning crowd of self-loathing teenage consumers. Having built up my own appreciation of my self-perceived musical genius in my own mind, I was finding it difficult to admit to her that I, in fact, didn't make any kind of music she would be familiar with or even care about. I told her I played black metal.
Let's pretend her name was Sophie. It wasn't Sophie, but I can't, for the life of me, remember what her name actually was. Sophie raised her eyebrows, which is a friendly way of saying, "I'm not familiar with that, but I wouldn't be lying if I said I was a little bit interested in what that means, and what it entails."
I took this to be a good sign. I sat on the couch orthogonal to the one on which she was sitting, and began to explain to her the history of Goatfucker, and how I viewed the creation of black metal as an ultimate artistic expression and an achievement of monumental proportions that no other music genre provided in terms of over-arching extremity and philosophical adventures paired with aesthetic pleasantry. Sophie wasn't convinced.
Sitting in the middle of the living-room floor, my hardly-hidden remnants of black metal recording sat vacant and lonesome, waiting for a man of isolation-mastery to continue the process of recording once again. Sophie observed this island of recording equipment and asked me if she could hear the music I had been working on.
Even more fearsome in their unholy and un-gratifying solutions than the wretched questions of "what kind of music you play?" were the prospects of playing, for a beautiful young lady, the recordings of the destructive and soul-vanquishing sounds of black metal. No woman worth her naturally enhanced beauty would find the sounds of black metal worthwhile. I often thought there could be exceptions in my younger years, and that the attractive young ladies I ran into at metal shows could prove to be of merit and fantastic worth. This mistake was made only more apparent through my years of dating and associating with women of the kind of ilk who find black metal to be sexy. Oh my. Terrible. How it is that I can justify its sexual appeal within my own mind is strictly my own business. Sadly, this immediately insightful train of thought had not made itself apparent to me while conversing with Sophie, so I decided to play for her some of the black metal I had recorded on my digital 8-track recorder.
If there's anything women love less than impotent Korean nerds who sit at home playing Final Fantasy and WoW for 24 hours a day, my guess is that it's probably 25 year old men who are getting PhDs in particle physics and simultaneously taking themselves very seriously as black metal musicians. I base this hypothesis on the following consequences.
Sophie was astounded by the music I played for her, which sounded a little less than "nicely polished" emanating from my 8 year old Fostex MR-8 8 track digital recorder. In fact, she sounded astoundingly un-impressed, and almost disgusted.
"So this is what you call music?" she asked me.
"I do call this music... yes," I responded.
"This is hilarious," she said. "Muse and Wolfmother are so much better than this crap, just so you know."
I hadn't mentioned Muse or Wolfmother at all in this brief period that I had known her, but she felt it was imperative that I knew they were better than me. Fine. I told her I respected her opinion. I said this because I could tell that, without her pants, she would be amazingly attractive in a totally sexual way.
Turns out that I was right, because after only one glass of bourbon, Sophie was absolutely hammered. Even though she lived a mere 18 seconds from my apartment, she asked me if she could sleep at my place. We had known one another for a total of 20 minutes, so I said "absolutely, you can."
I laid some blankets down for Sophie while I tried to further explain to her what it was about black metal that I loved, and what made me play it for 6 years so endearingly.
I suppose she was listening, between the bursts of "have to piss!", and "you should see these pictures of my mom I just found in my old photo albums". I knew she was drunk, and she wouldn't remember anything I said, so I told her I didn't give a fuck about her mom or her photos. She ended up not caring.
By about 2:00 am I decided I should try to appeal to Sophie's mind set, so I played some Beastie Boys. She loved it, and got "funky" and all of that. By "funky" I mean that she took off my pants and tried to have sex with me. By "tried to have sex with me" I mean that she "completely succeeded in having sex with me."
I didn't ask Sophie about her sexual history, assuming she was the clean and innocent girl I always pictured while watching her walk from her car as I walked to my own car each day to go to school.
I ain't gonna lie. Sex with Sophie was pretty amazing. Sophie's an absolutely outrageous girl who does things I could never imagine before knowing her, and is open to anything her partner wants to do. We ended up spending almost 12 hours together experiencing sexual exctacy and euphoria. The irony of it all is that I would have impregnated her if it weren't for the W.L. Weller-flavored condoms I happened to have in my bedroom. Those condoms saved us from an impractical pregnancy and in-arguably ugly baby, and somehow spread Syphilis to 54 people we hardly knew (through mutual sex).
****
Sophie still lives right above me, and I can hear her whenever she's running across her floor to answer the door for some sexy stud who is giving face-time to some kind of booty call. But in all honesty, I just love to love.
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