Gabe Feinberg
Monologue 2
9/5/10
CW602
Conboy/ Pappas
His night.
I haven’t got laid in three months and I’m thinking that there is something wrong with me. Like I’m defective or maybe giving off that creepy desperate, I haven’t been laid in months vibe. Getting rejected chips away at my confidence and there wasn’t that much to begin with. A good random fuck is 15 minutes of self-validation that has no equal. Casual sex doesn’t restore my confidence, but it definitely helps me forget about all my shit for a little. It’s just like heroin but way shorter and way more addicting. I usually hit the bars mid-week because the people who show up mean business. Who goes out on a Wednesday or Thursday and drinks without the intention of getting trashed and laid? I don’t mean your causal after-work happy-hour drinkers; I mean the loud attention hungry people slamming shots at the bar until closing. That’s my crowd, not the tourists but the people who drink like they’re on Grey Goose’s salary. So the other night I decided to fake an English accent because there isn’t an American woman alive that wouldn’t fuck a guy with a cheeky accent. I am tired of all the hot tail being exported to some random foreigner’s beds, my turn you limely fuckers. So I walk into Rbar and I see this tall hot red head. I mean shit, with heels on she was almost as tall as me. I walk up right next to her and order, “Hello mate, could I get a shot of Jameson please.”
And instantly big red hit me with the hardest fuck me eyes you can imagine. It was golden. She looks over and asks me where I’m from.
“Hello lovely, I’m from London. Ever been? “
And then I tell her how I play Rugby and I’m here for a huge tournament. Asshole athlete check, stupid clever sounding accent check. I am closing for sure tonight. Big Red loved my shit like a hipster loves skinny jeans and ironic tees. Funny thing was I kept switching from an English , to Irish, and Australian accents. The only accent missing was South African.
But big red never noticed; she was too focused on her own lippy game. Everything she said was a razor barbed jab chopping down my phony drunk English confidence. Sometimes she was funny but most of that shit that was a little too close to home. How she hoped, “I was just as big down there.” Fucking size queens. I just don’t under stand what the fucking deal is? The average guy is 5 inches and the average vaginal cavity is about just as long. Seriously ladies it’s a fucking cervix not a punching bag. Then I bit off more than I could chew when I said, “Well love, maybe we ought to sort this out in bed; shall we?” 1 tequila, 2 bourbons, and three jager red bulls later I’m at her place trying to take my shoes off so I don’t fuck up her carpet. Her room had a big ass bed with a big-ass mirror hanging above. The drunker I got the worse my accent became, at this point I was speaking auss-land-irsh. She hardly seem to notice and the next thing I remember is were both getting high and naked. Then is said to her, “ It’s about time you got a proper rinsing out.”
Yeah, I actually said that shit I have no idea where it came from either. It just sounded like some shit an English prick would say. Here’s where shit gets fuzzy. I remember the mirror falling down and big red yelling at me mid stroke, her only having magnum condoms and getting denied back door entry. Not just denied but I think she said she’d deck me in the face if tried again. Then I think she turned down head because I sucked at or something. Next thing I remember is standing in her living room with her yelling at me and throwing my clothes at me. In the chaos of everything I think I accidentally stole her phone. Sex normally makes me feel better or at least forget shit. I am not sure what happened that night but I know I didn’t fell better. This whole experience only added to my suffering hangover. “For Fucks Sake.!”
Notes from Roy:
ReplyDeleteThere's a good raw edge to this monologue, and a good contrast to the first one. This character has less memory of the details, but like the woman in hers seems mainly concerned with the experience from his point of view. It's revealing and amusing to get the story from his point of view, and to realize that the accent and rugby routines that were such a part of her attraction in the first piece are actually a put-on. This among other things is revealing about the nature of this game, and its rituals.
There's a distinct aura as sex as a combat experience for both of these monologues. Each is firmly entrenched in measuring the other's performance, and though dissatisfied with the rituals, firmly protective of their own perspectives and preferences. And in addition, they both have a way of appearing to themselves as the victim in these predatory encounters.
I really like the dueling impressions that both of these monologues reveal, and the hostility that's rampant throughout in the pursuit of their desires - which are part sex and maybe more about some kind, any kind of contact.
Both of these monologues have lots of funny moments, and they leave us with some good dramatic questions to explore: What are each of these two actually looking for? What is the meaning of these rituals to them? Will they encounter each other again, and what would that be like? What would happen if they stripped aside the games and pretenses and had to face off as humans?
Roy