That Icky In-Between
I bartended a special event this weekend at the club. Staying away on Saturdays and Sundays is my usual intention, but too much is offered to pour wine and uncap sodas. There were two "In Honour of" events, one Irish, one gay. I did not work either wedding. To be released early, I chose instead to station myself in the library for a literary reading. Two years at the Yale Club and I had never visited the library. Imagine the loveliest organized collection of leather bound books partnered with the smell everyone recognizes as knowledge then throw that into a room that would halt even Dr. Seuss' imagination. At the end of the evening, after three hours of wine sips from a ginger ale bottle and an impressive collection of misguided men's phone numbers, it was time to un-suction cup my portable bar from the thick library carpet. The end of a stale evening it was, and I had to piss. Now, now. I'm no angel. My family and previous loves will tell you too. But I know when my youth and privileges will excuse certain sneakiness. A girl introduced herself to a boy in front of my bar. Complete strangers they were. I know this because I eavesdropped studiously. Then I watched them watch the reader read. He began to crawl his arm around her waist, which got her giddy. The wines helped both to accelerate what probably would have been a non existent relationship. They got to know each even better in the wheelchair accessible bathroom. I know this too because I walked in to see her on her knees. At first I was scared of my reaction: slamming the door shut, yelling, "I know what you're doing in there!", and faking a walkie-talkie security page. Sex is sex and people get it where they can. I was no one to tell them the handicap bathroom was not the place to find temporary fulfillment. I've realized after letting this event sit in my mind, that my instant offense was not stirred from capturing casual fucking (although if it was a long-term couple tipsy on love and literature, I think my disgust would have been a bit less edged) but my judgement was given to me from that icky in-between. I, as a member of "the help" and as an equal human being, was personally insulted that those scummy little Preps could not take a moment to lock the fucking door. A simple click of a latch would have protected them from outsiders, allowing for the ride to reach it's destination, but that step was overlooked in favor of sloppily skipping to the mouth on dick moment (sorry mom and dad). Those momentary lovebirds may just have been too hazed in cocktails and fervor to remember that bolting the door is a vital action in public sex. I do not buy that. I also would not cash-in on the theory that they wanted to be caught, neither was attractive or skilled enough for that notion. No, to me, the blower and blowee are participants in the compartment of complacency. In the transition from the stiff cold to renewal in warmth, and hiking from my young twenties into my mids, I have been daydreaming a lot about the person I was, the person I am and the person I can possibly be. I loved what I was, I can come to terms with the person I am, but I'm damn proud of what I can be. It is a tiny piece in the molding of my future self, but I know - most purely put - that I will never do anything half-assed. People who lock the fucking door and people who don't lock the fucking door, neither one is better than the other, but I am satisfied with myself because I know if I decide to do something against the norm, it sure as hell will be taken to the finish.