Monday, April 12, 2010

53 Hours (Part 5 of 5)

General disclaimer: If you’re under 18, you probably shouldn’t read this section of 53 Hours. Actually, if you like to pretend that sex, poops and that red stuff in your veins don’t exist or just think that they’re gross in general, you shouldn’t read it, either. And shame on you if you ignore this advice. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!


My stomach made a weird noise. The noise was accompanied by a sharp pain in my gut.

“What was that?” Sarah asked.

“His stomach,” Jen said.

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s probably the spicy-ass spaghetti. I think I need to go to the bathroom.”

“It’s right around the corner, to the left,” Sarah said.

I got up and followed her instructions. The bathroom was too beautiful for a one bedroom apartment. It was pristine. I hope I don’t ruin it, I thought.

I sat down and evacuated my bowels. When I was done, I stood up and turned around. The toilet was filled with shit and blood. There was more blood than shit. I sighed. It had been a few weeks since the last time; I’d hoped for a longer interval.

I wiped myself and flushed, but there was still residue in the toilet from the blood. I looked for some kind of cleaner and found a bottle of Comet on a shelf. I washed my hands before grabbing it. I shook it a few times at the spots of blood, the dry tangy powder gradually covering the reddish dots. I ripped off a few pieces of toilet paper and wiped most of the blood away. I flushed the toilet again. I stared as the last bits of blood flaked off and swirled around and around in a whirlpool of Comet, like cardinals caught in a blizzard. Then the blood disappeared. The toilet was clean.

Somebody scratched their nails on the bathroom door. The noise startled me.

“Did you fall in the toilet or what?” a voice asked. I couldn’t tell if it was Jen or Sarah.

“Yes,” I said.

Nobody answered back.

I washed my hands and came back out to the living room. I was exhausted.

“You okay?” Jen asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I will be.”

Sarah frowned.

“Was it the you-know-what?” Jen asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“What’s the you-know-what?” asked Sarah.

“AIDS,” Jen said.

We all broke into fits of laughter.

“Don’t laugh,” I told Sarah, struggling to keep a straight face. “I actually do have AIDS.”

Her laughter stopped immediately and her smile disappeared.

“Just kidding,” I said. Sarah sighed in relief.

“But I have colon cancer, though,” I said. Jen exploded in laughter. Sarah didn’t.

“He’s got a medical condition,” Jen said. “He’s just fucking with you. He shits blood sometimes and they don’t know what it is. I got to witness a surgeon ass-raping him with a camera once.”

“Yeah,” I said, putting my hands behind my head. “Those really were the days, eh?”

Sarah giggled.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But the way you say it almost sounds like you enjoyed it.”

I gave her a side-long glance. “Oh, I did. I shit you not.”


The room was filled with drawn-out bursts of laughter for a long time. Most of our jokes revolved around fecal matter. Jen brought up the time she had a job filming Asian girls shitting and pissing into a wealthy Jewish lawyer’s mouth. Sarah talked about how she held her shit in for a week once when she was young and then took a shit on her bathroom scale; it had weighed several pounds. I joked that I had considered wearing tampons in my ass but that I was worried about getting Toxic Shit Syndrome. Our shirt sleeves were drenched in tears.

At around 1 AM, Sarah looked at the clock on the wall and remembered that she needed to get up at 6 to go to work. She gave me a spare set of keys to her apartment. She reminded us that both me and Jen would never see her again; we would be gone by the time Sarah came home from work. She asked that I put the keys through the mail slot before I left. She thanked us for making her laugh.

“I’ll never forget it,” she said. “Thank you.”

She went to her room and closed the door.


I looked at the time again. My shoulders sagged.

“Holy shit,” I said. “In less than twelve hours you’ll be on a plane.”

“I know,” Jen said. She sighed.

She hugged me. I grabbed her ass with one hand.

“I know,” she said.

“You better.”

She kissed me. I bit her lip.

She grabbed my cock. I was getting hard. I still needed to piss, so I pushed her down on the blow-up mattress Sarah had lent us to sleep on. She gasped when she landed. I went to the bathroom and pissed. When I came back, our sleeping bag was on top of Sarah’s mattress. Jen was on top of it, naked and on all fours, with her ass hovering in the air. It was dark in the room, but the backs of her legs glistened in the light from the blinking VCR display. She looked back at me and smiled.

“Fuck me,” she whispered.

“Okay,” I said.

I mounted her. She was extremely wet. I thrust hard a few times. The movement made the mattress make a weird noise.

“Careful,” Jen said. “She’s going to hear us.”

I slowed down and pulled a blanket over us, fooling myself into thinking that it would mute our actions. I positioned her on her side and went in behind her, in a spooning position. Jen moaned loudly and constantly, ignoring her own advice. The last time I had fucked her had been a week prior, and I was backed up. It was too much; I soon couldn’t take it anymore and had to pull out. I finished myself off on her ass and legs. I felt that I had underperformed. The last time we were to have sex was supposed to be incredible. The disappointment was intense; I could practically feel it coming out in my ejaculate. Wordlessly, I got up and went to my backpack to get some tissues. I came back and wiped her legs and ass dry. I vainly wiped at the sleeping bag.

I laid down next to her and sighed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“That was the last time, and it was shitty as fuck.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“I just don’t want the last thing you remember me by to be a shitty lay where I didn’t get you off.”

She kissed me. “That’s not true. Don’t say that.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to remember the amazing lays. Plus you can’t say you didn’t have a good time this time,” she said, smiling.

I smiled back. “Yeah,” I said. “Also, you’re not the one sleeping on the wet spot tonight.”

She kissed me again.

We fell asleep naked and clasped tightly to each other.


I woke up at 10:15. It hurt to look at my watch.

“Wake up, Jen,” I said. “You have to catch your flight soon.”

She groaned and pulled the blankets over her head. In doing so she slowly revealed the lower half of her naked body. It amused me.

I walked to the kitchen. Sarah had left a note saying we could eat the left-over spaghetti in the fridge. I microwaved two bowls and brought them to the living room. Jen had gotten dressed and was deflating the air mattress. I frowned. I realized I would never see her naked again.

I gave her a bowl of spaghetti and we ate together in silence. I wanted to talk but forced myself not to. I wanted to relish this last meal with her. After the meal, I showered and she did the dishes. I helped her with her bags and made sure I wasn’t keeping anything in my bag that belonged to her.

She shouldered her bag and I picked up my my small backpack. Hers was filled with all the material possessions she had accumulated in the previous three months of traveling. Mine had food, some water, and a book. I left my large duffel bag behind; I was coming back to Sarah’s apartment before going to the Greyhound station.

“Well, we’ve got to go,” she said.

“Yeah.”

We left the apartment and I locked the door behind us. We walked to the bus stop and got on the next bus heading to the San Antonio International Airport. On the bus, we mostly talked about all the strange, funny and random things that had happened to us on our travels: how I had gotten mugged at knifepoint, the racism she encountered, the man dressed up as Shrek in a small Salvadoran peasant village. It was a good way to distract me from the reality of Jen’s departure.

We walked through the airport doors. My heart felt like it was sinking into my guts. I found it difficult to breathe. Jen checked in her luggage and stood in line for the Los Angeles-bound flight. There was a velvet rope separating us. It was already happening so fast.

I hugged Jen and kissed her as many times as I could before the security guard asked me to step away. I told him I would only be a minute. He backed away. I kissed her again. I kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth, her ears, her neck. Tears streamed down Jen’s face. She laughed.

“Marc, you kissed me a million times. You’re going to have to stop eventually,” she said.

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Fuck, I love you.”

“I’ll come visit in July or August,” I said. “Wherever you happen to be. Just let me know if it’s San Francisco or LA or New York or whatever.”

“Okay. I’ll email you as soon as I get to my parents’ place in LA. Good luck on your bus trip.”

“Yeah, email me a ton of things so that I have something to look forward to when I get home from the bus ride.”

“I will.”

Two security guards appeared, one on either side of me.

“That’s enough,” one of them said. “You need to come with us.”

I backed away from the velvet rope and walked backwards, still looking at Jen. Jen looked back.

“Jen!” I yelled. “I love you!”

She cried. “I love you too!” she yelled back.

The two security guards grabbed me by the arms and turned me around.

“It’s okay, I’m going, I’m going,” I said. They let go of me but continued walking with me to the exit.

I didn’t look back at Jen. I knew it would be more painful to look back than to just keep going. I left the airport and walked to the bus stop. I was the only one at the bus stop save for an old man. After a few minutes, the old man walked up to me.

“Are you lost?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “This bus goes to Houston Street, right?”

“Yes sir. You just looked lost,” he said.

“I’m not,” I said.

The bus arrived shortly thereafter. I asked the bus driver if he could warn me when the bus turned on Houston Street. He said he would be more than happy to. I sat on a seat close to the front. I stared at my hands. My mind was reeling. I had spent nearly 24 hours a day with Jen, for almost 3 months straight. I’d told her that I would visit her in the summer, but I knew in my heart that I would never see her again. I was sure she knew it too. It was painful to dwell on – I had to force myself to imagine that I was still planning on visiting her. I shook my head. I needed to think clearly. I still had to get to Sarah’s apartment; to the Greyhound terminal; to Montreal; to 53 hours from now.

I took H.G. Wells’ The Invisible Man out of my backpack and opened it to a random page. I didn’t read. I just stared.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

so didya see her again ?

Anonymous said...

No, never.

-Marc-Andre

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