i’m a fan of this drink. and its been filling up my dating life lately. details of which are under embargo until sufficient time passes to obfuscate the facts, the victims, and provide time for a decent edit.
so i’m going to write on absinthe. it’s related.
i’m sure its an affectation; i cultivate affectations to a certain extent. but its also pure history and hard enough to find that its still a sign of a good bar. the quiet, dark kind that’s about the only kind i like other than dive bars.
i could live without the affectation, but i couldn’t live without the fuzzy, which may or may not be a made up feeling from the wormwood so notoriously associated with this drink.
dane and i used to drink absinthe in williamsburg before she left for los angeles. she lived for fuzzy before she started living for coke and disappeared off of everyone’s map. she didn’t do much to moderation, and drinking wasn’t any exception.
drinking was a sport with her. every sip designed to challenge my masculinity if i didn’t keep up, which was senseless because she was as likely to end up ill as sporty. but she was a sweetheart, really. and a fashion god. which was important to me at the time.
invariably the drinks led to hands, which led to legs, which led to things i wasn’t really supposed to be allowed to do at the time, and she wasn’t supposed to be allowed to do at the time, but we were high on life, alcohol and “push-me-pull-me” herbal infusions, so why the fuck not fuck?
it wasn’t spectacular sex, ever. too much fuzzy to be fully in control, but it was joyous, spontaneous, sloppy wet sex. and that’s fun too. each of us looked for an escape from our personal shadows in each others thighs. i’d go down on her and the instant my tongue hit her would forget about my imploding personal life, soaking in her scent instead.
we would steady each other for a while before collapsing on the bed. usually hers. and fall into each others arms.
we fucked enough on absinthe that we fell into a drunken pattern. starting with her unzipping me before the door closed behind us, and taking me in her mouth. we’d remain there, quiet save for my moans, until i picked her up and brought her to the bed, and would reach up her skirt, removing her underwear, and kissing up along her thighs — she liked me to move slowly with her, despite her own aggression.
ultimately, we ended up fucking loudly, usually after she reached for the condom, sometimes after i did.
we would compete to be louder, i can’t imagine what her neighbors thought. she delighted me with curses and filthy talk that you never expected from this pretty little blond thing.
we fucked like this on and off for six months, until i, accidentally, drunkenly, told her i loved her. i didn’t, i was overwhelmed with post-coital emotion, fuzzy, my edge, sarcasm and irony bled out of me when i came, leaving me unguarded, and i just uttered those words. she panicked and didn’t want to talk about it.
after that night we never saw each other alone.
