Frustration

            Peter Wozniak has masturbated 1236 times.  You can tell from the way his eyes are always glazed over, mirroring the club’s green lasers.  Reflecting more than they should.  He’s here tonight, his hair spiked, at the edge of the dance floor.  His friends, sporting popped collars and long-term girlfriends, are over at some table away from him, but that’s okay.  He kind of bobs his head a little bit.  Sort of shakes his leg a little bit.  Thrusts his pelvis out a little bit.  Just waiting for DJ Diamond to play something good.  Just scanning the crowd looking for the target. 

He thinks, why do all the girls always have to dance in groups or with a guy?  Can’t there ever be a girl just there, having a good time by herself, just hoping to have an even better time with some new, respectable gentleman?  Or better yet, a girl not waiting around all night because how pathetic is that?  Instead she picks out a guy from the edge of the floor and comes right up to him.  And she’s a beautiful girl of course, with dark hair and a huge rack, and tan legs with those thigh-high stockings and a mini-skirt maybe, actually scratch the mini-skirt because that’s trying too hard and you don’t know what kind of STDs girls like that might be carrying around, but leave the thigh-high stockings, and maybe add a Japanese school-girl uniform and a tongue piercing and nipple rings that you can’t see through her shirt but that you can feel when she embraces you.  And she does embrace you immediately, comes right up close and says, “Hey guy, wanna dance?” and then doesn’t even wait for a response because she knows what she wants and she knows what you want and she’s not afraid to make that happen so she does.

But after three songs of this not happening, Peter takes matters into his own hands.  DJ Diamond’s playing “Hot in Here,” and Peter dances up to a group of five girls.  He comes up behind one of them and gently puts his hands on her waist, so that the two of them start swaying together.  The song goes: It’s getting hot in here (so hot) so take off all your clothes.  She really seems to be digging it.  He closes his eyes and moves in closer, so that they’re grinding a little bit. 

He does not notice the side-to-side glances she fires like signal flares or the subtle slashing motions her friends make at their throats.  What he notices is that all five girls exit the dance floor without word or gesture or sidelong stare.  They only giggle and power walk over to the shot girl who wears a tight black t-shirt that says GOOD CALL and accentuates her breasts quite nicely.

Peter stomps off the dance floor.  He saunters toward the bar, hands in pockets, and signals Good-looking Sam.  She comes over and says nothing, just stares.  All business.

“I want a real shot of life,” Peters tells her. 

“I’ll bet I could give you that,” she’ll say in his mind later.  “Meet me by the red Chevy out back in five minutes?”

She really raises her eyebrows and says, “What?”

“Shot!” he yells, and holds up his thumb and forefinger a couple inches apart.  “Surprise me!”

She gets a crinkle on her forehead and goes off to get him God knows what.  His eyes never leave her, and his hand never leaves his pocket.  One leg is shaking so you don’t really notice it, but his hand moves ever so slightly.

“Seven bucks,” says the good-looking bartender as she slams the shot down on the bar.  “This is what I’d drink if I wasn’t working and I had money.”

Peter holds the drink like a best man.  “Here’s looking at you, kid,” and down the hatch it goes.  He pays her ten dollars, and as soon as the money’s in her hand she’s gone.  Peter goes to the bathroom and locks the door.

1237.

Peter returns to the dance floor.  He spies a very beautiful girl, a short voluptuous brunette.  He dances his way right up to her and shouts, “I like your style!  What’s your name?”

“Monique!” she shouts back and smiles.  Sexy, sexy!  She dances like a pixie, she’s like a dolphin in the water, her hair cascades down her face and she pushes it back again, her body writhes in perfect harmony with the melodies, and Peter starts doing what she’s doing.  They dance like this, her creating and him echoing for a couple minutes, and he actually starts to enjoy himself.  He isn’t thinking about grinding on her or scoring with her; dancing is good enough for now.  And damn it if she isn’t smiling at him the whole time.  He’s in love.

And then the guy comes.  The fucking guy, there’s always some fucking guy.  She turns toward this newcomer and immediately favors him with her smiles.  He grabs her and they start dancing close, very close.  Peter almost walks away, but then this guy, this fucking guy, glances at him for a second, with this shit-poker face, this look that says, too bad man, tough break, I win.  And then he looks away into that beautiful smile, that shiny brown hair that Peter ought to be running his hands through later.

Peter walks up to the guy and pulls on his shoulder.  Hard.  “How bout you find your own fucking girl!” he shouts.  And there’s more to the exchange than that, but it gets lost in booze and melodies.  It ends with Peter cocking a fist back at the guy, and someone else coming up from behind, putting Peter in a headlock. 

All Peter can see of the guy are his arms.  They are covered in fire.  Tattoos of flame, orange flames shooting down from his shoulders, raging past his elbows, and licking at his knuckles.  Peter is vaguely aware of this man, this burning man, telling the bouncer, “Don’t worry, Mickey, I got this.”  He is vaguely aware of the jerky sensation of being dragged up a flight of stairs and through the orange gauntlet that is the club’s entrance.  But mostly he’s aware of the fiery noose around his neck and the matching pain inside himself, the burning, which does not come to his cheeks, as in embarrassment, but rather flares up in the dead center of his brain, and it is this pain that will take the longest to heal, longer even than the bloody gashes that open up on his elbows and wrists when he is hurled out onto the street by the burning man, who then goes back inside to receive cheers and drinks and praise and women.

Peter takes a bus home, checks his fantasy football stats, then goes to playboy.com.  1238.

He plots his revenge, all of the embarrassments that the burning man must suffer, all of the horrors that other fucking guy must experience.  Those tattoos of fire on the man’s arms will turn to real scar tissue, the teeth will no longer be present in that fucking guy’s smile, they will both be castrated and pissed upon, and then they will know what it feels like to be Peter Wozniak.

           But first… 1239.