Dry-HUMPed

November 11, 2012 at 11:11 am (Sweet sticky things)

Since its inception, I have attended every HUMP Festival, the locally produced exhibit of five-minute porno films. Every year I have taken a date, and every year but one it’s been a hassle.

Why should this year be any different?

The first year, I went with a co-worker who said she wanted to go, canceled, then changed her mind again. I’d offered Dr T the ticket as a birthday present, and felt bad when I rescinded the offer in order to take someone with a pussy.

So, next year I got a ticket especially for Dr T, and one for Clairissa. Clairissa’s GF was unmovable in her resolve not to let Clairissa go with me, so I invited Meg. Meg told the Marshal, who teased her about having a new pervert boyfriend.

If he only knew.

Last year, it was just Meg and I. We attended, had a ball, and then I went to Rain’s afterward. (Shh…) Rain had been invited, but didn’t think it was her thing, and even at 53 she has ID issues. I soaked up the filth and shared it with her in my own little way.

This year? Ahh, this year.

It has become a tradition for Meg and I to attend, since her birthday is around the end of October. I scored tickets early, as it sells out every year. We’d made a date a couple months previous, and I was stoked. Even though we hadn’t been intimate in months, and there were no expectations, I looked forward to going out with her. She bought black rhinestone-covered fuck-me boots with six-inch heels, and we spoke often of how we were looking forward to it.

Then a few days before the show, she called. “I have bad news. The Marshal isn’t gonna let me go to HUMP with you. He’s picking me up before the show.”

My heart sank. “Why? It never bothered him before?”

“He doesn’t want me fucking anyone but him.”

This hadn’t been an issue lately, but I wisely chose not to bring it up. “Okay… Guess I’ll figure something out. Wish you were going.”

We rang off, but the more I thought about it the more it irritated me. I texted her, “If he’s gonna be like that, you should charge him $33 for your birthday party net loss, spend it on booze and drink it in front of him, stinkeye the whole time.”

I’d bought her a magic cupcake for the event; guess where that’s going? (It was nummy.)

Later, we talked on the phone as I rang customers. I grumbled, “I don’t see why he has to fuck with my birthday party for you. It’s not like I expect you to put out. He doesn’t want you, he just doesn’t want anyone else- ahh fuck it, I won’t say that. I’m just pissed he’s being like this.”

“He doesn’t know about you, or that we’re going.”

Wh-wh-what?

“Oh. So, you just don’t want to tell him you’re going with me? Is that what’s going on?” Now it made sense, and now I was getting mad. Not mad, exactly. Hurt. Sigh. And a bit fucking mad.

“I do want to go. Sorry about messing up your plans. How does one go about getting tickets?”

“You need a computer, a credit card and a printer. And don’t expect me to help you this fucking time!” She laughed after a pause, trying to gauge my tone. I made it sound like I said it with a smile.

“Well, I’ll give you fifty bucks if you can score me tickets.”

I took it under advisement.

By lunchtime I’d made up my mind. Meg called, “You coming over for lunch, or are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at all. I’ll talk to you about it when I get there.”

Things were set up just so. My gorilla pillow/headrest was in its spot at the end of the bed, a can of Starbucks from the beer store downstairs was chilled and waiting. She hugged and kissed me. “I’m sorry, it’s just that the Marshal is acting like he actually cares about us lately.”

She’d been trying to get the guy’s attention for ten years, and he kicked her away like an annoying puppy. Now that I give her some attention, the prospect of him losing her has him reevaluating.

“How do *you* feel about that?” I asked.

“”Happy. And kinda scared,” she replied.

I get it. Boy fucking howdy, do I get it.

“I have an idea. You’ll spend $50 for a pair of tickets; why don’t I just sell you mine?”

“But what will you do? You were so looking forward to this.”

“I’ll be okay, and I can use the money for something else. It might work out best this way.”

She felt bad enough. I chose not to tell her that I was mainly going for her, and because it had become “our thing.”

She handed me a $50 bill. “Okay, just bring the money back if you change your mind.”

I stuck it in my pocket, mind already made up. The next day I brought her the tickets, and put the event out of my mind. I took the $50 bill to the electronics store and paid Rain’s bill for another month. She texted me later that day, “Honey, can I have $5 or $10 for cigs and food?”

“Sorry baby, only got about $2. I JUST PAID YOUR PHONE BILL.” Two bucks would get her the cheap filtered cigars she likes.

“WHAT? You’ll get it back. Somehow…”

So yeah, I guess it worked out. I would like to have seen the show. I would like to have helped Meg navigate the slippery streets in six-inch-heeled platform boots. I would like to have taken her home and seen those boots behind her ears. I would like to have been invited to spend the night.

Rain has been wonderful. Though she’s between apartments, she has found a roof temporarily, and is making an effort at being more of a friend that a “friend.” She has taken care of me in ways I won’t elaborate upon, other to say that the woman is giving and a good sport. I hope things will always be this spontaneous and loving between us.

Meg is supposed to be back in town today. If she calls, I will come. (Lunchtime options are cut in half, since Rain has moved.) I will hear all about the festival, and I sorta hope The Marshal had a shitty time. That way, next year Meg can buy me a ticket and I’ll escort her instead.

If we all aren’t married by then.

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