The iconic Friday night is to be spent young and full of idealism and innocence and infatuation, going to the movies with 'your girl.' She is blonde and still wears her hair in a ponytail. Maybe she's wearing your letter jacket; maybe you're 'pinned' or 'going steady.' You picked her up in your dad's Corvette, which you had to beg to borrow, and made it past the hard part of the night, convincing her father that you aren't a sex pervert and that your intentions are in fact, honorable. Surprisingly, they more-or-less are.
You bought the tickets, of course, and the popcorn and the soda. After the lights were lowered, you casually did the 'yawn with outstretched arms' trick, and she fell for it. At a scary point in the movie she would hold your hand and squeeze, or, if you were lucky, she would grab your leg--your knee, really--leaving you erect for the rest of the night (you always tried to go to the sci-fi films, with aliens attacking the earth, for this very reason). If the movie gets slow, her head might start to nuzzle the nape of your neck, and you'd reciprocate. She'd move her head up to whisper something in your ear, but you misread the signals and move your lips to hers, and she's too polite to say no and too bored to come up with a reason to stop.
Of course, in real life, she probably snuck out to see the movie with you, and you're not so much going steady as much as she is of the opposite gender who gets horny at convenient intervals. Her hair is cropped too short for a ponytail, and has seen more colors than her nails. You probably didn't pay for the tickets, instead sneaking in a back door, or at the very least switched movie theatres, creating your own double-feature.
As soon as the lights are out, your arm is around the back of her chair. By the end of the opening credits, your tongue is down her throat. It's a horror film, and by the time the townspeople are baffled at the first death, your left hand is on her breast, kneading it like a mammogram and milking the nipple erect. Your jacket, if you bring one at all, is conveniently draped over your lap, covering your erection. You whisper something in her ear, but all she can hear over the sounds of a young blonde girl getting stabbed by a long knife are the words "blue balls," and she relents. Her right hand goes down and unzips your pants. She fumbles with your boxers, finding it hard to get your cock out, and to find a way to bend your hardness out the slit, so you must do it. To her, your cock feels shorter than it really is, with at least an inch buried under your baggy jeans and your plaid boxers.
She feels dirty now. You're really getting into it, but as her wrist starts pumping, her head surveys the audience, hoping no one notices. She’s biting her lip, devoting more energy on her surroundings than on your cock, but she’s still getting the job done, and it never takes much. You start panting, louder and louder. Fortunately, the killer is chasing another buxom blonde across the screen, and no one notices. You let out a gasp and you make a mess on the inside of your jacket and on her hand. She sits there, mortified, while your breathing subsides in post-coital bliss. You both sort of just sit there, not sure how to clean up and not sure who the ‘real’ killer is.
If you’re gay, of course, you drove to the theatre alone, parking a few blocks away in case someone recognized your car. You wore a loose-fitting t-shirt, a baseball cap, sunglasses, and baggy pants, without any underwear. You felt awkward as you bought your ticket, sure that the balding man at the ticket booth was judging you, or at the least checking you out, leering with dead eyes, and you scurried past the decrepit lobby and into the theatre.
The movie is already going; it has a name and stars and a director and a plot, but none of that matters. The only thing on the screen is flesh and hairy legs. Judging by the skin tone, there are at least four men on the screen, but you can’t tell for sure and it doesn’t make a difference. You sit near the back, the only person in your row. You absent-mindedly watch the screen, your erection pressing against your pants. You get lost in the rhythmic thrusts of the legs onscreen—it’s almost like a lava-lamp, the flesh giving way to a hypnotic meld of heat and elasticity, where after a few minutes it’s hard to tell where one man ends and the other begins.
Someone sits in your row, a few seats down. Your breath quickens. You make sidelong glances, hoping that you don’t know the guy. You sit transfixed on the screen, almost ostentatiously, your hand slipping down to your crotch. You tap your foot, the one closest to your stranger. He stands up, and moves over, sitting next to you now. He smells like someone familiar, but you can’t put your finger on it, cigarettes and sweat and cologne like your stepfather used to wear. He paws at your crotch, pleased at what he finds but his hands are grimy. You see the glint of what must be a wedding ring on one of his fingers.
He clears his throat, about to say something, but you’re not in the mood and you were never good at small talk anyway. You grunt, not really words, but he gets the jist of it, and is on his knees in a matter of seconds. He takes you fully with the first try, and then gags as your head passes his tonsils. He’s sloppy, and you can feel his spit rolling down your shaft and coalescing in your pubes. You put your hand on his head, on his short thinning blonde hair, taking control of the situation, as your neck relaxes and you rest your head on the back of the seat, staring absently at the ceiling, at what once must have been a nice theatre, removing yourself from your head and just focusing in on the stranger’s seemingly unnatural appetite.
You start to absent-mindedly thrust your hips, trying to speed along the process. The guy’s head is a piston between your legs, lubing your shaft, but ultimately there isn’t enough friction. You watch the screen, hoping to speed things up, but the disembodied torsos have lost all their erotic appeal. You close your eyes and focus in on your past, about how one time in college your friend had gotten dumped and you took him out to get drunk to ease the pain, and you two came back to your apartment shitfaced, and you gave him your first blowjob. The memory triggers something in you, and you quickly tap the back of the guys head to give him warning, but it’s too late, as you shoot in his mouth and he greedily laps it up. He keeps nursing at it, even as it grows soft in his mouth, and you have to push his head to one side. You don’t even rezip your pants, you just stand up, make sure you aren’t coming out of your fly, and walk out the door to the exit.
Of course, if you were me, none of this happened. You spent your Friday night babysitting, and not in any sort of iconic way, sending the kids off to bed early while your boyfriend snuck in so you could make out on the couch while watching tv, keeping an ear open in case the parents came home early or in case the kids came downstairs in need of a drink of water.
Nothing like that. Instead, after sending the older kids off to bed, you carried the blonde two-year old in your arms, his stringy hair tickling your clavicle, while watching "Finding Nemo," his favorite video. His breathing steadies, and his repetitions of 'Dude' as Crash, the 150-year old turtle gives directions, grow fainter as his eyes droop and close for the night. You sit on the couch and hold him, feel his body heat as his skin sticks to yours, and continue to watch the movie.
You’ve always wanted to spend your Friday night with a blonde guy (you’ve only ever dated or slept with brunettes, interestingly enough), watching a movie, cuddling on a couch, but this isn’t what you had in mind. But it’ll have to do.
