Bonerman

When I first moved to Portland I helped with “Family Dinner”. A few of us made a ton of food, and we invited anyone we wanted, then we hoped they would all show up. Most Wednesdays people did, and it was nice. Sometimes it went great, but this particular dinner was fucking weird.

The night’s odd to begin with because it was a different crowd. A few of the usual people showed up, one being my friend, Vanessa. The faded yellow couch was lined with three girls who are maybe 17-20 max. People are going in and out of the kitchen, getting food, when a moist, Blockbuster employee walked into the living room.

Blue shirt, khakis, and sweaty from the bike ride to our apartment; he pulled off his helmet and took a set, cross-legged, on the carpet. Vanessa leaned into me, and made fun of his thin, long, parted hair. We got lost in conversation, but I remember everyone was cordial to him. He was very polite, and had an effeminate voice. Then he stood up to go get food, and he was pitching a serious tent.

This, mid-forties, loaner of movies, walked into the kitchen with a boner, and returned to his seat–with a boner. Vanessa and I reconvened to make sense of the awkwardness we were witnessing. She named him Bonerman.  He get’s up to put his plate away; no tent. Relief. This creep is full, he’s gonna say, “by”, and go the fuck home. He comes back, full hard-on and struts over to the couch–to chat it up–with the underage girls who came to the wrong -fuckin’- party.

These horrified young blondes are staring at this guys bulge. All three women are failing at trying not to stare at his bulge. Laughing nervously, at his shitty jokes about kid’s movies. I was flabbergasted, and I didn’t know what to do. Luckily, the uncomfortable vibes finally penetrated bonerman’s shell. His pants flattened, and he eventually got bored, and left. I was a praying man at the time, and I prayed I’d never have to see him again–guess who came to dinner every week for the next six months.

Everything's Over

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