The more I try to recall, the farther away it drifts. Trying to hold on to the memory of a dream has always been a battle for me; a battle I lose too often. True that I have had my fair share of dreams that I don’t regret forgetting the details (nobody wants to recall being chased around by a machete-wielding toilet seat). I have had remarkably indifferent dreams where everything was passive and pedestrian. I have also had some dreams that thrilled. Dreams where my darkest fantasies came to life. Dreams where I could almost touch, could almost taste. Dreams that blurred the line. But then again, there have been times when I woke up and found that the memory of a dream continued to abide. Surprised when I saw her name pop up on the screen that late at night. It was hard to believe. She’d been remarkably distant for a long while. She wouldn’t send me a text message, even if it was the last day; ever. She wouldn’t hit me up on any social platform, even if it would save my very life. She must have pocket-dialed me or something. She probably forgot she slipped her phone in her back pocket, then sat her supple derrière on a chair with no upholstery. But then again, what if she actually picked up the phone, searched for my name, then dialed it… on purpose. She’ll probably give me one of her pre-arranged speeches where she slips in a joke or two, then go on to say she hadn’t been avoiding me on purpose, I thought to myself. In two minds at the time: should I pick the call and act like we’ve been on spotless terms lately, or should I go on about how she’s been selfish? You know, give her a piece of my mind. Amidst making up my mind, the phone had already rung twice. I eventually made up my mind that I was going to act like I was OK with all the neglect. I was going to call and listen to her ask me about school and family like she gave a bat’s clitoris, then i’d go on to simulate elation at that one joke I never got. I wasn’t going to wait for a third call, because I knew it was most unlikely to come. When you’re a guy, and you’re in the Friendzone, don’t ever expect a third call. It simply won’t come. The very essence of The Friendzone is embodied by quicksand. Once you’re in it, you’re fucked. The moment you land in that quicksand, you’re better off getting tossed in the back of a moving hearse, while a special funeral procession with bagpipes and all that other shit unfolds to honour your loving memory. Shit, life’s unfair. About a minute into talking to her, she reminded me of why she always stood out. She was as witty as ever. She had retained that light-hearted appeal that I was oh so always crazy about. Her very voice invoked a flurry of memories. As expected, she went on about how she had been ‘hibernating’, and how she didn’t have anything against me. I nodded with sarcastic approval, while I took another gulp of half-frozen Pepsi. I’ve always wondered how things could have turned out if the emotion was mutual, Idongesit. We could have wandered off one evening on a Thursday. Straight into the unknown with reckless abandon, while we blurted out gibberish to strangers. The dust could have given the evening sun a glow of peach gold. You could have taken your dress off under the night’s gaze to reveal flawless nipples. I could have nibbled on them, while you squealed in painful delight. You just had to fuck it up didn’t you? I think she’d be better off if I never go into such detail in a conversation with her. For some reason, I kept hearing another voice intruding as the call continued. It was like her attention was divided into two. She started talking about strange things. She kept giving me wildly unrelated answers to my questions. It became really unsettling after a while. Then, I thought I heard her say she wanted me to come over to the hotel where she was lodged. It was really hard to hear anything properly with the mystery guy blabbing over her voice. Who the fuck is this guy? The voice seemed to be coming from my back, which was extremely strange because I was the only one in the room. Well, there was no harm in turning back to check for someone who was clearly non existent. You know, just to dispel the silly consciousness that some creepster with a cellphone was posing behind me. He was wearing a white unbuttoned shirt. He sat in a lotus position like a monk. A drug-addled Caucasian monk, more precisely. He just kept smiling feverishly, not looking in any particular direction. My ass was frozen, of course. I was scared shitless. I could barely move a muscle. He suddenly reached down to his zipper and unzipped it, then thrust his right hand straight into his crotch. After probing about his nether zone for about a dozen seconds, the hand emerged with a phoropter and a baby shark. Doggone nail polish remover! I’d probably been sniffing that shit a tad too much, I thought. There was no other explanation to what I was seeing. I immediately called Idongesit back and told her the network was responsible for cutting the call (not sure if that was the actual truth; I might have unintentionally cut the call from the sheer shock of turning around to see a Rastafarian/Spaniard freakshow in my room).
“Today was so stressful. I could do with a massage right now.” She was almost moaning out the words. “That could be arranged,” I jokingly obliged. “Can you come over, please. I’m all alone. Plus, it’s really cold.” The offer was too good to be true. She said she was in the hotel right opposite the barber shop down the street. I, for one, didn’t give two shits about why she was all alone in a hotel room at 9pm. The thought of a potential blowjob blotted out every other blowjob unrelated thought from my consciousness. I was going to be in that hotel room at all cost. I quickly grabbed my Trukfit hat from the shelf, then the one cup of ice cream left in the fridge. “We could use this.” I muttered to myself, with a sinister grin on my face. As I twisted the doorknob, I felt a tug on my left leg. What the hell? I reluctantly turned around with my eyes closed. Dear God, I couldn’t take another episode of acetone-induced hallucination. I just about summoned the courage to open my eyes. Get a load of this shit. Down there, grabbing my jeans, was a zebra. Well, I think it was a zebra. You’d expect the conventional black and white stripes, wouldn’t you. Not this one. It had every shade of the red spectrum on its fur, plus pretty much every other colour known to man. It was also barking, which really starts to make you think this wasn’t a zebra. It was more of a neo-psychedelic zebra dog. A big one. “Get off me, you freak!” I had to leave, but it wouldn’t let me. After a minute or thereabout, it eventually let go of me, but not without telling me to “lick it before you dick it” before it ran off. Damn, I needed to get my head straight. I was starting to feel nauseous as I headed out. I can’t deny the euphoria is priceless. One sniff of that solvent is soul tingling. It never takes hold until about an hour of steady inhalation. It’s not hard to know when the effect sets in. Sometimes, you may try to bathe with aftershave. Other times, you may try to smash your femur. Sometimes, you just feel like throwing up. Hell, I once attempted to toss my own salad. But if you ride the storm, then your reward will be a trip to Utopia. A world where there is no tax, no Miley Cyrus, no war, and no heartache. A world where there’s no STD. Sniff, sniff, sniff. A step felt like five. Took me ages to get to the steps. I just felt like flying to the hotel Idongesit lay wait like Riggan Thomson would . I managed to slog my way down to the second floor. From then on, things transformed; literally. The staircase became a spiral dungeon. Darker. Freaks of all nature descended from all angles. It was like the whole cast of Cirque du Soleil showed up. From bleat to moo. From pur to roar. All manner of sounds were clashing. Vultures were screeching uncontrollably. Crazed, demented meerkats struggling to hold on to the railing. A barbershop quartet was harmonizing, while contortionists defied gravity. All sorts were materializing. Suddenly, the noise stopped as darkness shrouded the staircase. Pitch black. I was sweating profusely, as much as I was nervous. I had never been that confused in my life. I was starting to think the nail polish remover wasn’t responsible for all the bullshit. I thought about the possible causes. Maybe this was another fucked up, surrealistic dimension. “It couldn’t possibly be as bad as South Sudan down here,” I muttered, trying to contain myself. A drum roll cut short my rumination. It was one long-ass drum roll. It went on and on. It seemingly knew no end. It eventually came to an abrupt halt after about 5 minutes of torture. There was complete silence and darkness. Then, I saw a spotlight shine on a balcony stationed aloft. The balcony’s railing was laden with festoons. I saw a man emerge from the darkness into the spotlight. He wore a flowing white robe with black hair flowing over his shoulders. He was pasty white, with large round eyes. “MJ, is that you?”. “No, this is not MJ.” he replied with a tranquil voice; his voice echoing in the blackness. “By MJ, I assume you are referring to the late pop icon Michael Jackson. I can understand the resemblance is uncanny. I have never stroked a five-year-old Tunisian boy’s navel for sexual gratification while he was fast asleep in his undergarments.” He had his left hand on the railing the whole time, while his right hand was holding a huge book. “Wait. What?” I inquired curiously. “Never mind.” he replied. “So who are you, and what the hell is this place?” I asked the potential pedophile . “I am The Supreme One, and this is your judgment day.” I asked him if he was God. He firmly replied that he wasn’t. He assured me that he would eventually uncover the truth about everything that had been happening. He insisted he was who he was: The Supreme One.
The Supreme One: It says here that you once accepted a job where you were required to convert homosexual men into straight ones. Tell me about this.
Cutex junkie: Well, what had happened was that I was broke and desperate. Around the time, I met some guy at a movie and we became friends. He told me he had a ‘fascinating job’ for me. I thought about backing out when I found out what the job was about, but I eventually decided to go along with it.
The Supreme One: So how did you go about changing these men’s homosexual predilection?
Cutex junkie: I usually hired a very attractive man to fellate the subject while he was tied to a bed. Waiting in the shadows would be a cheap hooker. Immediately the subject was fully erect, the hooker would run out unto the bed on my command, then jump on the subject’s erect penis as quickly as possible. While she rides the shit out of him like a wild dog, the attractive man would stand as close as possible to the bed, striking poses and stroking his nipples. This was to retain the subject’s erection. The Supreme One: How often did it work?
Cutex junkie: Quite a lot. One of my subjects went on to marry Mariah Carey.
The Supreme One: Oh, dear. The singer?
Cutex junkie: Yep. The cougar. The Supreme One: Cougar?..
Cutex junkie: Cougars are elderly women who are past their peak, but shamelessly refuse to acknowledge and embrace maturity. They spend a massive chunk of their income on age renewal supplements.
The Supreme One: Dear me…
We kept on talking for several minutes. The questions kept coming. He did ask a question about an arm wrestling match in Bolivia which I had no business with. He must have read it from the wrong file or something. Suddenly, the spotlight started flickering. The balcony started to melt on one side, gradually becoming lopsided. Everything started to become a blur. I could still hear the Supreme One’s inaudible voice in the background. It was total blackness all over again.
7:21 a.m. Shit.