daniel-in-the-kings-court-1

Jon Wayne would murk it on Christian Mingle.

I was a week into touring and starting to feel the drags of drinking every night and morning to wear off the respective terrors of performing and flying, starting to seek sleep whenever I could during the day to combat my physical exhaustion. Running on a quarter tank in my brain I arrived and proceeded to be distant from the crowd. After my set I found a girl who had approached me twice and she was cute but her taste for dancing and partying had matched my equal distaste. I decided this could be easily resolved by giving her my room information and leaving early, so I did.

Outside the club a supporter had offered to buy me a gyro from the late night spot next door and I obliged. He went on home and I sat down to eat what he ordered for me when a much less pleasant supporter soon took his place, drunk and thirsty, asking for a picture (which I never turn down) and a conversation (which I turn down, sometimes) and advice on music production (which I would rather not get into when I’m eating food, still anxious to see if a random girl will show up at my hotel so I don’t have to spend yet another night winding down by myself). Thankfully, he’s cut off by a local woman, much more pleasant. They seemed to be a couple so I stifled myself and had a nice chat while we all ate our orders. She managed to balance him out.

She had invited us back to her place but I was still hopeful about the girl at the club so we went to mine, planning to wait to hear from her while drinking the bottles of Jameson and dry I had received from the promoter as a parting gift. We arrive at the hotel and it quickly becomes apparent that she was not showing up, but it was nice to drink in a hotel room with strangers, so we did. I learn that they were not together, but rather he was her good friend: clueless, jealous and protective. The trifecta of cockblocking.

She and I start hitting it off rather well, despite Buzzkillington nipping at our heels like the lit, gasoline-soaked rope we were holding onto. In the moments to ourselves, we really felt it and I started to plot my way around this guard-dog of a friend. Despite the frustration, I had enough humor to realize the few hours in which we played this failed King’s court of after-dark pussy hunt, was tragically amazing. To say the least, the triangle between us was compelling, I felt as if the Dirty Old Man himself had drunkenly hammered away at a modern, understated mock Shakespearian tragedy and then planted the heavy script on my blue testicles.

In an effort to solve the equation, I advised she take him home in a cab, make him think she was also going home, then come right back here so we could spend some time together. She liked the idea and on the way out, as he walked out the room first, she closed the door on him and sprang onto me like the drunk lady she was. Our kiss was spot on. Instantly I was ready to go and she grabbed me where she shouldn’t. Then I grabbed her where I shouldn’t. We were just grabbing each other in places we probably shouldn’t have grabbed. Meanwhile, Dickneck is out in the hall knocking on the door as if he didn’t know what was going on and she adjusted herself. “I need to get rid of this fucking guy.” “Go ahead, but Jesus Christ hurry back.”

I put on some good rap music and opened the box of condoms I purchased a couple cities back and never used. In anticipation the first two condoms I tried to rip from the rest of the group had torn open from force and logically I came to the conclusion she probably didn’t want me reaching for an already-open condom wrapper. Those two went in the trash. Third time was a charm and also in my back pocket. I paced the room, picking up anything that didn’t look like it was justifying my erection getting handled. Before I knew it, the album was done. I selected another. I called. Her phone was off. I waited longer. Nothing.

I fell asleep at 6 in the morning and woke up at 9. Hipster God was laughing in my face with the ironic numerology. We get it. You’re great.

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