Devin Dearing Preston: NYC writer, playwright, and storyteller

Oh, those summer nights

June 8, 2010

Well, memorial day has come and gone. Summer is upon us. The hot sticky days of June, July and August invite us to don almost non-existent apparel, brave the oppressive streets of the city oozing sweat from every pore, and comb our imaginations for what in God’s name will take our minds off how unbelievably hot we are.  A big budget hollywood action flick in an ice-cold movie theater? A twelve pack of Corona’s? A summer romance?

Having successfully reached the half way point of my self-imposed celibacy, it looks like the first two options are going to have to get me through. Did somebody say “A-Team”? But I venture to say that I am going to find these three months to be the most challenging yet. Not only is everyone walking around practically naked, their bodies are emitting all those powerful pheromones that no amount of Degree can disguise.

Feel free to disagree, but there is something strangely sexy about people in New York in the summer time. Our faces are flushed. Our breathing is heavy and labored. We are all shiny and glistening in the sun. Our hair is tousled and frizzed out. Our make-up is smeared . We are basically a walking advertisement of what to expect lying next to you after you have fucked the shit out of us. Which I have to say New York  looks pretty good on you. 

Where as winter time is about mystery and discovery. Removing the layers. Keeping each other warm. Summer is about passion and perspiration. Fulfilling that promise. And keeping each other hot. And sexy. It’s a man’s dream too, because there is no cuddling after summer sex. You just lay there in your own wetness until you pass out.  It’s sadly why most romances born in the summer die in the colder months. No couple, no matter how hot, can sustain that kind of heat.  You will never be as sexy in long johns and wool socks as you are in a tube top and cut off shorts. Plus, you were probably too busy screwing your brains out in the summer to find out if you actually liked each other. I wouldn’t be speaking from experience here. I repeat, this has never happened to me. 

In my less celibate days I might have given into the cloud of lust that hangs in the summer air, thick and wet like the humidity. It drew me into a fling with a man named Jared. I knew him from school, but he was older than me and had been living in the city for sometime by the time I moved here for my first summer of bad decision-making. We went on a couple dates, and one ended in my bedroom in my first New York apartment which had absolutely no air conditioning. At this time in my young life the only prerequisite for entrance into my room was that you had an interest in being there. And he did. Despite the hot stagnate air. 

I know that I waxed poetic before when speaking of the romantic glow summer sweat produces. The sweating that took place in my room that night was not the glow kind. Nor was it remotely romantic. Well, it was romantic like Niagara falls or a summer thunder shower is romantic. They are magnificent to watch due to the sheer volume and force of non-stop moisture cascading in a constant flow, but you wouldn’t necessarily want to be caught under either one of them. But that happened to be my predicament. I was pinned beneath my friend who was working very hard, thus his personal cooling system was working over time and enormous beads of sweat were leaping off this guy and landing directly in my face, eyes, and mouth. Drowning during sex was not a fate I had imagined until that moment.  And the longer it went on, the more he sweat. And the more he sweat the more elusive and impossible my chance ever reaching orgasm became.  I’d never seen anyone sweat that much in my life. Nor felt so completely responsible.

Bottom line, it was really gross. Really. Gross. I just lay there giving him looks of encouragement and praying that he’d finish up already. 

It’s summer flings like that one that I should keep in the fore front of my mind when wandering this sexy city contemplating forging my vow of celibacy. Not all sex is life changing, ground moving, toe curling good times. It can also be really unfortunate and bad.

Categories: See Jane Give Up Dick

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