Baby Jonas
I’d love to be able to say that hopping between women, having them fight over me and give each other contusions over my company, etc., was normal. But it never was. Not in my teen
years, not even in college, and not on the island. When I went out, like it is for any guy, I’d hit and I’d miss. Mostly miss. Which is why a few times a month, four times in hellweek (which we’ll get to), I’d shack up at the Surf City Hotel and let various island escorts abuse me with their love. The rooms were (relatively) cheap and the women weren’t, and I had a blasted good time locked away in a booze filled cage with furry pink bars and handcuffs attached to the door.
The week before the Lighthouse Film Festival came to town, I met a cool girl named Karly. It was June, finally, and you could feel the surge of energy up and down the coast, like a roving beast finally coming out of hibernation. The island was moving again, stretching its legs and getting ready to dance for the summer. I had been there for a month at that point, but try telling me that. It could have been six months, it could have been five days. All I knew was that I was feeling good, and that, as a human being (an animal, really), I wanted to fuck. Without judgment, without attachment, without pressure. Not exactly a unique experience, but you may still feel inclined to ask, who hurt me? And I would not blame you, but that isn’t the right question. The only thing I asked myself in those early months was: what’s stopping me?
Nick Denardi 