Page 163 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
“The Italian prime minister,” I said. “He threw these wild orgies that he called bunga bunga parties. I don’t know anything about them. The thought of politicians having sex grosses me out.”
“You’d make a shit intern.”
“Duh. So anyway, I don’t even know what the phrase means. I just like the sound of it. Bunga bunga.”
“Bunga bunga,” Allen repeated. “That’s the punch line to a joke my dad told me when I was a kid.”
“Was it funny?”
“I laughed. But then again, I was in junior high.”
“You still remember it?” I asked.
“Like it was yesterday,” he said, staring off into the distant past. “It starts off with two English explorers getting captured by an African tribe—”
“This isn’t racist, is it?”
“It’s a dad joke,” Allen said, shrugging. “Anyway, the chief tells them they’re guilty of trespassing. They have a choice: bunga bunga or death. The explorers have no idea what bunga bunga is, but they figure it can’t be worse than death. The first explorer says he’ll take bunga bunga. The chief nods, and a tribesman tears the prisoner’s pants off and starts fucking him in the ass. The rest of the men in the tribe line up for their turn—”
“Wait, how old were you when your dad told this to you?”
“Like eleven,” Allen said. “Anyway, once the tribesmen are finished gangbanging the first explorer, the chief turns to the second one. Again, he gives him a choice: bunga bunga—or death. ‘Death,’ the prisoner says. ‘Give me death!’ The chief nods. ‘Okay. Death it is,’ he says. ‘But first—bunga bunga!’ ”
Everything about the joke was wrong, wrong, wrong. Something about the way he told it made me grin nonetheless.
Allen wasn’t smiling. In fact, he looked tense. His eyes were tightly shut, as if he was trying to hold back tears. “You okay?”
He exhaled a heavy breath and looked at me. His eyes were dry. “Sorry. Just thinking about my dad. I wish I remembered something about him besides his dumb jokes.”
“The joke wasn’t that dumb.”
“You didn’t laugh,” he said.
“I guess I found the joke a little sad.”
“What’s sad?”
“Well, these two English explorers had to go all the way to Africa to find out what butt sex was.”
“Maybe sometimes you have to leave everything you know behind to find what it is you really want,” Allen said, placing a hand on my thigh. His touch was electric. Now it was my turn to close my eyes. I didn’t want to jinx the moment by talking about it or even looking at Allen—if I’d mistaken his innocent touch for something more . . .
I felt his hand touch mine, and then his breath was on my neck.
I hadn’t mistaken anything.
This was happening.
The short hairs on his face scratched my own and his lips brushed mine. I latched on to him, kissing deeply, hungrily, as if we’d just invented French kissing. Finally, he pulled away.
I opened my eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.”
“Just a minute ago, you were about to cry.”
“I’ve never cried in my life,” Allen said. He grabbed me by my shirt and pulled me on top of him. He flung my top hat across the room. “You have that condom?”
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled it out. Only it wasn’t a condom as I’d thought. It was one of the studded rubber cock rings. “This isn’t going to work,” I said, shoving it back in my pocket.
