How do I top my story about eating a million peaches and then shitting in the tub? Hit up a couple iffy Seattle sushi restaurants and then shit in a gutter? While I have plenty more entertaining poop stories (more than I thought ever humanly possible), I want to tell a different story.
Let’s talk about sex, Baby.
Let’s talk about eating Taco Bell before having sex with someone for the first time.
I can hardly eat a cracker before a work meeting without my guts churning and a bottle of Imodium close at hand so you know I didn’t eat anything
before I had sex with a tall man with a surprisingly (and disappointingly) small tool.
Let me back this up (That’s what he said.)
I’ll call him Trevor because his real name was as dull as his personality. He’d been my neighbor for awhile. He had two kids in high school and a wife who had a bad case of resting bitch face. I never much looked at him (or his family) because while I don’t mind being friendly if a neighbor and I are getting our mail at the same time, I don’t want to know your life story (unless it is so grotesque and screwed up that I need to write about it). I don’t want to water your plants or feed your cat while you’re on vacation. I’m not that kind of neighbor because that consists of a level of caring I just don’t want to waste on a neighbor. If you are bleeding out and manage to make it onto my porch to knock on my door I’ll dial 911 and give you a reasonably clean dish towel for a makeshift tourniquet. I might even say “You take care now” as the paramedics are pushing your gurney into the back of the ambulance. I call that smart thinking. Some might call it being a bitch but
1)I did say I’d dial 911 and give you a dish towel and
2)I don’t want to be your best friend, exchanging recipes or childhood memories over a cup of coffee that smells like cat piss.
If you need a cup of sugar there’s a mini-mart on the corner. Here’s $2 for a scratch card. Please leave.
So Trevor and his family moved a short distance away and then he ended up getting divorced. I ran into him at the grocery store. He later called me that night to tell me I had the greenest eyes he’d ever seen.
You ever wish you could reach into the past and bitch slap yourself for the stupid shit you did? There are things so idiotic, so heinously “what the fuck were you thinking?” that pop up from my past that I would have to constantly reach into the past and bitch slap myself and then maybe push myself into traffic for being such a dumb shit.
Note to self:
Just because a man says you have the greenest eyes he’s ever seen does not mean that’s a basis for a relationship. Or even a friendship.
Trevor and I emailed a few times, never really making concrete plans to do anything. Even then I knew he was boring and didn’t seem to be passionate about anything. Another note to self: Beware of men who are still boring as shit even after you find out they have seemingly interesting hobbies like running with the bulls or being a volunteer fireman but never talk about these cool hobbies with wonder and amazement. And beware of assholes who are too fucking lazy to even use spell check when writing you an email.
I wasn’t looking for a relationship. Without going into it too deeply (at least for now) I’m not relationship material. I need loooooooong stretches of solitude and I hear being in a relationship kind of gets in the way of “me” time.
So Trevor and I finally decided to go see a movie. We held hands and it was nice. Holding someone’s hand in the dark is almost more intimate than the clunky slapping of a couple bodies in the dark.
The movie ended and I was pretty sure where the night was headed. He wanted me to come back to his place. I wanted to go back to his place.
-But I’m going to stop at Taco Bell first. You want anything? He juggled his keys in his hands as we stood at our cars.
Yeah, get me three chalupas, one of those 12 pack taco things, an extra large order of nachos and a vat of refried beans because nothing could be more awkward than eating Mexican (or whatever Taco Bell is) food right before you have sex with someone. I said no and then drove to his house and waited for him. I had a book with me. I always have a book with me. I read, parked beneath a bright orange streetlight.
He pulled into the driveway and we went into the house. It was a nice enough house but he was kind of a slob. Not exactly a deal breaker because I had no plans on staying the night. He ate his Taco Bell and fixed both of us drinks. Let me just say I hate small talk. The weather’s the weather and there will always be turmoil in the Middle East. I make sure any elevator I get into is empty because I don’t want to hear Stubble Guy talk about the Musak and how his ex-wife loved the piece of shit that is Hotel California. And I don’t want to talk to Lipstick Teeth asking me if I watched The Biggest Loser the night before.
I wanted to skip this whole “We need alcohol and a very short tour of my house” bit. Yes, there’s the door to the bathroom, there’s the door to the garage and I’m pretty sure that room with the stove in it is the kitchen.
Here’s another thing: I’m not and never have been a sexy beast or “I am vagina, hear me roar!” I’m short and built like a brick shithouse and I’m fairly certain I could clothesline someone taller than me. Men don’t see me as a potential mate. I’m a little cute but I fall under the category of “Side kick” or “Girl who happens to be around and responds to compliments about having eyes.” I’m not the kind of girl a dude wants to bring home to meet his family. I’m the girl who’s there until someone better comes along. That’s just how its always been.
Finally, the night is progressing and Trevor and I do whatever it is two naked people in a dark room do. It wasn’t great. I didn’t see stars. He was a little overweight and was huffing and puffing and I felt the need to come up with a plan should his heart burst and he collapsed on me.
I was also thinking that I just wanted to go home, put my pajamas on and read. I’m not good at the sex stuff. I get the giggles, especially when the guy thinks he’s a superstar in bed:
-Oh, you like that, right?
Get off my hair.
-That’s what you like, I know it.
Seriously, my leg was not built to bend at that angle. I doubt even a person doing yoga for 50 years could get it over their shoulder.
-Oh yeah. I’m breaking you in.
I wonder if the milk in the fridge is still good even though the expiration date was two days ago. I mean, the milk might be off for a whole bowl of cereal but it might be okay for a cup of coffee. Did I remember to lock the sliding glass door? I think if I make the minimum payment on my Visa card this month I can put some money away for a Kindle.
One last huff and puff and Trevor blew his own house down and left mine standing. He reached over and turned on the light. HE TURNED ON THE MOTHER FUCKING LIGHT.
I’m trying to be artful about covering myself up. Like 90 kajillion women, I have body issues and I have enough trouble looking at myself naked in front of mirror let alone having a naked man next to me looking at my naked body. I hoped I looked like that broad coming out of the clamshell, arm and hand coiled across my boobs and my hips turned to the side because hey, my poor landscaped girl bits seemed a little self-conscious of her afro.
To this day I have no idea what we talked about. I stared up at the ceiling and wondered what was the polite standard of time to stare up at the ceiling while naked with a guy who had not rung my bells.
-Ooh. I farted. Hope it isn’t stinky. Trevor said and started fanning the air behind him.
I put on my underwear, inside out and backwards, shoved my bra into my backpack (the bra I bought a few weeks back because I wanted a girly bra but now it just looked tired and sad like it’d spent a lot of time making small talk). I don’t think I even put my socks on before shoving my feet into my shoes. He walked me to the door and gave me what he must have thought was a soulful kiss when in reality he kissed like he thought he was in a porn movie. His tongue may have actually touched the back of my left eyeball. My face had that feeling like after a deep night’s sleep when I wake up groggy with a pool of drool on my pillowcase.
On the drive home I scrubbed at my face with my sleeve and wondered how on earth sleeping with someone could feel the same as being alone.
And seriously, who eats Taco Bell before having sex?