Vodka, with a Threesome Back

When I turned 9, my little kid cuteness vanished. My perfectly straight dark brown hair and adorable tilted smile got replaced with an ugly, awkward-looking girl whose winning features included frizzy curls, braces, and overly large glasses. Needless to say, these aesthetic charms weren’t bringing all the boys to the party. Unfortunately, I, as far back as I can recall, have had an off-the-charts libido. So because I was too physically unappealing to get any guys, my constant crushes, daydreams about boys, fantasies about getting down with them all went unfulfilled and instead stayed within my brain (and maybe a finger or two.) At the end of the day, that was eleven long years of pent-up sexual frustrations I had no way of releasing. At least, not until I hit the big 2-0. That’s when I finally shed my hideous skin and morphed into, comparatively speaking, a goddess. And finally, finally I was able to unleash these feelings I had been holding inside in both my mind and my vagina. The delay of man-on-girl action, combined with my better-late-than-never blossoming of my looks (i.e., puberty) was like opening the goddamn floodgates. I had years of un-had experiences to catch up on, due to my prolonged puberty preventing me from having the ability to act on my feelings of desire. The result of this man-eating marathon was a vast amount of, um, "interesting" experiences that only increased in number as I got older. Generally with these stories any one of my good friends, or even people I’ve just met, will say, “Elena, this only happens to you… this does not happen to anybody else.” The reactions to this one in particular were no different. After my first threesome had ended up in an emergency room, people were rather surprised when I willingly (all right, and drunkenly) gave it another go. But I have never been one to give up, especially not when it comes to my ever-expanding sexual curiosity. So when something that in my mind could be so good goes that badly, and the opportunity comes along to try it again with a new pair of penii, I was game. It couldn't be any worse than last time… right? But clearly the Gods of Ménage do not like me, or simply enjoy having a laugh at my expense. Or maybe it's just my childlike naiveté to think that my two-on-ones would be as magical as they are on the big screen. But like Mama always said, "Life isn't like the movies." Oh well, I guess I gotta keep searching...

"Roof" was a college guy I picked up during my senior year of high school. It was a sort of two-night-stand, except once was during the daytime. Post-park picnic, and on a make-shift bed on a Brooklyn brownstone rooftop (hence his nickname.) We embarked on a 3-hour love-making sesh that left me with very strange tan lines. A couple of nights later, we hung out again before he went back home for his final year of undergrad. Suffice to say, we didn't keep in touch. Then one random day, after I had graduated college, I jokingly looked him up on Facebook and there he was! I sent him a message, we wound up talking a bit, exchanged numbers, met up in the city a couple of times, etc., etc. He had gotten an amazing job straight out college that had him travelling all over the world seeing clients. Whenever his job sent him to New York, he’d call me up and we’d hang out. All in all, it was a pretty sweet deal considering his ridiculous salary, company credit card, access to 5-star hotels and restaurants, not to mention his prowess in the bedroom and well... his gorgeous face and bangin’ body. So on this occasion, he called me to meet up with him and his best friend from Cali, "Jackson", at the Russian Samovar one Friday night. I happily accepted (despite being on my period that week), and arranged to meet up with them after my voice lesson. Despite already making the sale, Roof also mentioned that Jackson was very hot and that I would like him. Well, I thought, that remains to be seen... but... bring on the drinks!

It was a warm night, and since the bar wasn't too far I decided to walk the 20 minutes uptown. When I got to what I thought was the bar I paused inside the front door. I was unsure if I was in the right place because I couldn't see Roof anywhere. All of a sudden, the path in front of me became blackened by shadow. I looked up from my bag, which I had opened to get out my phone, and when I looked up my eyes came level with a gigantic man’s belly. As I continued looking upward another good three feet, I found myself staring into the eyes of a HUGE 6'8, 300+lb white Russian man blocking my way into the bar. He was looking down at me (way down actually; I was wearing flats), and not exactly understanding what was going on, I smiled and tried to walk around him. But he shifted over and cut me off (or maybe he just leaned a little, given that his girth was pretty much equivalent to the space between the wall and the bar stools.) I tried again to get past him; again, he blocked me. It looked like we had reached a stalemate, since even I, petite as I am, couldn't possibly inch around his impressive width-span or protruding gut. Um, relax dude. This isn't basketball. I'm not a small forward, so stop setting picks! Maybe he was joking around or something, which I found odd since we weren't friends, but then he asked, "Can I help you?" I told him I was here to meet some friends at the bar. He looked at me, and it was unnerving because he wasn’t lowering his head to do it, just his eyeballs. He started stroking his chin, sizing me up. "Really?” he asked. "Are you sure you’re in the right place?" I said, "I think so... I mean, I'm pretty sure..." Before I could stutter or stammer further, he replied, "Well, I think you're mistaken, you should try the bar across the street." And he pointed to some seedy pub through the window. With a strangled attempt at a laugh, I said, gesturing to my phone, "I just need to check my messages to make sure," to which he said, unsmiling, "Yeah, right, why don't you do that- outside?" He opened the door and pushed me out, I think using only his index finger.

Momentarily stunned and feeling like a confused kitten thrown inexplicably out of the house, I thought, "Wait…did I just get BOUNCED?" And the answer to that is yes, yes I did. What was this? I'm not Polish! I'm not tan in the winter either, so I totally look like my Jewish-Russian half of my genes! We share the same motherland buddy! Jews gotta stick together, not go bouncing each other from bars and shit. Shaking my head, I figured I might as well check my phone to see if this was indeed the right place. Just as I started to go through my text messages, I got an incoming call from Roof. I picked up and he started saying, "Elena, come inside, I can see you through the window." Relieved, I hung up and went back in. Like a stray dog to raw meat, the bouncer immediately tried to cut me off, AGAIN (seriously, what was up with this guy?) but Roof came up to him and said, "Dude, it's ok, she's with us."

I sat down and dropped my heavy music-book-laden bag at my feet, grateful to have made it at last. I was introduced to Jackson (lanky and blonde, at the time NOT my type; I used to hate blondes and stuck with athletic brown-haired guys, for the most part). I looked around the place, having never been before, and immediately regretted dressing down as much as I did. Russian women look like real women; like straight out of classic art pieces, or a Tolstoy description. They are generally quite voluptuous and even on my most dressed-up of days by comparison I would indeed look like a prepubescent girl, but on a casual day like this I could easily look like a fifth-grade boy lost in a sea of giant boobs that could take out an eye. Whatever; no back problems for me. Turning back to the drink menu that Roof had handed me, I was surprised; they served ONLY straight vodka at this place, infused with over 50 different flavors and served by the double shot. (Everything about that sentence only got better and better as it went on.) We ordered a round (my first and the boys’ third), which I quickly threw back, even though I was told you’re supposed to sip on it. But I had to catch up.

While we were all talking, in between Jackson’s attempts to hit on our bartender, Roof brought up that I'm an opera singer. He decided to also tell the restaurant’s resident pianist (this was actually a really nice place, complete with a Russian guy that sits in the middle, playing a white Baby Grand and singing songs.) They were talking for a bit actually, and after several minutes Roof motioned for me to come over and join them at the 88’s. I unwillingly pulled myself away from my second drink and walked up to the piano to introduce myself. The pianist barely spoke English but it was clear he was practically wetting himself with excitement over the understanding that I sang classical music (Roof spent enough time in Russia to converse) and his hands started playing the chords of Mozart’s Queen of the Night aria (aria = a song from an opera.) It’s a bitch of piece, in any situation, and having just had a 2-hour voice lesson plus two double shots of vodka, I didn’t want to kill myself piping off high F’s (although that wouldn’t be the worst way to go out.) I laughed and shook my head, and he started to grandly play the opening of “O Mio Babbino Caro.” Most people recognize it as the Italian aria grandmas sing in the kitchen as they’re making their family's recipe of marinara. I figured, well this is really going to happen isn’t it. Immensely thankful that I was all warmed up, I quickly downed another double shot and took my place at the piano, half-singing, half-laughing through the whole thing. I bowed to the roar of applause after my last note, and headed back to the bar for another drink.

A couple more double shots later, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around, surprised to see the pianist there. He asked if I had any other music to sing, because people were requesting that I do another piece. "Well," I said, "As a matter of fact...!" and whipped out my music binder from my backpack. I picked one of my best, most show-off-y arias and, after we both got back to the piano, I proceeded to sing the crap out of it. I hammed it up like crazy, taking little bits from all the recordings of various divas I had listened to and singing every word like I truly was Gilda in her garden, smitten with the Duke and overwhelmed with exciting yet unfamiliar emotions. After I spun off the final note, a high E, the whole place erupted and shouts of BRAVI! filled the air. The audience jumped to its feet, throwing $20's in the tip jar, and coming up to me to talk and offer career advice, business cards, and other networking-type information. And that's when I downed my sixth and fatal double shot. May I remind you that I had only been there for MAYBE an hour and a half, and weighed about 105 pounds? Oh dear. This was not going to end well. We were about to leave when the pianist started playing classic, "Summertime."

When I am drunk, I apparently think I am a big black woman full of soul who can sing Gershwin, not a tiny white girl from Brooklyn who can barely manage to sing in chest voice. But all awareness of vocal reality gone, I shouted to the boys, "Wait, wait, I LOVE this song!" (Isn't that sad? I scream this in a bar at a pianist playing Gershwin. Every other 20-something female is screaming it in a nightclub at the DJ.) I grabbed the mic and started to sing- only I couldn’t remember the lyrics, probably because I had never actually sung it before. There I was, drunkenly hanging on to the mic stand for support, and "singing" the song on what would have been "la la la" (words only came out because Roof, Jackson and the pianist were all prompting me.) Roof very gracefully helped me off the stage area after one verse before anything too terrible happened (aside from massacring American opera.) He and Jackson were supporting me as we walked to the door, but we were stopped by a tableful of girls on the way out because one of them asked me, "OMG like are you a singer? Because you are just so amazing like wow you're voice is sooooo beautiful!" I untangled myself from the boys with much difficulty, slapped the table really hard and slurred out, "Why yes, yes I am!" then fell over into the only empty chair at their table with such momentum I almost slid out of it, onto the floor. Apparently my ass forgets how to do things, like sit down, when I’ve had one (or five) too many. I started talking to the girls about random things, like toasters and species counterpoint, but I don't really remember it too well. All I know is that I felt myself being hoisted up and out of the restaurant into a cab.

Once we were in the cab, everything I had drunk caught up with me all too fast, sending me spiraling into the dreaded world of the spins. Roof said to just hold on until we made it into his hotel room, which I was able to do, thank god. After I had finished puking up my existence (and perhaps my pride) I was so tired that I started to fall asleep right there, in fetal position, on the cold marble of the bathroom floor. Roof came in, took one look at me, and said, "Elena, you are not sleeping in here." He helped me stand, wash up, and we crawled into his bed. I heard him say something about how Jackson wasn't feeling too great, either. Too exhausted to reply, I started to pass out but then felt Roof start spooning me and kissing my neck. I wasn't too shocked, even after he had just seen me hugging a toilet and helped me brush my teeth only minutes before. After all, this is what Roof and I do. However...


*****WARNING: THE FOLLOWING IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART AND/OR MALES.
PROCEED WITH CAUTION*****


I don't remember when he got into bed with us, let alone if it was even really happening, but all of a sudden out of nowhere, Jackson was lying on my other side facing me and kissing me. SURPRISE! I was not about to say no, but... I had just thrown up all my fluids, was physically drained, and I was on my period. Aside from having no energy to move, I had no idea what the hell was going on, or if I could even try to comprehend it at this point. I mumbled something about being on my monthly time out to Jackson, but he merely let out some masculine grunt, RIPPED OUT MY TAMPON and threw across the room. I was amazed. Well, I guess he didn't care about that sort of thing, which was cool? I kept wondering if that had actually just happened, or if I had dozed off and was crossing over into delirium (can't really call whatever this was a dream, even if it was one; the connotation for that word is far too pleasant). I also kept wondering where my vaginal-cotton-plug might have landed, all while I was being caressed (or rather, being drunkenly yet gently mauled) on both sides by two men. I forced my still-dizzy head back into the moment, told my mind to shut up, and the three of us did, well, whatever it was that we did. For the most part, the events that happened between our three bodies remain a somewhat hazy, blurred memory in my brain bank. We all sort of wrestled and thrust our way through the better of an hour or so. I would literally turn to one side for one penis, then roll back over for the other, if there was even that much movement. I might as well have been asleep, given how lazy this threesome was. Although my previous foray into the land of “two men, one girl” one did wind up in an emergency room, which of course made it quite different from this go-around, the physical efforts were also eons apart. Those two boys treated me like I was a goddamn goddess, the center of attention: it was all about me. I can’t tell you how amazing that is for someone who suffers from middle-child syndrome. I may have been the center of attention here, but that was only because I was literally located in the middle. And that just happened to be how we kind of landed, so it’s not even like we were in our positions on purpose. Hey, maybe this only went down because we happened to be lying in a threesome-conducive way. It’s funny when I think back on it now, how it probably could have been a really awesome roll in the king-sized hay, but we were all such a mess we might have been three curious kids with Down syndrome. I do remember being surprised at how quickly Jackson finished, but then again my perception of time was probably not seeing its finest hour. He stumbled out of the room in attempts to make it back to his own bed, while Roof and I kept going until he finished, or actually I think was really until we just passed out.


THE MORNING AFTER

Roof had to be up at 6 for a meeting, but told Jackson and I to take our time, get breakfast, etc. So, we did. It was kind of hilarious, trying to have a conversation and share the Times with this guy, who was actually very nice and gave me his card, telling me to give him a call if I'm ever out in Cali. (Right.) Afterwards, we went back up to the room so I could grab my stuff and go to work, and I said, "Well it was really great meeting you!" And he laughed and shook his head, saying, "Sure, yeah, that's what this was."

Bike Ride

I’m sure we’ve all wondered, at one time or another, what the hell happened to us in our early life to make us who we are today. Nailing down what those childhood events are is always an interesting thing. Granted, it’s not necessarily a topic that comes up in daily conversation, at least not outside of private therapy sessions. But what I’ve come to realize, despite the risk of sounding like a thoroughly annoying human being that you wish would stop talking, is that self-awareness is a pretty beautiful thing. Throughout my young adult life, I’ve become more and more (sometime painfully so) attuned to my personal experiences that may have caused me to be the lovable, petite pile of dysfunction we’ve all come to know and love (in more ways than one, wink wink - I’m talking to you, gents. And, one lucky, drunk-off-her-ass Polish blonde babe.) So, what’s at the root for most people? Well, there’s the “blame mom” standard. Then of course the countless girls with daddy issues, and the boys with Napoleon complexes. But what about me? I didn’t really ever deal with any of those things. Yeah, sure, I didn’t always get along with my momz, and my awkward junior high years were brutal and filled with rejection. But I wasn’t starved for daddy’s love, no one ever touched my “nono” place, and for the most part, my childhood was happy. So why then, dear god, did I turn into a girl who was incredibly sex-crazy and a huge magnet for awkward and very weird life experiences?

I had not a clue, at first. Honestly, I don’t spend most of my downtime pondering this question. I’ve come to just accept it, and through writing and story time telling, to thoroughly enjoy it. Which I suppose is a healthy place to be, but then I remembered one particular story from my young childhood years that could maybe, just maybe, hold the key to why I became the insanely flaky man-lover I would one day become. I mean, let’s be real: my barbies weren’t going shopping, they made out and, ya know, played with each other. So, while even the most brilliant of Freudians may remain stumped, I figure this story is the only thing that could possibly explain why, oh why, I am who I am.

Like most 6-7 year olds, I spent a lot of time during that period of my life conquering a specific rite of passage: learning to ride a bicycle. Finally came the day when I was able to make my first solo ride, without the assistance of my parents holding on or training wheels. I was seven years old, and I OWNED that sidewalk. At least, for about five minutes. It was pure exhilaration, and, unable to contain my excitement, I began pedaling with more and more vigor and reckless abandon down my street. I started to lose control of my two-wheeler, but it was strange. I didn’t crash into anything, I just lost my balance and kinda veered into a neighbors lawn. The bike tipped over, with me still on it. While lying sideways on the ground, still on the bike seat, I felt a sharp pain in my crotch as I wriggled myself out from under my bike. That particular pain went to the back burner as the bigger distraction quickly became the sharper pain stemming from the cut I now had on my thumb. I wheeled myself back home, injured and momentarily defeated. I spent the next ten minutes whining about and repeatedly looking at this bleeding thumb wound, and understandably my sister lost patience and definitely wanted to injure me much more than that. She told me to shut up already, that my thumb was FINE. Miffed and insulted, I ran away to go play out front. But, I was overcome with a sudden sensation that I had to pee. I went inside to the upstairs bathroom, and as I was peeing, I glanced down (as you do.) I furrowed my brow at the crotch of my underwear because I saw there was blood in them. I stared for a couple of seconds, totally bewildered by this. Being only in the second grade, I was unlearned in the ways of the female body. So naturally, I called for - whom else? - my FATHER. The exchange went a little something like this:

Me: Dad?
Dad: (one floor down) What?
Me: Can you come here?
Dad: (sighing, probably assuming I saw a bug or something and needed him to kill it, because that’s the only thing we really called him for in this house) Why?
Me: (starting to panic) Can you just come here, quick, please?
Dad: What is it?
Me: THERE’S BLOOD IN MY UNDERWEAR.
Dad: (silence) (more silence)
Me: …Dad?


(I may have been ignorant then to the mysterious ovaries, but my dad wasn’t, and now that I’m not either I can be entertained by the thoughts that must have been running through his head. P.S., he definitely has chosen to not remember this. Blood? What blood? I have a daughter? And so on.) I didn’t know what to do following my father’s deafening silence. So, I sat on the toilet and… did nothing. I mean, what does a girl do when she's 7 and has blood in her undies? I remained chillin’ on the throne, waiting, for something, anything. I don’t know what exactly. But next thing I knew, my mom and grandma were marching up the stairs to see what the hell my father couldn’t handle. Their looming figures stood in the bathroom doorway and I looked up at them, innocent and unsuspecting as anything. Help had arrived! I mean, it’s my mom and my grandma. No reason not to trust those two ladies. Without hesitation, I showed them the blood in my panties and explained about the bike accident. My grandma concluded, “Ohhhh, she must be cut down there.” Before I knew what was happening, or had a chance to argue, my underwear was taken away and I was being hoisted onto my brother’s bed, on my back and with my legs up in the air. As if a cool breeze hitting my vagina wasn’t bad enough, my mom and grandma went on instant pussy patrol, looking around and trying to see where the blood was coming from.

Mom: I can’t see anything, can you?
Grandma: Hold on, I’m going to get a flashlight.

I laid there, unaware of how ridiculous THAT statement was, of how crazy this whole situation was. It became exponentially worse when I had to wait, lying like that. Legs up in the air and all, for what felt like hours. Grandma finally came back from her mission, having successfully located a flashlight, which she held up like the olympic torch in the final leg as she re-entered the room. Then the two of them proceeded to peer and dig around my now-illuminated nether regions. All I heard was the two of them saying,

Mom: Is that it?
Grandma: No, no, that’s just a freckle.
Mom: What about that?
Grandma: What?
Mom: There, I think that’s it- over there, see it?
Grandma: I don’t know, move over.

HOW MUCH TERRAIN COULD THERE POSSIBLY BE? I could semi-see their two heads, side by side, squinting and eyeballing away. I guess they must have found it, since Grandma shouted, “A-HA!” And, since Mom left to get some first aid supplies and the two of them applied it. They cleaned it up and I bounced off the bed, good as new.

And so began the path I would travel. I think about this story, and sure, it’s not SOOO crazy. But it did start a trend that would continue to repeat throughout my life: normal things that would never go normally for me. And though I don’t think I consciously became who I was because of this bike ride, it definitely marked the start of the, “Elena, this only happens to you” pattern. Take a normal event, like a bike ride. Sure, for most young kids on their first cruise, it would end up a bike ride gone wrong, with a fall or a crash — and that’s it. But for me, it wasn’t simply because I fell or crashed like most 7 year olds, nor did it end there. No, I somehow managed to maim the one part of me that you would think would be protected, it being on a seat and covered by several layers and all. The single most private part of my body? Of COURSE that would be what gets cut. Of COURSE it would have to be medicinally aided by two older women manned with flashlights and Neosporin (but not before somehow getting my dad involved in the mix, and you can bet he erased this or just permanently blocked it from his memory.)

And so would be my life. Experiences that should go smoothly and normally, but never would. From doctor’s appointments to hook-ups to train rides to boyfriends to sex, I know now, after an early-life event like that, the trend could never have ever been any different.

Series of Shorts: My Proudest Moment (Sorta)

As a woman, I can say that it is common knowledge that while as a gender we collectively suffer from aesthetic insecurities, we also have parts of our physique that we take pride in and see as a source of confidence. Personally, I have only a couple, but one of them happens to be the one in my pants. That’s right, my vagina. I have to say, it IS incredibly pretty. Guys always comment on that, and afterwards, that it's "magical". There was even the time a 55-year old sugar daddy had me on my back on the kitchen table of a penthouse apartment overlooking Manhattan, about to go down on me for the first time, when he paused, sighed with pleasure, shook his head and said, “E, I’ve been around a long time and had my share of women, but I have go to say, you have the most gorgeous pussy I have ever seen.” But it’s hard to know if it’s those are things guys say to all the girls, or if mine is really just that special. The neurotic Jew in me just can't know for sure.

Well, I got my confirmation about a year ago, while I was at my semi-annual gyno checkup. Everything on the outside was in the clear, and then for inner part of the exam, she stuck her finger up my vagina and got a good feel. So, there she was, casually diddling away, poking around, but also giving me commentary / play-by-play’s as she went. For example, "That's the uterine wall (beckon, beckon). There are your ovaries (poke, poke)," etc, etc. It was pretty straightforward, to be honest, just your typical anatomical subtitles. But then came the kicker, "Hmm, everything is right where it’s supposed to be, the right size, completely symmetrical... wow, you just have a model vagina, don't you?" If there was any doubt to years of vaginal compliments from my male bed companions, here was confirmation that indeed, my vag is the shit: I was told by a goddamn professional.

Call The 6 Train For A Good Time

Summer of sophomore year of college, I found myself back at my parents' and working to save up extra cash for the school year. Sometimes being home after living on your own for a year can suck. But I lived in Brooklyn, and spent nearly all my days and nights in the amazing city of New York, with friends who also came home for the summer. One night, I had been invited out to a concert that my friend’s band was playing, at the now-defunct CBGB bar. My motivation to go was based partially on the fact that I had an on-again, off-again dating type relationship with the lead singer. And, partially that even if his invitation didn’t extend into his pants, there would be plenty of hot guys at the concert anyway. 20-year old brain and overly-active hormone levels aside, I was looking forward to a Saturday night out in Manhattan. The only fly in the ointment was that my stomach had been a disaster all day. In other words, I had been shitting out my existence almost every 15 minutes non-stop since the moment I had woken up that morning. Still, my determination to go out that night left me undeterred, bowels be damned. As luck might have it, by the time I would've needed to be out the door to get to the concert in time, my colon finally seemed to have succumbed to my will. At least, it was behaving just well enough to make me feel confident I could leave the house and survive with clean underwear. Besides, I said to myself as I locked the front door behind me, it’s only a 30-minute train ride with one transfer. Worse-case scenario, I’ll find a bathroom right by the train station and take care of business before heading to the venue.

Now, had my life been a movie, this is where foreboding, impending-disaster music would have started playing. Honestly, it was like those scenes in campy horror movies where the characters think nothing of casually strolling past a creepy alleyway. But little do they know, they're actually heading right into the killer's hands. Well, that was me: heading to the train, naively whistling and door keys jangling. Thinking I was safe. All the while, though, my intestines were plotting and scheming away, waiting for just the right moment to ambush my butthole. I don't know what was the matter with me; talking myself into thinking I'd be fine. I was clearly so distracted, either by the thought of boys or a night out, that I became completely deluded to my current physical reality. Because let's be honest, crapstorms like that don't just STOP because you're mentally praying they will. Even when you reach a point where there's nothing left but water and cramps because everything else was flushed away hours before, it doesn't end until the Demons of Poop Hell deem it so. I was determined and stupid, and while I may have felt not-terrible when the time came to leave my house, there were still grumblings that I chose to ignore. And, as the script would say, cue the music...

The first leg of the trip passed without event; I took the Q train to Union Square, then walked to the 6 train platform to transfer. As I stood there waiting, I was feeling good; I even had a little pep in my step that was not of the Bismol breed. When the train arrived about 10 minutes later, I strode into the car without any resignation. However, as the doors closed behind me, the point of no return suddenly took on a whole new level of meaning. My colon, which had been cooperating so beautifully up until that point, skillfully pounced upon what could only be described as the most vulnerable position to ever be caught in. Oh, sweet merciful heavens, what had I done in my life to deserve this sort of brutal torture? I knew an ultimate battle of man vs poop chute was about to go down, and I honestly did not know how it was going to end. I had no choice but to ride my bad decisions out, but at least now my brain, albeit a little late, was working again. I managed to be smart enough to realize I was only going to make it if I sat down. I hustled (as fast one can with a clenched butt) to an open seat on this packed Saturday night train. I sat down, with only my short jean skirt between my thong underwear and the plastic of the seat surface. All I could do now was cross my legs, and pray.

The swaying of the subway car did nothing to ease the waves of shit that wanted to erupt from me. You know those waves; it starts, swells to the point of unbearable discomfort, and as you clench for dear life and force it back up and in, and it goes away. The catch is, that "goes away" thing is only temporary. At first, there's a reasonable amount of time between each wave, sometimes even as long as a couple of minutes. The length of those rest periods makes it almost bearable to make it through the waves' return. However, the longer you put off actually letting loose, the shorter the duration of rest periods and the worse the waves' intensity becomes. Like, exponentially worse, bringing one to the point of tears and leaving your butthole burning. I didn’t know what to do, other than keep on holding it in best I could and hope to all that's holy that I make it to my train stop without making a mess. I had about 5 more stops to go and woo boy, it was looking bleak. Luckily, I had managed to find a somewhat comfortable position that seemed to keep the ever-mounting waves at bay. My legs were crossed, I was perched at the very edge of the seat, and slightly leaning forward. At this point, I had now become completely oblivious to all that was around me. The concentration involved here was taking an astounding amount of effort. All sounds and smells had disappeared from my sensory system. My entire energies were focused on not crapping all over myself and those around me. I felt another wave coming, the worst one yet by far. I thought the end was upon me. I was sure that this was IT. But then all of a sudden the pressure shifted forward instead of trying to get down and out. A different, yet very familiar, sensation hit me. I could hardly believe it as it started to mount into that sort of... sparkly, electric, warm hyper-tingly-feeling place, but sure enough, that's what it was: I had an orgasm.

They say that there are only three things that will make the mind totally devoid of all thought: at the peak of a yawn, sneeze, or orgasm. At this moment, I had no doubt in the validity of that scientific information. But as soon as this current peak had passed, good god, my brain was on overload. A slew of emotions ran through me with terrific speed and all at once. Confusion, ecstasy, shock, and not least of all, trying not to shit myself while simultaneously having one of the most intense orgasms of my entire life. With each pulse of my coming, I felt my butt wanting to give in too. But I refused to let it happen. I instead shoved my fist in my mouth (I’m a...very vocal come-r) to stifle any noise, and did my best to man my ship. As the orgasm died down (a good thirty seconds later) all reality, and my other senses, started to come back to me. Sounds of Saturday night chatter on the subway car returned to my ears with a slowly increasing volume, and my vision sharpened from blurry to clear. As if through a settling dust haze, I looked up and happened to make eye contact with a guy sitting across from me. He was looking at me very strangely. I was convinced that he knew what was going on, or at least had an inkling of suspicion. But, weakened from the entire sensory overload, I couldn’t muster up the energy to care. The train pulled into my subway station, and with shaking legs, I exited the train. How sweet; the train waited for me to finish first before it came to a stop. I was so blown away by this...thing that had just happened, it took me several moments to realize it was a goddamn miracle I hadn't shat myself at all during any of it.

However, as I wobbled to the exit stairway, the reality of my situation slammed back into my brain and body. I would’ve bolted up the stairs to the street level and got myself to a bathroom as soon as possible, but I could barely think straight, let alone move. When I finally finished climbing the three flights out of the station and felt the summer night air cool my sweaty face, my goal became clear: Toilet. Now. I was not in a position to run anywhere, not just because the poop waves were reaching those of a tsunami level, nor because my brain was still reeling. It's because I had no idea where I was, let alone where to go. I was standing outside the subway station exit, motionless. What does a girl do when she finds herself practically crapping in her pants and not knowing whether to go left or right to find a bathroom? Those train maps that tell you “You Are Here” don’t exactly count shit stations as important landmarks. I can tell you this; I very nearly took a squat in a dark, empty parking lot that I passed once I finally started walking somewhere, anywhere. I was close to tears and there weren't ANY other places in the vicinity. Everything in my line of vision was closed or abandoned. Not even a bodega to be seen, let alone a place that would actually have a bathroom to use. What the hell was going on? Starbucks, you have failed me once again. Aren't there supposed to be two on every block in every city in the world? I stopped by the dark corner of that parking lot, and mused at how fitting this lack-of-lighting was for the darkest hour of my young life. I took a deep breath, ready to let it all hang out, but then: salvation. I saw a lit sign a few streets up saying, “ALL NIGHT DINER”. As if running to shining beacon or holy mecca, I found myself almost in a trance-like state as I bee-lined to those bright lights. I made it inside, and after promising the cashier to buy something in order to use the bathroom, I had my in. Like many homeless and/or drunken twenty-something’s before me, I went into that bathroom and did some serious damage. The past hour of unbearable holding-in was finally unleashed and good lord was it gloriously awful. I can honestly say, if you have been crapping all day and have ANY ounce of doubt that it isn’t over, learn from me and don’t leave your house. Unless you are a very sexually frustrated female. Then I say: go forth, young Jedi, and good luck.

Why There Aren't Porn Site Categories Dedicated to College Boys III: Jimmy / 22-year-old Virgin

God, where do I even begin with this one?! I guess the right word to describe the entirety of mine and Jimmy's "relationship" would be "mistake." I generally tend to make bad decisions when it comes to picking men, but this was a cut above the rest. Or maybe the more appropriate way to put it would be it was a new low in the shameful depths of my dating selections. But I am always up for something new when it comes to the opposite sex, and he was:

a) Asian,
b) skinny as hell,
c) really rude and sarcastic within 5 minutes of meeting me, and,
d) mysterious.

None of these things were qualities I had experienced in a man before, and I was curious to say the least, especially seeing as he was, god, such a fucking asshole- from the very start. I guess there is some legitimacy to that whole “if you act like a dick then she’ll sleep with you” theory. I may not have slept with him but I did give him a chance. We had met at a bar for a mutual friend's birthday celebration and Jimmy seemed to take to me right away, in his odd sort of making fun of me way. He came off as cocky and confident, argued with me about everything, and had a great speaking voice, real deep and resonant. I don’t know what it was, call it instinct or perhaps brief spell of insanity, but when I left and he ran out of the bar after me to get my number, I gave it to him.

He called about a week later asking me to dinner. He did it in a very roundabout way, meaning he didn’t exactly ask me to dinner so much as he said, “I was gonna go out with this other girl but she’s busy so I decided to call you and see if you were free.” No, I am not lying and yes, I agreed to go out with him. Regardless of his wooing style, and even though he acted like talking to me was an extreme waste of his time not to mention something I should have been infinitely grateful for the entire duration of the phone call, I was looking forward to going out with him the next weekend. It was still winter break from school, so we were both home and he took me to this great little tapas place in the village area of Manhattan. I had a nice time with him, somewhat. During dinner he reprimanded me repeatedly for not making constant eye contact with him, rolled his eyes in frustration at my dietary requests, like asking for lemon in my water, and laughed with pity at my foolish mistake to walk a few steps ahead of him to let people pass us. Because, silly me, that clearly means I have no idea of how to treat the one I’m with, with respect. But for reasons I can’t explain, I felt attracted to him and let him kiss me goodbye when he walked me to the subway. We kept in touch the rest of winter break, and continued to talk after we both returned to school- me in upstate NY, him to Pennsylvania.

After a few months of talking for hours a day (not like, real talking though- we did the online Instant Messaging thing since he hated the phone), he asked me to be his girlfriend and I said yes. Yeah, I don't know why either. I think he had mind control powers because no matter what we were discussing, I constantly felt like I had to prove myself to the guy. I was always feeling intellectually inadequate during our conversations, and constantly trying to gain his approval. Of course I never suspected that this negative, months-long cyber relationship with a rail-thin Asian kid that treated me like garbage was affecting me. I had met him at a point in my life when I already knew I was feeling un-confident and depressed, so I attributed my poor decisions to that. I didn't stop to think his dominant and manipulative personality could possibly be the reason I felt compelled to unenthusiastically say, "Yes." I mean, goddamn, was he lucky he met me when I was in settling mode, because… holy shit. I never would've agreed to be his bitch now. I am writing this story, years later, and I am amazed at how all of this happened simply due how down I was feeling. But at the same time I’m not really amazed; I am quite impulsive, always have been, and let us remember I was at a college with 2,000 students, more than half female, and about a third gay males. So it’s not like I had a lot to work with. Granted, it should never have reached the point where he became my only choice but, combine poor self-image and no straight male options in throwing distance, and there you go.

But aside from those minor issues, our newly official relationship had all the makings of a decades-long love affair that storybooks and Hollywood films are made of. So of course I was as shocked as anyone when it fell apart fairly quickly. Jimmy had always been aggressive and confident, and I liked that about him. But one night we were talking (i.e., typing to each other and reading words off a screen) and somewhere in the conversation he mentioned the words "sex tape" and I said something along the lines of "yeah, been there, done that." Because I had, with an ex. And that's when he flipped out. I mean, really, he went off. First he was in shock, and didn’t believe me, then started asking me about it. So I patiently explained it was with a boyfriend, it was a private thing (private, with people watching; po-tay-to, po-tah-to) and what does it matter, anyway? He would not calm down. He called me a slut, whore, bitch, you name it, and said he could never be with a girl who did that sort of thing. He went on with his judgmental tirade for a good five minutes and at first I was stunned, because let’s be honest here, what guy is really against having a girlfriend who'd be open to doing that?? But then I got mad, because fuck you Jimmy, I’ll do whatever the fuck I want to. Pissed off and annoyed, I ended the conversation then I didn't hear from him for 3 days. I, a Jewish Italian neurotic girl, was getting the silent treatment from her boyfriend. You can bet I apologized to every ex I ever had after this experience for ever putting them through that bullshit.

When he finally decided to talk to me again, he wanted an apology and I laughed in his face. Wait, I think this happened online so I typed, “LOL HAHAHAHAHAHAHA” in his face. Then I refused and said I would never apologize for things I did, especially anything I did before I even met him. Instead, I expected him to apologize to me for being a fucking douche, which he admitted he had been and finally did apologize. He told me that it had made him feel really bad about himself, that I was so much more experienced and had done something so wild and crazy. It made him think he could never live up to my expectations, nor to previous guys I had been with. I said that there was no reason to feel that way; every relationship is different no matter what. And besides that, it hadn't been my intention to make him feel bad, I just kinda blurted, without thinking, about a sexual experience I had had. That’s when he said, "Well, since you made me feel so bad about myself I think it's only fair that you deserve to feel bad too, so I'm going to tell you the real reason why I was so upset." Ok...so, none of that tirade you just spewed out had been the real reason? Then he dropped the bomb: "I'm a virgin." I remember the conversation continued after that for a bit, with me sort of in a haze and saying that it didn’t matter. But after we had both signed off, I had a lot to mull over. Later that night, after thinking about it, I wasn't sure if it bothered me or not. To be honest, it was only a shock since he had some of the dirtiest thoughts of any guy I've ever known, and was not shy about constantly voicing them to me. Especially since the bulk of them were about my ass, which was, at the time, weird for me. (Back then,my only previous foray into the land of butt play had been with Bob, since we were so horny for each other that my periods became a week of torture for us. So we attempted butt sex. In short, he showered his thumb with lube and stuck it in my asshole, and the whole time I kept saying it felt like a shit going backwards. So, the sexy lingerie and candles was for naught, and we never tried it again.) But after consulting with my closest friends (a random cluster of opera majors from my class during lunch the next day in the cafeteria) they all said to drop him. They knew how sexual I was. Surprisingly the only one who was in Jimmy’s favor was Madio, who said I couldn't end it now, since I must like the guy enough to still be talking to him. Who cares if he's a virgin? So I stuck with it.

A few weeks later, Jimmy and I made plans for me to go visit him at school. He'd come pick me up at my campus, and I'd grab a bus back at the end of the weekend. I was excited/nervous in the days leading up to it, and even more so when I was getting ready and packing the night he was arriving. But when I ran out to the parking lot where he was waiting, I saw him in the driver's seat and instantly wanted to vomit, everywhere. Oh no. I didn't wanna go, I wanted to flee. But, I brushed aside my instincts, swallowed my chunks of fear, and got into the passenger seat. The first few seconds I was in the car with him felt all wrong. He seemed diminutive, less impressive then when I had first met him. The confidence that radiated out of him to the point of being obnoxious, was gone. That good ol' "throw-up feeling" was in full effect, but I had made my choice the second I opened the car door and got in. There was no turning back, especially since every hour was bringing us another 70 miles closer to his college campus, and my possible impending doom. I was truly freaking out inside, I mean, I don’t panic often but this was it, I was actually panicking. What the fuck could I do though? I had to sit in my proverbial self-made bed and bear my heavy, Asian cross. It was starting to dawn on me how very real the past few months had been. It’s odd, when a relationship built off AIM crosses over into the physical realm. You are no longer talking to a box, an Arial font word machine acting as a human facade. You can't turn it off or leave the room when the conversation is over. You're face-to-face with an actual face who, let’s face it, you would never pick in real life. Oh but wait, that’s right. I had picked him. I created this whole mess. And instead of nipping it in the bud, I made it worse. I had dug myself into a hole so deep that it led me to being trapped in car with this guy who was making me feel physically ill. I was locked in a mobile four-wheeled cell that was transporting me to a three-day inescapable "vacation" - with just him. But since he had driven the 6 hours to come pick me up, I tried my best to swallow my nausea, and my pride, and enjoy myself.

Back at his place, I still hadn't loosened up. The one thought that was running on repeat through my mind was WHY THE HELL AM I HERE / STILL HERE? Oh well, at least his apartment was clean. I again tried not to vomit when he changed into old man slippers that he definitely must have purchased in Chinatown. While I started to change into my going-out clothes, I was forced to watch him shuffle around in front of me, shirtless and hunch-backed like a stereotypical 85-year old Asian grandpa. Is this really my life? Since my compact mirror could only block so much of this oh-so-enticing eye-porn, I thanked god for small favors when distraction arrived in the form of his friends. It says a lot that they were able to overpower this depressing scene. I don’t know how many things could have better shifted my attention from the ever-sharpening realization that this boy was MY BOYFRIEND. I didn’t realize I signed up to date grumpy 85-year-old Charlie Chan and his Canal street inside-shoes and bony spine. Before my entire being and soul could be consumed by my fever-pitch nausea, his friends noisily burst into the apartment, shouting from the living room, "Where is she??? Is she here?! Where?". I was still in Jimmy’s room, putting on the finishing touches of my mascara. Just as I finished, they collided in a slapstick pile-up in the doorway of Jimmy's bedroom. I had changed into a mini skirt and boots, and got up off the bed to introduce myself. Gaping, they shook my hand and slowly all their faces turned into smirks. "Dude," they said, "Oh man, she's wayyy too hot for you." Well, we’re off to a good start here. Luckily, no seriously, thank god none of his friends were hot or appealing in any way; very white trash for the most part, which was something new in my world. They were like no boys I had ever known or met before. Brooklyn has it's own type of "trailer", but it’s very different than other cities and states. I’m not sure if I could explain it well; Brooklyn trash is, I guess, for lack of a better word, urban-lite. You know, the girls tend to totally over-gel their hair and still wear velour sweat suits and brown lip liner, while the guys tend to try to dress like Fubu ad. But it’s not even about the clothes; it’s a whole vibe they just have. And these friends of Jimmy’s had that trash kind vibe. I could totally see them having bonfires in the backwoods of some southern town. But I will always be thankful for them not being hot white guys; I would have done something very bad if that had been the case. And given what happened when we went out, you’ll understand what I mean.

To hopefully get a breather (and a drink... or 12), we all went out to hit the bars. Oh man, for a girl like me a college town like Penn State's is like putting a kid in a candy store. Everywhere I looked there were beautiful specimens of white males I had not seen since high school, or maybe ever (reminder: this was a 50,000 student school with frats and athletes. I went to a 2,000 student body performing arts college with guys who have drag queen competitions.) I have said it before and I’ll say it again, white guys are my kryptonite. They suck in a lot of ways, but when it comes to initial attraction and general horniness, I fucking love ‘em. I mean, I must have made excuses to go to the bathroom at least 10 times just to be alone and walk around to look at these hot guys. Annoyed that I couldn't make a move on any of them, I unwillingly forced myself to head back and sit/stand with the sad little Asian boy that was my boyfriend, or whatever. Damn it! Ok, I was admittedly being a bit of a selfish, whorish brat at that point but Jimmy was quickly disintegrating into a disgusting, overly affectionate creepy person. For example, while sitting at the bar in a packed place, he would try to make out with me in an incredibly wet, sloppy style; or, literally lick my cheek. This would throw me into such shock I could watch, frozen, as he'd stare deep into my eyes, without blinking, face devoid of expression, about 2 centimeters away from me. If his breath had been bad that would have been the absolute end, because I either would have punched him or choked to death. It was weird, annoying, gross, and I was starting to hate my life with each passing tongue lick to my visage.

So what was a girl to do? You guessed it- get shitfaced. Well, at least drink enough to endure this painful situation. Unfortunately, when I drink, I get turned on by anything. So I convinced Jimmy to call it an early night and go back to his place, since everyone else was still out and we'd have some privacy for a little while. Once we swung open his apartment door, I stumbled in, kicked my boots off, and kinda pounced on him, pinning him up against the wall. All of the sudden, what little coolness and aloofness was left inside of him vanished entirely. Here was a guy that instantly became practically Michael Cera-esque in awkwardness, who could barely hold me or kiss me back at all. But always the eternal optimist, I led us into his room and after we undressed, we started to fool around. It was a bizarre experience, to say the least. We didn't talk much, if at all, but mentally I could actually feel the distance between us, experience-wise. I felt older, wiser, and the leader sexually, which doesn't happen often. Not because I'm super young or inexperienced, but I've been lucky to have lovers with whom I been really in tune with. But not Jimmy. All those months of feeling inadequate was now reversed. This time I felt like he was trying to keep up with me, and earn my attraction to him. Everything about his body language screamed fear and nervousness, especially in that one key part of his body. You got it- there was no boner in sight. This of course is something that's happened with a couple of the guys I've been with, usually potheads, so I really do think it happens to every guy at some point (except for Gym James, Superman and Avery- those boys had god-like libidos that qualified them, in my eyes, as heavenly gifts sent to earth to please vaginas.) I was very patient; I mean, I'm all for some great foreplay. So there was no pressure, I just wanted him to relax and have fun and maybe work off some of my own pent-up sexual energy. So into the second hour of this everything-except-actual-sex marathon, as we were fooling around in the buff, Jimmy accidentally kneed me, hard, right in the baby maker. It hurt for a moment but it passed quickly, given my drunken condition, and I was still willing to continue. I was not going to fail as a woman with a virgin; that's double the insult and self-disappointment. But alas, about 3 hours later, with no wonderful wood poking me anywhere, I had to just throw in the towel and call it a night.

The next morning we started to fool around again but when he started to finger me a little, it stung painfully. At my gasp, he withdrew his fingers fast and we both saw they were bloody. "Babe," he said, "You're bleeding!" Confused, and a little panicked (considering I was not expecting my period anytime soon), I ran to the bathroom. After patting the area with some tissue, I saw there was a decent amount of blood so I grabbed a compact mirror to get a better look. A quick check-up led me to conclude that after shaving down there, I must have gotten a little nick or something. However, when I got kneed by Jimmy, he had done it hard enough that it re-opened the wound. Great. Sooo, there I was, holding a compact mirror to examine a vaginal wound while standing ass-naked in a bathroom in freezing cold Pennsylvania. All I had waiting for me was a bedroom with a flacid, unnattractive boyfriend who not only can't get it up, let alone give me an orgasm, but also manages to knee me hard enough in the vag to bring forth blood. Yes, I broke up with him that night (but he agreed it was for the best) and left the next day with a much-lightened heart, along with his copy of Tucker Max (hey, I at least owe Jimmy thanks for that hilarious book.) But, as my very gay friend Matt once said, "You know the saying 'once you go black, you never go back'? Well, my friend John has another: ‘once you go Asian, you never go back - to Asian’." And oh, how true it is. Because I haven't.

Why There Aren't Porn Site Categories Dedicated to College Boys II: Kevin

I've resigned myself to the inarguable truth that I am cursed when it comes to guys named Kevin. It's easy for outsiders to say it's all in my head. But in the words of the great poet Jay-Z, "numbers don't lie, check the scoreboard." Over the course of my lifetime, I had shared experiences with six different Kevin's, all ending in disaster. Despite this terrible track record, I kept giving Kevin's a go. It was only after the seventh K-dawg that I was forced to fully believe the jinx myself. This final Kevin that broke the camels back made his entrance, and sealed my farewell to boys of this name, during my sophomore year of college. To be fair, even if he had gone by any other name, his role on my stage wouldn't have been sweet anyway. You see, this poor Kevin had inadvertently gotten caught up in the drama of me and my then-boyfriend / fellow opera major and classmate, Bob. Or as we were known to many, the two-people emotional inferno. Allow me to sum up that college soap opera ridiculousness real quick:

1) Bob and I broke up at the end of freshman year of college.
2) He visits me at my summer job and attempts to get back together.
3) I say no. He cries. I am awkward. He now hates me.
4) Fall semester starts; I realize I DO want to get back together.
5) Bob and I begin hanging out again, but now he rejects my reconciliation attempts.
6) I find out why: he's started seeing a new freshman opera major.
7) I now have a new nemesis, "RR". Let me just say this: girlfriend wore CLOGS - and not ironically.
8) I'm more determined than ever to get Bob back.

Aaand un-pause.

Bob may have been dating this South Jersey specimen, but he was also still hanging out (you know, doing it) with me. I cared, but I didn't care. When you're part of a couple that may be on-again/off-again and dysfunctional, but is still insanely in love with each other, there are these little hiccups. So, he's seeing this new chick. RR was ditzy and quirky and weird. There's an appeal and a freshness to anything that's new and different; I get that. But he loved me, and I was confident that the strength of our attraction (and the skill in my BJ department) was way stronger than... whatever it was that he had going on with her. But, then I did some espionage to accomplish some sabotage. I befriended her friends, to get the inside info. To my dismay, what I uncovered was that RR was planning on losing her virginity to Bob. According to her pals, she had been saving herself for someone she knew she loved, and confessed to them that person was Bob. I was no longer complacent. I was irritated as shit. The thought that he could have genuine feelings for her was giving me an aneurysm. Okay, a) it had only been like a month, b) are you fucking kidding me?, and c) ...how??? I'M SO CONFUSED ABOUT EVERYTHING THAT'S HAPPENING. I still wanted him back, yes. Now doubly so, to satisfy my need to win, and to shut this RR fool down. Unfortunately, he was taking his sweet time deciding who and what he wanted. I told him if he wasn't ready to choose, he at least needed to come clean to RR in regards to that whole "he's still sleeping with me" thing. But he wasn't getting that done, either.

So instead of getting mad or pressuring him, I decided that if he was going to have his cake and eat it too, I sure as hell wasn't going to wait around or pass up on mine. My cake came in the form of a delicious and talented creative writing major named Kevin. He was a former child star who acted in "All My Children" and other various TV gigs. Aside from kind of bad teeth, he was definitely hot, and a total sweetheart. I had never been drawn to his physical type before; blond, blue-eyed,dimpled chin, tall, athletic. Jesus, nothing about that description sounds appealing, right? I don’t know how I gave up on the Jew-fro’ed, husky boys I usually lost my shit over. So when I wasn't sleeping with Bob or giving RR dirty looks, I was hanging out with Kevin. Truth be told, I didn't deserve the affection or attention of a great guy like him. I was, in a way (i.e., pretty much completely), using him until Bob got rid of his other soprano on the side. Kevin didn't exactly know the details of Operation: Vanquish South Jersey Weirdo; reason being, I never told him. But things like this always come back and bite me in the ass, and this time would prove no different.

The infamous Friday night of this story was, coincidentally, the same Friday night of Bob’s birthday weekend. He went home every year to celebrate with his family. Unlike the previous year, when we were happily in love, this year he left a very bad taste in my mouth (and not because he skipped out on pineapple.) This year, yes, we again indulged in some good-bye sex (atop a baby grand piano in a practice room no less.) But then, less than an hour after he had his penis all up in my lady parts, he was seen passionately making out with RR in public. I was furious, to say the least. I knew they had a thing going on, weird and incomprehensible as it was. But for him to go into open view with the PDA, in front of friends and colleagues, sent the message that he had made his choice- and it wasn't me. My only consolation was that he hadn’t brushed his teeth before kissing her since burying his face in my twat less than an hour before. No, wait, I taste fucking amazing; that girl doesn't deserve to taste my vagina's deliciousness. Anyway, the point of all this was that Bob and I had been seriously discussing getting back together. But their very public grope fest, well, it was the final nail to the coffin of any hopes of relationship resurrection. I mean seriously, eff that; I had other options, seemingly better options damn it, and was worth more than being the girl on the side...with a boy who used to be my boyfriend. Not to mention the mind-baffling fact that my replacement was a freakshow who thought she was the long-lost triplet to the Olsen twins (and who also thought that a frizzy perm + clogs + sweatpants = high fashion.) So I mentally bid adieu to everything Bob, and decided the time had come to move on. I was surprised at the relief I felt. I hadn't realized how the running around in secret, the lies, the scheming, the ulcer that had formed by simply seeing him and RR together, had been getting to me. So I was thankful to have something, hurtful as it was, to force me to get my life together and them out of it. It couldn’t have been more perfect timing that Bob had gone back home the day I made this decision. What better way to kick off a fresh start than with his presence absent from my life?

Later that night, I was in my apartment. I had just finished getting dressed to head out, when my cellphone rang. I picked up and heard Kevin's voice on the other end. He sounded drunk, but I knew that was impossible- the kid was the most straight-edged person alive. Never drank, never smoked, nothing. He said he was at some party and wanted me to come join him, but I told him I already had plans with some friends. "No," he said, “Wait at your place- I'll be right there!" As I tried to discourage him, my words fell on a dial tone because he had hung up before I could utter even a single word in reply. Not five minutes later, I heard a huge BAM BAM BAM on my front door. Oh god. When I opened it, there was Kevin- utterly smashed and leaning up against my door frame because apparently he was too drunk to stand unsupported. He was also out of breath, because it turned out from the second he hung up, he ran non-stop straight to my apartment from across campus. I stood there, not sure whether to laugh or take him seriously when he tried to appear together and suave. At the banging, my other apartment mates had come to the front door, and we all stood there collectively gaping at this drunken mess of a boy. After trying to talk to him, it was clear that at the very least, Kevin desperately needed water. In slurred speech he tried to rattle off the litany of liquors he had imbibed, but all I could make out through his attempts to speak clearly was "Four beers", "wine" and "a big, yeah, a big glass of vodka." Anything mixed with the vodka? "No... just vodka... I wanted- water- they said it was water but then it was vodka but I drank it anyway." Where were you? Were you with anyone you knew? "I don't know, no, I was alone. I wanted you to like me so I drank."

Oh, fantastic. So now if this kid dies, it'll be on my head. Exactly what someone who already suffers from Jewish guilt needs added to her plate.

I ran inside to the kitchen to get him a glass of water, with my roommate Cate. My other roommates had started their first of many attempts to get Kevin to sit down in one of the porch chairs outside our front door. Based on the cacophony of arguing voices I heard, the other girls were quickly learning that Kevin had no interest in sitting. Instead, they switched to doing their best to be good hostesses, and prevent him from falling over onto his face. I rushed back with the glass of water, and handed it to him, saying, "Here, Kevin, drink this." He fervently shook his head, swaying on his feet, and replied in a loud voice, "No!" he said, "I don't want it." As I tried to persuade him to take the water, while simultaneously attempting to convince him to sit him down in a chair, it was looking as if I wasn't going to succeed in either capacity. And then a miracle happened. His blood alcohol level quite literally rose to the occasion and accomplished what none of us could. Stronger than any of our verbal persuasions or his refusals, his inebriated extremities gave out and slid him into the chair. Now seated, he finally grabbed the glass of water from my hand. He held it up to his face to look at it really closely; I guess it failed his inspection because without warning, he threw it on the porch floor. It shattered and glass flew everywhere; let’s all take a moment to applaud the genius who decided to give worlds drunkest boy a glass made of actual glass (thank you, thank you.) With a total kitten left in the rain expression, and completely dejected posture, he sat in the chair looking at the floor, all the time moaning, "Elena, why do you like Bob? Why don't you like me? I-I- I write you poetry. I write poems about you. I write poems for you. I write stories. I'd buy you flowers. I like you so much Elena, I write poems about you, I really like you, I..." He fell into a morose silence, took his phone from his pocket and started to try to dial numbers, or text. I watched for a moment as he did this with the agility of a drugged-out ape. Then I turned to my roommates, all of whom were still standing in the doorway watching the scene. I mimed at them to get me something to clean up the glass. With my back turned, I failed to notice that Kevin was beginning to slowly ooze out of the chair. I turned when I heard something clatter down the opposite end of the porch. It seems using his phone in his delicate state was entirely too frustrating, as he had thrown it. The force he had to muster to chuck his cell was so overwhelming that his body flew out of his chair. He was now face-down on the ground. He just lay there, entangled in the legs of the chair he had just fallen out of, and rolling, albeit with limited range of motion, on the broken glass. My roommates and I tried to get him off the porch and into our apartment. This was no easy feat, since he was treating those glass shards like Scrooge McDuck undulates within his money vault. It was then that he announced to the general public that he had to go to the bathroom. Cate offered to drag him there, accompanied by Katie and Val.

Meanwhile I scooped up his phone, and began to call his friends in the hopes that someone he knew could come help us to get him back to his dorm room. The last people I wanted to involve right now were cops, RAs or any authoritative types; Kevin was only 19 and therefore underage. I didn’t want this kid to get in trouble, but I DID want him the hell out of my apartment. So, from his phone, I proceeded to call his friends that I knew, and when no one was answering or available, I called his older brother. Nope. I was feeling desperate, but then I had a stroke of brilliance- I could call MY friends, and maybe they could help.

I decided to call my friend Allyson to see if she knew anyone (read: strong dudes. Not exactly the majority on an arts campus) that could help carry him back to his room. She was at that moment in the middle of hosting a party at her place, but said she'd bring over guys. They'd aid us in lugging our drunk baggage to the music building. Once there, we'd be passed off like an (alcohol-soaked) torch in a leg relay to our mutual friend, Christian. He had agreed to meet us at that checkpoint, to help bring our "torch" the rest of the way to the dorms. While this jewel-heist level planning and coordinating was being completed, Kevin had finished using the bathroom. I knew this because he was now lying face down on our living room floor carpet. For someone who maybe 20 minutes before was begging me to go party with him, he sure was lying down a lot. I had been distracted by the delivery/rescue mission I was planning but managed to catch a glimpse of his bathroom-to-living room journey. I have vague memories of him, not walking but sliding on his belly from the bathroom, down the hallway, and into the living room. I didn't know that was a measurement of how intoxicated a person can get, and I've worked in a nightclub. But apparently the party doesn't ever have to stop: when legs become useless, travel like snake.

A few moments later, there was knocking at the door. Allyson had come through, and rallied with more than the expected number of troops. She was at our door, with the ENTIRE PARTY from her apartment in tow. It was a camera shot right out of a high school movie, when the host opens their front door to be faced with their entire school's population, all of whom are ready to par-tay. Allyson's smiling face at the helm did not put me at ease, especially when the mob all immediately swarmed into our living room, dining room, and kitchen, talking and laughing and carrying on. Those in the living room had formed a ring around Kevin, who was still lying on the floor. The two guys who volunteered to carry him started kicking him and telling him to stop being a baby. (I may have cleaned up the language a little bit.) I felt so bad. This poor kid was being berated by these guys. It seemed as if I was the only one who felt the slightest amount of sympathy, because within moments all the other guys from the party started joining in and making fun, too. I tried to get them to stop, but one of the guys explained to me that Kevin was “faking”, “overreacting”, and this was the only way for him to get it together. I was unconvinced, but before I could argue or do anything, Val, our resident tyrant, started shouting at everyone to get rid of their drinks and shut up, or get out. Finally, Kevin was lifted up off the floor, with one arm slung over Cate's shoulders, and the other over another guy's, Tom. Even in this situation, I couldn't help but notice that Tom was, well, gorgeous. Oh god, I am ridiculous.

We started the first leg of our journey from the apartment to the music building, most of the party still with us. In sober life, this walk takes maybe five or seven minutes. But tonight's walk was slightly different than all other walks. Perhaps it was the darkness of the evening sky, the fullness of the moon, or the chill in the autumn air. Or, maybe it was the fact we had a fucking nearly-comatose and handicapped individual that people were taking turns lugging down the half-mile stretch. But, at least this prolonged trip was giving Tom and I some time to chat before reaching our destination. We (at least the soldiers who hadn't fallen along the way) arrived at the tables outside the music building a good twenty minutes later. Our greatly-reduced numbers, now down to five, were hanging out and waiting for Christian to get there. In the meantime, Kevin was propped up on one of the tables with connecting bench seating, while Tom and I walked a few feet away and continued chatting (i.e., heavily flirting and number-exchanging.) I could see Christian coming towards us from the distance. Just as I was starting to feel relieved and that salvation was upon us, Kevin chose that exact moment to lean over and vomit everywhere- including on Cate's coat. Tom, Christian and I made our way over to Kevin. So much puke came out of the kid that he had fallen over into it's apparent gravitational pull. But before anyone could help him, we watched as he quickly got himself off the ground and started running across the quad. We couldn't catch up because dude was fucking sprinting, so we followed him from behind to make sure he made it to wherever he was running to, without injury. But when we reached the dorms, where he was heading, he had disappeared from sight. I still had his phone so I couldn't call him to see if he was ok or possibly in another universe since he seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. But Christian was an R.A. in his building, and he said he'd look around, check up on him, and keep us posted.

I wound up going to bed with Tom that night. Aside from the fact he was hot, I don't really know why I did. We walked back to my place and kicked it in my living room. And by that I mean he borrowed my friend's guitar and serenaded me with Sublime. I sat there, frozen, with what I hoped was a convincing "my panties are dropping" face. In reality, I was doing my best not to make fun of him/my choices. And stop picturing the scene in Animal House where Belushi smashes the beatnik's guitar against a wall. White college guys who learn three songs to play give the guitar such a bad rep, man. I realize they do it to get laid, and I realize that I did sleep with a dude who did exactly what I'm describing, but I did not sleep with him because of his musical "skills." What it boils down to is: he was gorgeous, had that white-skater kid appeal, and didn't reek of patchouli like most guys on my campus. The only other remarkable event of our hookup was his comment, post-coital, "Elena, you’re
fucking hot, but man, you are a fucking weird girl.” This may have been due to the large stuffed Spongebob doll I had on my bed. I don’t think there was anything else too odd or revealing, at least not on the open surfaces of my room. Lord knows what he would've said had he seen my favorite vibrator of the time; it was pretty much a life-sized plastic cucumber- with 7 speeds! It had been a gag gift from Spencer’s, but turned out to do a phenomenal job of getting me off. So I kept it, named it, and loved it until the day it died.

The next morning I was told that Kevin had had severe alcohol poisoning, but some guys from his dorm called an ambulance for him and he went to the hospital. He came over late the next afternoon to get his phone, and apologized the entire time for his behavior. He felt awful about the whole thing. I assured him it was fine, but suggested he might want to take Cate's vomit-encrusted coat to be dry-cleaned as sort of an apology to her, which he wholeheartedly agreed to do.

Kevin and I sorted of tapered off after that, and I heard from a mutual friend that he really did get drunk to try and impress me, or something along those lines. I felt terrible about the whole situation, but a few months later he got a super hot girlfriend who really loved him, so I didn't feel too badly anymore. And wouldn't you know it, her name was Elena too. So while my Kevin jinx may be unbreakable, his bad luck with girls named Elena seemed to have ended with me.