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.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Adventures with Superman and Little Wing
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Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Screw JDate, Ride a Bike
Oy vey.
In theory, many things sound great. Like communism, or having a job. Another one is public transportation, although I guess it’s not so much the description of it that sounds appealing so much as it is the mere idea that seems promising. It actually sounds pretty damn dreadful if you spell it all out: riding a train car or bus that “runs” on a “schedule” so loosely that you can never plan a trip accurately. It's essentially dirty cattle cars that thousands of other people take every hour and proceed to touch, puke, and sleep on. You're travel distances in a rectangular-shaped confined space with 65+ other strangers who may be insane, loud, or smelly. If you choose/are lucky to find an open seat, it's usually still warm from its previous occupant who may have very well been farting on it for the past twenty minutes. It’s funny, everyone has weird little idiosyncrasies, and as a person who worked in the service industry I can be the first to tell you how absolutely retarded and unfounded they all seem. But as much as I say that, I have my own little things that annoy the hell out of me, and for some reason mass transit brings them right to the surface. Like those assholes who insist on using the subway car and/or bus to have completely unimportant cellphone conversations at the top of their voice. Or, feel that it is the perfect time and place to go through all of their ringtones at top volume to find the one they like. Or sit five seats apart from their friends when there are empty seats in between them and having a conversation in overly loud voices anyway. Or blast the music on their iPod so loudly you can hear it from 10 feet away and OVER your own headphones. I can go on like that for DAYS. But other than that it doesn’t take much to annoy me when I’m using public taking mass transit. However, once I started biking my commute to work every day instead of riding the crowded stank-hole that is the NYC trains and buses, it didn’t take long for me to realize how horrible mass transit was and how wonderful being a “road warrior” is. Granted, drivers and pedestrians are just as frustrating and stress-inducing, if not more so, but that aside, I became a total bike whore. I loved it: the hour-long ride to and from work, the weaving in and out of traffic, the butt maintenance. And of course, not having to wait for passengers/train doors opening and closing, unnecessary stops, track work / trains not running, and being able to just go, go, go. As a very independent person who loves to do my own thing, I quickly fell in love with my newfound bike commute relationship so much that even my mom's voiced concerns in typical Jewish motha-fashion that it was dangerous couldn't pull me apart from my beloved two-wheeler. My first month pedaling on the Brooklyn streets passed smoothly, and I looked forward to what was the healthiest and happiest new coupling I had been in since, well, not any boyfriend but probably not since my first vibrator (I may have cried a little when it gave its final buzz.)
However, no matter how swimmingly this honeymoon stage was going, it was only a matter of time before it faded and reality set in. I was (and am) a good biker: I always ride with traffic, stay to the right or in the bike lanes, have lights on my bike, and never, ever wear headphones to obstruct my hearing. I made sure once it was clear this was going to be a permanent lifestyle change to look up all the laws I would need to follow, and rights that I have as a biker. Unfortunately, no matter how well I may have adhered to the rules of the road, or watched out for me and others, it was almost inevitable that I would get into some sort of accident. Because no mat ter how much effort I put in to do my best to be a team player on the streets, I shared those streets with drivers. And I may have been nice while describing them in the previous paragraph but let me be blunt: they all SUCK. I mean, it’s beyond belief sometimes how absolutely retarded and inconsiderate they are. In fact, my experiences have led me to update my “five deal-breakers” list when it comes to men to include anyone who drives, leases, or owns a Lexus: it’s a wrap. Lexus drivers are by FAR consistently the hands-down worst people behind the wheel you will find anywhere. If there is traffic, or congestion, or a pile-up, I can practically guarantee that a Lexus will be at the source of the problem. But aside from me finally understanding the phrase “all the crazies were out driving today”, and the reason behind bikers being such fucking assholes (which as a pedestrian I had experienced many times but never understood what could be stressing them out so much), statistically alone I was bound for trouble. I biked anywhere from two to sometimes three hours daily, easily four to five days per week. Add up the road time and throw in some morons behind wheels, and, well, you've got a recipe for disaster. The kitchen timer finally dinged for me on a warm afternoon in October as I was biking up Coney Island Avenue on my way home from work.
As I biked down the nearly empty, four-lane avenue (the light at the intersection I had just crossed turned red, so no cars were behind me) I was thinking about grocery shopping I had to do after I got home when- WHAM!! The driver's-side door of a parked car on my right opened up without warning and hit me, mid-pass. It slammed into my outer calf and part of my bike, and I flew off onto my back into open traffic. Luckily, even though the light from the intersection I passed had since turned green, the cars behind me were a good enough distance away to slow down in time. Almost with a survival instinct, I bounced back up immediately, dragging my bike and myself to the curb. I instantly burst into tears, barely able to breathe or register what had just happened and buried my face in my hands. The driver who had hit me with his car door (called getting “doored”) had come over to me and was now holding my shoulders, asking if I was all right. Shaking from head to toe, the shock had made it almost as if I had gone slightly deaf and couldn't really hear even his pressing inquiries clearly. As the haze that had come over all my senses began to wear off, I heard him talking to some pedestrians who had come over to see if I was okay, too. My face still in my hands, I managed a weak nod of the head as sort of a general acknowledgment and assertion to whoever was there that I was O.K. I heard the driver tell them, "Yeah, I think she's just in shock." As I regained a normal breathing pattern and heart rate, I pulled my hands away from my face and attempted to shakily wipe away my tears from my eyes and cheeks. All I wanted in the world at this point was to head back home (I was literally 3 blocks away from my apartment) but before I could do more than breathe, the driver quickly intercepted my mental desires. He was still standing right in front of me, and now that I had my face uncovered I saw by the lack of space between his feet and mine that he was actually really, really close to me, with his hand still on my shoulder. Reluctantly, and sort of confused as to why he was standing practically on top of me, I looked up and got the full picture. I won't lie, I was partially reluctant because I know I must have been lookin' a hot mess with mascara and sweat everywhere, and I found myself thinking for a fleeting moment oh man, what if he's cute?! But then I remembered that my best relationship for the past month had been with a bike, not a man, so my odds were probably not the best in the potential romance department. Sure enough, when I looked up at the bike assaulter, my eyes rested upon a middle-aged, pot-bellied Orthodox Jew whose clothes were more of a mess than mine but who clearly did not feel the same sinking disappointment that was hitting my stomach. He exclaimed, "My God, wow, you're absolutely beautiful!!" Jesus buddy, really? That's the first thing you say? Since his looks were not the most sobering, I was still sort of in a daze, though luckily this barely-able-to-see was due to a near-death experience and not because I lost a contact lens in the accident. That may not make the most sense; I mean, when would it ever be better to almost die rather than lose a contact, right? But allow me to explain my logic here. If I had lost my contact lenses, than I wouldn't have had to see him since I am practically legally blind without them. That could have been terrible in the long run since his voice was the sexy voice of a good-looking man. I may have been drawn to that alone and even given him my number. But apparently there is a god up there who doesn’t want to fuck with me too much, because I came out of this accident with both lenses in, both eyes were working, and it was the gift of sight that kept any potential madness at bay. Well, should have. What followed next could only qualify as madness of the highest power. As if his opening line that I was gorgeous, not his insurance information, was bad enough, then he insisted on driving me home, refusing my refusal and hastily ushering me into the passenger seat of his car. Despite being heavily reluctant and assuring him I was okay to make it on my own, I was still too out of sorts and weak to put up the good fight and as if out of a bad dream, found myself succumbing and taking a seat. My attacker, on the other hand, jogged around the car with giddy excitement to put my bike in his trunk. He got into the driver seat with a huge grin while I sat there, slumping into my own seat in a state of utter confusion at why this was happening and how I had let it. He took some time before he turned the car on, to discuss all the issues that needed addressing, such as my looks, and did I want any wine? What. The. Fuck. Next thing I know, he is getting out of the car, running to the liquor store across the street while I remain inside his 90’s dirty Toyota Corolla, dying a little more on the inside as the minutes ticked by. Then he returned, with this bottle of wine that was, I don’t know, a present or something, finally turning the car on and started driving. He couldn't seem to get over meeting me, a.k.a. mortally wounding me via car door. He kept looking at me and talking excitedly, asking me where I was from and what I do for a living, and repeatedly raving about my beauty. I guess the bottle of wine wasn’t just for me, because he was like, “Let’s go back to your place and crack it open!” When I didn’t answer that with a resounding “Huzzah!” he tried something else, like saying we should go out somewhere, a restaurant to have something to eat, or a bar to have a drink. NOW. Not, "Oh hey, let's get together sometime after you've cleaned the blood off your hands and knee", but right then, this minute, to go drive somewhere and HANG OUT. He seemed a little less enthused about the restaurant idea he had thrown out there, confessing he wasn’t much of an eater but definitely a drinker. This led to him telling me he runs a booze business and I should come and work for him. It was all getting to be too much for a girl to handle. And I don’t mean in a touching, heartfelt way, but in more of an “Okay, so I'm about to vomit and you're a fucking creep” kinda way. So I told him I had (fake) plans and therefore couldn’t hang out, and to drop me off at the train station because there was no way in hell I was about to show him where I lived. He kept calling me a “miracle” and, "wouldn't it be funny if we wound up actually turning into something? Like we don't know each other at all, but maybe this is fate and if we start seeing each other it could maybe really go somewhere!" Right. Because that's clearly what the miracle here was, that we're soul mates and not the fact that I survived a bike accident with almost nothing more than an elbow scratch.
Sadly, it would've been an amazing story for the grandkids if it had actually gone the soul mate route. But all I could think was: this might be really romantic if he didn't happen to look like an Israeli George Costanza.
In theory, many things sound great. Like communism, or having a job. Another one is public transportation, although I guess it’s not so much the description of it that sounds appealing so much as it is the mere idea that seems promising. It actually sounds pretty damn dreadful if you spell it all out: riding a train car or bus that “runs” on a “schedule” so loosely that you can never plan a trip accurately. It's essentially dirty cattle cars that thousands of other people take every hour and proceed to touch, puke, and sleep on. You're travel distances in a rectangular-shaped confined space with 65+ other strangers who may be insane, loud, or smelly. If you choose/are lucky to find an open seat, it's usually still warm from its previous occupant who may have very well been farting on it for the past twenty minutes. It’s funny, everyone has weird little idiosyncrasies, and as a person who worked in the service industry I can be the first to tell you how absolutely retarded and unfounded they all seem. But as much as I say that, I have my own little things that annoy the hell out of me, and for some reason mass transit brings them right to the surface. Like those assholes who insist on using the subway car and/or bus to have completely unimportant cellphone conversations at the top of their voice. Or, feel that it is the perfect time and place to go through all of their ringtones at top volume to find the one they like. Or sit five seats apart from their friends when there are empty seats in between them and having a conversation in overly loud voices anyway. Or blast the music on their iPod so loudly you can hear it from 10 feet away and OVER your own headphones. I can go on like that for DAYS. But other than that it doesn’t take much to annoy me when I’m using public taking mass transit. However, once I started biking my commute to work every day instead of riding the crowded stank-hole that is the NYC trains and buses, it didn’t take long for me to realize how horrible mass transit was and how wonderful being a “road warrior” is. Granted, drivers and pedestrians are just as frustrating and stress-inducing, if not more so, but that aside, I became a total bike whore. I loved it: the hour-long ride to and from work, the weaving in and out of traffic, the butt maintenance. And of course, not having to wait for passengers/train doors opening and closing, unnecessary stops, track work / trains not running, and being able to just go, go, go. As a very independent person who loves to do my own thing, I quickly fell in love with my newfound bike commute relationship so much that even my mom's voiced concerns in typical Jewish motha-fashion that it was dangerous couldn't pull me apart from my beloved two-wheeler. My first month pedaling on the Brooklyn streets passed smoothly, and I looked forward to what was the healthiest and happiest new coupling I had been in since, well, not any boyfriend but probably not since my first vibrator (I may have cried a little when it gave its final buzz.)
However, no matter how swimmingly this honeymoon stage was going, it was only a matter of time before it faded and reality set in. I was (and am) a good biker: I always ride with traffic, stay to the right or in the bike lanes, have lights on my bike, and never, ever wear headphones to obstruct my hearing. I made sure once it was clear this was going to be a permanent lifestyle change to look up all the laws I would need to follow, and rights that I have as a biker. Unfortunately, no matter how well I may have adhered to the rules of the road, or watched out for me and others, it was almost inevitable that I would get into some sort of accident. Because no mat ter how much effort I put in to do my best to be a team player on the streets, I shared those streets with drivers. And I may have been nice while describing them in the previous paragraph but let me be blunt: they all SUCK. I mean, it’s beyond belief sometimes how absolutely retarded and inconsiderate they are. In fact, my experiences have led me to update my “five deal-breakers” list when it comes to men to include anyone who drives, leases, or owns a Lexus: it’s a wrap. Lexus drivers are by FAR consistently the hands-down worst people behind the wheel you will find anywhere. If there is traffic, or congestion, or a pile-up, I can practically guarantee that a Lexus will be at the source of the problem. But aside from me finally understanding the phrase “all the crazies were out driving today”, and the reason behind bikers being such fucking assholes (which as a pedestrian I had experienced many times but never understood what could be stressing them out so much), statistically alone I was bound for trouble. I biked anywhere from two to sometimes three hours daily, easily four to five days per week. Add up the road time and throw in some morons behind wheels, and, well, you've got a recipe for disaster. The kitchen timer finally dinged for me on a warm afternoon in October as I was biking up Coney Island Avenue on my way home from work.
As I biked down the nearly empty, four-lane avenue (the light at the intersection I had just crossed turned red, so no cars were behind me) I was thinking about grocery shopping I had to do after I got home when- WHAM!! The driver's-side door of a parked car on my right opened up without warning and hit me, mid-pass. It slammed into my outer calf and part of my bike, and I flew off onto my back into open traffic. Luckily, even though the light from the intersection I passed had since turned green, the cars behind me were a good enough distance away to slow down in time. Almost with a survival instinct, I bounced back up immediately, dragging my bike and myself to the curb. I instantly burst into tears, barely able to breathe or register what had just happened and buried my face in my hands. The driver who had hit me with his car door (called getting “doored”) had come over to me and was now holding my shoulders, asking if I was all right. Shaking from head to toe, the shock had made it almost as if I had gone slightly deaf and couldn't really hear even his pressing inquiries clearly. As the haze that had come over all my senses began to wear off, I heard him talking to some pedestrians who had come over to see if I was okay, too. My face still in my hands, I managed a weak nod of the head as sort of a general acknowledgment and assertion to whoever was there that I was O.K. I heard the driver tell them, "Yeah, I think she's just in shock." As I regained a normal breathing pattern and heart rate, I pulled my hands away from my face and attempted to shakily wipe away my tears from my eyes and cheeks. All I wanted in the world at this point was to head back home (I was literally 3 blocks away from my apartment) but before I could do more than breathe, the driver quickly intercepted my mental desires. He was still standing right in front of me, and now that I had my face uncovered I saw by the lack of space between his feet and mine that he was actually really, really close to me, with his hand still on my shoulder. Reluctantly, and sort of confused as to why he was standing practically on top of me, I looked up and got the full picture. I won't lie, I was partially reluctant because I know I must have been lookin' a hot mess with mascara and sweat everywhere, and I found myself thinking for a fleeting moment oh man, what if he's cute?! But then I remembered that my best relationship for the past month had been with a bike, not a man, so my odds were probably not the best in the potential romance department. Sure enough, when I looked up at the bike assaulter, my eyes rested upon a middle-aged, pot-bellied Orthodox Jew whose clothes were more of a mess than mine but who clearly did not feel the same sinking disappointment that was hitting my stomach. He exclaimed, "My God, wow, you're absolutely beautiful!!" Jesus buddy, really? That's the first thing you say? Since his looks were not the most sobering, I was still sort of in a daze, though luckily this barely-able-to-see was due to a near-death experience and not because I lost a contact lens in the accident. That may not make the most sense; I mean, when would it ever be better to almost die rather than lose a contact, right? But allow me to explain my logic here. If I had lost my contact lenses, than I wouldn't have had to see him since I am practically legally blind without them. That could have been terrible in the long run since his voice was the sexy voice of a good-looking man. I may have been drawn to that alone and even given him my number. But apparently there is a god up there who doesn’t want to fuck with me too much, because I came out of this accident with both lenses in, both eyes were working, and it was the gift of sight that kept any potential madness at bay. Well, should have. What followed next could only qualify as madness of the highest power. As if his opening line that I was gorgeous, not his insurance information, was bad enough, then he insisted on driving me home, refusing my refusal and hastily ushering me into the passenger seat of his car. Despite being heavily reluctant and assuring him I was okay to make it on my own, I was still too out of sorts and weak to put up the good fight and as if out of a bad dream, found myself succumbing and taking a seat. My attacker, on the other hand, jogged around the car with giddy excitement to put my bike in his trunk. He got into the driver seat with a huge grin while I sat there, slumping into my own seat in a state of utter confusion at why this was happening and how I had let it. He took some time before he turned the car on, to discuss all the issues that needed addressing, such as my looks, and did I want any wine? What. The. Fuck. Next thing I know, he is getting out of the car, running to the liquor store across the street while I remain inside his 90’s dirty Toyota Corolla, dying a little more on the inside as the minutes ticked by. Then he returned, with this bottle of wine that was, I don’t know, a present or something, finally turning the car on and started driving. He couldn't seem to get over meeting me, a.k.a. mortally wounding me via car door. He kept looking at me and talking excitedly, asking me where I was from and what I do for a living, and repeatedly raving about my beauty. I guess the bottle of wine wasn’t just for me, because he was like, “Let’s go back to your place and crack it open!” When I didn’t answer that with a resounding “Huzzah!” he tried something else, like saying we should go out somewhere, a restaurant to have something to eat, or a bar to have a drink. NOW. Not, "Oh hey, let's get together sometime after you've cleaned the blood off your hands and knee", but right then, this minute, to go drive somewhere and HANG OUT. He seemed a little less enthused about the restaurant idea he had thrown out there, confessing he wasn’t much of an eater but definitely a drinker. This led to him telling me he runs a booze business and I should come and work for him. It was all getting to be too much for a girl to handle. And I don’t mean in a touching, heartfelt way, but in more of an “Okay, so I'm about to vomit and you're a fucking creep” kinda way. So I told him I had (fake) plans and therefore couldn’t hang out, and to drop me off at the train station because there was no way in hell I was about to show him where I lived. He kept calling me a “miracle” and, "wouldn't it be funny if we wound up actually turning into something? Like we don't know each other at all, but maybe this is fate and if we start seeing each other it could maybe really go somewhere!" Right. Because that's clearly what the miracle here was, that we're soul mates and not the fact that I survived a bike accident with almost nothing more than an elbow scratch.
Sadly, it would've been an amazing story for the grandkids if it had actually gone the soul mate route. But all I could think was: this might be really romantic if he didn't happen to look like an Israeli George Costanza.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Series of Shorts: A Most Humbling Moment
During my junior year of college, some friends and I decided to grab dinner at the Cheesecake Factory, on the ground floor of the Westchester Mall. I wanted to get cash before we got our table, so I excused myself and took the elevator to the fourth floor where the only ATM was. On the elevator ride back down, I was alone, and it stopped on the third floor. As the doors opened, I looked up and saw the most unbelievably gorgeous man I had ever seen in real life get into the elevator. Thick, dark, wavy hair that was styled a little long in that European way, green eyes, chiseled jaw, tall lean yet muscular body, wearing a suit and open trench. I swear there must have been a little man walking in front of him with a fan to create a breeze that delicately blew his hair, and lighting staff to illuminate him from behind. Or perhaps that was just the clouds parting and the heavens shining down on him; come to think of it, I think I heard a choir of angels singing. Our eyes met for a moment (although that stupified, open-jawed look probably isn't the best look for me.) As the doors closed and the elevator continued its descent, my heart was beating about a mile a minute, hoping that I didn't do anything stupid, like fart or burp or swallow too loudly. (Although maybe that last one would form ideas in his head to put odds in my favor…) Then, amazingly, he turned me and said, "Excuse me?" To ME! Trying to sound calm while adding some throatiness to my voice I turned to him to reply, "Yes?" He said, "I'm sorry, but you're blocking the directory and I need to see what floor Morton's Steakhouse is on." "Oh, I’m sorry!" I said, and moved out of the way. Thanks, God, thanks a lot.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Bad Sex-1, Elena-0
Sex with Ben was like if I, a petite white chick, were to enter the ring with a prizefighter, or the court against a 7'3" basketball player. Except Ben was a champion of no physical mastery, unless you mean being an expert on how to be a failure in the sack. Like Alexander's infamous Day, my time spent between Ben's (dirty/none-existent) bedsheets was a never-ending path of terrible, awful, no-good, very bad sex that got worse at every turn. As a general rule, I refuse to entertain the idea of a bad time in the boudoir- I will have great sex because I love men and getting' down and dirty with them. Ben, however, came out the winner of our night; even my most valiant efforts of pulling my troops together could never be enough to challenge his heinously heroic attempts to hump me into submission. There was no redeeming what happened that night, and there's a reason it only happened once. But aside from winning the battle, Ben also won the war: my gag reflex is now permanently activated every time the unfortunate re-play of that night pops into my mind.
I first met Ben while doing an opera with a small regional group in the Northeast. He was hired as a director, the company having made some staffing changes. On the night of our first read-through of the script, I was the first singer to arrive. The director was busy making calls which left Ben and myself alone in the room, giving us the chance to talk a bit but also for me to get a feel for Ben before everyone else arrived. Ever since childhood, I have had an instinct that is on-point. Most of the time this gift is wasted on me, since I tend to ignore it and act a fool, but nevertheless I am always right when it comes to reading people. With Ben, my instinct kicked in right away- I could immediately sense that he was interested in me. Maybe it was the way his face lit up when I walked in the room, or his bumbling like a clumsy professor throughout the reading, or his constant dropping and shuffling of his loose script pages, or the way he was checking out my ass. Despite his apparent attraction to me, unlike other situations where this is enough to make me at least think to reciprocate the feelings, I can't say that it happened this time. He was short, on the lean side, with apologetic posture and eyes that turned down at the corners with dark circles and bags underneath- i.e., not attractive. But despite looking like the love child of Woody Allen and Ray Romano, I of course eventually slept with him anyway. I am a girl who isn't too particular about looks on the whole; I thrive instead on a guy who can provide great conversation, intellect, and has a big penis. Ben proved, as we both took the same train home, that he had at least the first two of those things. The commute after each rehearsal resulted in a lot of time spent together getting to know each other, and quickly became quite flirtatious as he was not shy about telling me he liked me. So while the physical attraction may not have been instant on my end, the more we hung out, the more the feelings grew, however reluctant I was to let this happen. I mean, let's be honest here: physically this boy was enough of a hot mess to turn me off, and trust me, that takes a lot.
However, over the next month or so I couldn't help myself; the more we talked, the more I wound up feeling incredibly, insanely and irrationally sexually attracted to him. So much so that I started getting what I call a female version of a boner- you know, when even looking at the guy makes your vag "erect" (read: aching with arduous desire. It's actually almost painful.) When I like someone, I can't keep my feelings to myself, regardless of the outcome. It's just becomes an overwhelming need to tell them. Certainly with Ben there was no fear of rejection since he told me all the time how much he liked me, I just wasn't sure about getting involved with a colleague (god knows I've tried it often enough, with disastrous results), or even if I really wanted to get involved with him at all. But never being one to concern myself too much with consequences, I made my maybe somewhat careless decision. When I revealed my ever-burgeoning feelings were too much to contain any longer, he asked me out on an official date and we met up one night in Brooklyn to hit up some bars.
The second bar we were at was some little sports bar/pub type place in a Brooklyn neighborhood, Park Slope, that he mentioned he used to hang out at a lot when he lived in the area. Park Slope is like the poor man's Manhattan- all the people that live there can't afford city rent prices, but still think they are better than everyone else in the Brooklyn borough. So I assumed to live around there meant he made a decent living, but then he told me he had since moved in with his dad to a different neighborhood of Brooklyn, as Ben was currently getting his opera company off the ground and needed to cut his personal spending to put every cent into his project. I found it a little odd that a 37-year old was living with his dad, but who was I to judge? I was 23 and still living at home myself, getting acclimated to life after to college and figuring my shit out. He was doing something amazing- starting an opera company from the ground up. So I ignored what for many women would have been the first red flag, and we continued talking. I wasn't sure where the night was going to end up to be honest. Oh who am I kidding; we all know.
We were sitting on a couple of barstools against a wall, facing each other and chatting. The bar wasn't what I would call conducive to romance- fluorescent lights should be reserved for stadiums and prisons. Even though Park Slope is on the whole a fairly upscale neighborhood, this bar was way more lowbrow. This normally would make me feel self-conscious and wonder about how crappy I must be looking in lighting that could make Angelina Jolie look tired, but I didn't mind because I was feeling so strongly towards Ben that even these little otherwise mood-dampening surroundings didn't phase me. In fact, we talked at great length about how we were both into each other, and finally he leaned in to kiss me, right between the scratched up pool-table and ESPN halftime report.
It was all happening like I had fantasized- except for the actual kissing part. He had leaned in and gently taken my face in his hands, but then he landed. His breath was ehhhh and his lips were oddly soft; there was absolutely no pressure behind them at all. I imagine it's what kissing a dead person is like (except he was alive.) Luckily it didn't go on for too long, because like a guy without a condom I was ready to pull out. Except I was ready to vomit, not come. Anyway, we went back to talking for a bit longer, and then he excused himself to use the bathroom. I figured he had to break the seal but he was gone for 20 minutes. As I sat there, waiting, I tried not to make any assumptions, like that either this boy was dropping the kids off at the pool or jerking off; either way, not good. When he came out of the bathroom, I had to refrain myself for making a poop joke or two, pretend like almost half an hour hadn't passed, and when he asked if I wanted to go back to his place I ignored red flag number two and agreed. We finished our drinks and headed to the train station.
On our walk to the train, he kept pulling me towards him to make out. I was drunk-ish, sure, and that usually carries me through situations like these where the guy is the worst kisser ever. But even now, with my inebriated lips and my attraction to his personality, it just wasn't enough to silence my doubts (and the "throw up feeling" was in full effect. It's a term I named in college- you know, when you're with someone of the opposite sex and for whatever reason, whether you are hanging out with them or just thinking about them, you feel the overwhelming urge to throw up.) My sensible brain was screaming at me to go home, go home NOW, if he's a bad kisser how can he be good at anything else, we've been through this before and have you learned nothing?? But do I ever listen to that brain? Lucky for you, dear reader, I don't. So I suffered with the PDA, and with sitting on his lap on the subway (where I pretended my position made it too difficult to continue kissing him), and hoped that maybe things would get better once we got down to the business...serious sex doesn't leave much room for lip action. Right?
He had warned me on the train that his place was a mess but I didn't think too much of it; I mean, everyone says that to excuse the fact that their room may not be to the other person's standards. I figured, what, it's not vacuumed, bed unmade, clothes on the floor- who really cares??? But I was completely stunned when I walked through the doorway. Just...wow. He had told me the place was being renovated, and the boy was not kidding around. It didn't hit you right away though; first you had to walk past the kitchen and down a short hallway, which both looked relatively normal, maybe a bit dingy but this building wasn't exactly a Manhattan high-rise condo. But then... we got to the what I assume in a normal life was once a living room area. It was now being used as some form of a bedroom. What a nightmare. There was chipped and peeling paint coming off the walls, windows on one wall with dirty, ragged curtains, garbage bags filled and overflowing with clothes all around the corners of the room, loose piles of laundry stacked 2 feet high all around the bed which was in the center of the room, strewn papers everywhere. The bed itself was a bare mattress on a bed frame, covered with a crumpled-up sheet and some dirty pillows. There was no furniture, except a dresser and table with a laptop right by the head of the bed. And I genuinely feared for my life when I realized I had to pee, because I didn't know what was waiting in the bathroom. Imagine a beautiful, pristine, tile-lined bathroom with white marble sink and toilet, fresh flowers perfuming the air, and a gorgeous gold-gilded mirror. Now take that image and move it to a deep south bumblefuck town gas station that had been burned down, peeled away, and pissed on by a troupe of homeless men with syphilis. That was the bathroom. Everything just looked, for lack of a better word, grimey...never before had I squatted above a toilet in a private home before to keep my ass cheeks off the seat.
Fast forward about 10 minutes- as I tried to find some spot to park myself in the "living room" that didn't look like it would give me a disease, he found clean sheets to cover the bed, lit some candles, and put on some opera to listen to. We spent the next fifteen minutes or so just lying down while he showed me some stuff on his computer for his opera company and checked some emails. Finally, before I inhaled too much asbestos, he made a move (thank god, because my buzz was fading FAST.)
I had fantasized a great deal as to what the sex was going to be like, and again like the kiss at the bar, he started off exactly what I had pictured in my head, but then crashed and burned, horribly. I pictured it like... I'd be lying on the bed face-down, my hands resting underneath my head, and he'd crawl slowly up my body, kissing my back and then my neck, turn me over gently... so on and so forth. But no. He couldn't even get that freaking part right. I was lying down, on my stomach, just like I had pictured. He started off perfectly- at my feet, crawling up my body, but then he launched into doing things that seemed more awkward then arousing. It was like a love scene straight out of a parody movie or an early Steve Martin flick where the girl is literally getting thrown around and the guy is just being ridiculous. I almost wished someone had filmed it because maybe at least someone could have had a laugh; I definitely did not find it funny at the time. Not even now either, really. I'm sure his attempts at love-making were meant to be aggressive and powerful, but his idea of this was to switch back and forth into positions at an uncomfortable speed, press against me way too hard, bend his body oddly so his back was curved in and his stomach was sticking way out like a crescent moon, kiss me constantly in that zero-pressure-lips style; pretty soon my face and neck were covered in his nasty smelling spit. I felt like I couldn't even catch my breath- not that could if I wanted to, I'd just be inhaling the horrible fumes of his halitosis-infused saliva. It was almost a relief to move into the 69 position but that's when things got REALLY bad.
As he went to work with much enthusiasm (but little skill) on me, I made my way down to do the same, at a much slower pace since I was feeling a bit shell-shocked. Generally I'm not a huge fan of 69 on the first date, except for that one time when it was amazing; it's an incredibly intimate position that needs a certain comfort level (or blood alcohol level) to enjoy. But nevertheless, I decided to battle on in this never-ending romp that felt like an asthma attack during a sprint race. As I was bracing myself and about to begin, I noticed something that almost made me throw-up for real: the answer to why he was in the bathroom for 20 minutes. TOILET PAPER IN HIS ASS CRACK. I was lucky that Ben kept switching positions every five seconds- I didn't have to go any nearer to the danger zone than his torso before he flipped me over again.
BUT HOLD ON, TIME OUT, SERIOUSLY- You're bringing a girl back to your place. If you have to shit, you have to shit. Fine, whatever, it's understandable. I'm thrilled that you have regular bowel movements. But at least have the freaking decency to clean out your butthole! Especially if you're expecting someone to practically have their nose all up on your taint!!!! Good god. I thought, as a species, we were all past this as a pre-requisite for hooking up.
Sadly, because he was such a massive failure in every other aspect, this boy was blessed with equipment that I wish I could have molded and kept for my own use. Or at least measured, to use as a standard before heading to bed with any future hook-ups. You know, so I could make Random Guy X whip it out to see if his penis would be worth any of my time. God-dayum! What a colossal waste of a beautiful penis on such an unfortunate man. Ben's dick really was a gift of God. Something to be bowed down to, worshipped, and adored. I'd buy it presents, I'd buy it dinner, I'd be it's goddamn sugarmama to keep it around. It was unbelievable, really; no matter the position, his dick was the perfect size to hit my spot every-single-time. Unfortunately, it was attached to Ben. Not just his dirty, dirty butthole but his arrhythmic hips, stinky spit and skinny arms. As a lover, he was not in tune to me at ALL and despite my valiant efforts to follow and adapt to his style, he was just sloppy and floppy and ugh, AWFUL.
Finally, it was over. He wanted to cuddle and oh god. I tried to turn over so he would spoon me, because his breath was so god-awful, but he got incredibly offended and made me face him, which I gave in to because I didn't want the poor boy to start crying. So now on top of everything else, I was stuck here, being held in his sweaty arms in a smelly room; he was a bad sweater, too, the kind that gets all cold and clammy. Finally, after waiting a decent grace period, I said I should be getting home. He offered to pay for my cab, and when he handed me about a pound of quarters, I declined his gesture and said I would just pay for it myself. Needless to say, I did not ever sleep with him again- even though he tried several times.
As much as I consider myself to be a worthy opponent in the bedroom, Ben had me beat. There are just certain levels of awfulness that are impossible to defeat.
I first met Ben while doing an opera with a small regional group in the Northeast. He was hired as a director, the company having made some staffing changes. On the night of our first read-through of the script, I was the first singer to arrive. The director was busy making calls which left Ben and myself alone in the room, giving us the chance to talk a bit but also for me to get a feel for Ben before everyone else arrived. Ever since childhood, I have had an instinct that is on-point. Most of the time this gift is wasted on me, since I tend to ignore it and act a fool, but nevertheless I am always right when it comes to reading people. With Ben, my instinct kicked in right away- I could immediately sense that he was interested in me. Maybe it was the way his face lit up when I walked in the room, or his bumbling like a clumsy professor throughout the reading, or his constant dropping and shuffling of his loose script pages, or the way he was checking out my ass. Despite his apparent attraction to me, unlike other situations where this is enough to make me at least think to reciprocate the feelings, I can't say that it happened this time. He was short, on the lean side, with apologetic posture and eyes that turned down at the corners with dark circles and bags underneath- i.e., not attractive. But despite looking like the love child of Woody Allen and Ray Romano, I of course eventually slept with him anyway. I am a girl who isn't too particular about looks on the whole; I thrive instead on a guy who can provide great conversation, intellect, and has a big penis. Ben proved, as we both took the same train home, that he had at least the first two of those things. The commute after each rehearsal resulted in a lot of time spent together getting to know each other, and quickly became quite flirtatious as he was not shy about telling me he liked me. So while the physical attraction may not have been instant on my end, the more we hung out, the more the feelings grew, however reluctant I was to let this happen. I mean, let's be honest here: physically this boy was enough of a hot mess to turn me off, and trust me, that takes a lot.
However, over the next month or so I couldn't help myself; the more we talked, the more I wound up feeling incredibly, insanely and irrationally sexually attracted to him. So much so that I started getting what I call a female version of a boner- you know, when even looking at the guy makes your vag "erect" (read: aching with arduous desire. It's actually almost painful.) When I like someone, I can't keep my feelings to myself, regardless of the outcome. It's just becomes an overwhelming need to tell them. Certainly with Ben there was no fear of rejection since he told me all the time how much he liked me, I just wasn't sure about getting involved with a colleague (god knows I've tried it often enough, with disastrous results), or even if I really wanted to get involved with him at all. But never being one to concern myself too much with consequences, I made my maybe somewhat careless decision. When I revealed my ever-burgeoning feelings were too much to contain any longer, he asked me out on an official date and we met up one night in Brooklyn to hit up some bars.
The second bar we were at was some little sports bar/pub type place in a Brooklyn neighborhood, Park Slope, that he mentioned he used to hang out at a lot when he lived in the area. Park Slope is like the poor man's Manhattan- all the people that live there can't afford city rent prices, but still think they are better than everyone else in the Brooklyn borough. So I assumed to live around there meant he made a decent living, but then he told me he had since moved in with his dad to a different neighborhood of Brooklyn, as Ben was currently getting his opera company off the ground and needed to cut his personal spending to put every cent into his project. I found it a little odd that a 37-year old was living with his dad, but who was I to judge? I was 23 and still living at home myself, getting acclimated to life after to college and figuring my shit out. He was doing something amazing- starting an opera company from the ground up. So I ignored what for many women would have been the first red flag, and we continued talking. I wasn't sure where the night was going to end up to be honest. Oh who am I kidding; we all know.
We were sitting on a couple of barstools against a wall, facing each other and chatting. The bar wasn't what I would call conducive to romance- fluorescent lights should be reserved for stadiums and prisons. Even though Park Slope is on the whole a fairly upscale neighborhood, this bar was way more lowbrow. This normally would make me feel self-conscious and wonder about how crappy I must be looking in lighting that could make Angelina Jolie look tired, but I didn't mind because I was feeling so strongly towards Ben that even these little otherwise mood-dampening surroundings didn't phase me. In fact, we talked at great length about how we were both into each other, and finally he leaned in to kiss me, right between the scratched up pool-table and ESPN halftime report.
It was all happening like I had fantasized- except for the actual kissing part. He had leaned in and gently taken my face in his hands, but then he landed. His breath was ehhhh and his lips were oddly soft; there was absolutely no pressure behind them at all. I imagine it's what kissing a dead person is like (except he was alive.) Luckily it didn't go on for too long, because like a guy without a condom I was ready to pull out. Except I was ready to vomit, not come. Anyway, we went back to talking for a bit longer, and then he excused himself to use the bathroom. I figured he had to break the seal but he was gone for 20 minutes. As I sat there, waiting, I tried not to make any assumptions, like that either this boy was dropping the kids off at the pool or jerking off; either way, not good. When he came out of the bathroom, I had to refrain myself for making a poop joke or two, pretend like almost half an hour hadn't passed, and when he asked if I wanted to go back to his place I ignored red flag number two and agreed. We finished our drinks and headed to the train station.
On our walk to the train, he kept pulling me towards him to make out. I was drunk-ish, sure, and that usually carries me through situations like these where the guy is the worst kisser ever. But even now, with my inebriated lips and my attraction to his personality, it just wasn't enough to silence my doubts (and the "throw up feeling" was in full effect. It's a term I named in college- you know, when you're with someone of the opposite sex and for whatever reason, whether you are hanging out with them or just thinking about them, you feel the overwhelming urge to throw up.) My sensible brain was screaming at me to go home, go home NOW, if he's a bad kisser how can he be good at anything else, we've been through this before and have you learned nothing?? But do I ever listen to that brain? Lucky for you, dear reader, I don't. So I suffered with the PDA, and with sitting on his lap on the subway (where I pretended my position made it too difficult to continue kissing him), and hoped that maybe things would get better once we got down to the business...serious sex doesn't leave much room for lip action. Right?
He had warned me on the train that his place was a mess but I didn't think too much of it; I mean, everyone says that to excuse the fact that their room may not be to the other person's standards. I figured, what, it's not vacuumed, bed unmade, clothes on the floor- who really cares??? But I was completely stunned when I walked through the doorway. Just...wow. He had told me the place was being renovated, and the boy was not kidding around. It didn't hit you right away though; first you had to walk past the kitchen and down a short hallway, which both looked relatively normal, maybe a bit dingy but this building wasn't exactly a Manhattan high-rise condo. But then... we got to the what I assume in a normal life was once a living room area. It was now being used as some form of a bedroom. What a nightmare. There was chipped and peeling paint coming off the walls, windows on one wall with dirty, ragged curtains, garbage bags filled and overflowing with clothes all around the corners of the room, loose piles of laundry stacked 2 feet high all around the bed which was in the center of the room, strewn papers everywhere. The bed itself was a bare mattress on a bed frame, covered with a crumpled-up sheet and some dirty pillows. There was no furniture, except a dresser and table with a laptop right by the head of the bed. And I genuinely feared for my life when I realized I had to pee, because I didn't know what was waiting in the bathroom. Imagine a beautiful, pristine, tile-lined bathroom with white marble sink and toilet, fresh flowers perfuming the air, and a gorgeous gold-gilded mirror. Now take that image and move it to a deep south bumblefuck town gas station that had been burned down, peeled away, and pissed on by a troupe of homeless men with syphilis. That was the bathroom. Everything just looked, for lack of a better word, grimey...never before had I squatted above a toilet in a private home before to keep my ass cheeks off the seat.
Fast forward about 10 minutes- as I tried to find some spot to park myself in the "living room" that didn't look like it would give me a disease, he found clean sheets to cover the bed, lit some candles, and put on some opera to listen to. We spent the next fifteen minutes or so just lying down while he showed me some stuff on his computer for his opera company and checked some emails. Finally, before I inhaled too much asbestos, he made a move (thank god, because my buzz was fading FAST.)
I had fantasized a great deal as to what the sex was going to be like, and again like the kiss at the bar, he started off exactly what I had pictured in my head, but then crashed and burned, horribly. I pictured it like... I'd be lying on the bed face-down, my hands resting underneath my head, and he'd crawl slowly up my body, kissing my back and then my neck, turn me over gently... so on and so forth. But no. He couldn't even get that freaking part right. I was lying down, on my stomach, just like I had pictured. He started off perfectly- at my feet, crawling up my body, but then he launched into doing things that seemed more awkward then arousing. It was like a love scene straight out of a parody movie or an early Steve Martin flick where the girl is literally getting thrown around and the guy is just being ridiculous. I almost wished someone had filmed it because maybe at least someone could have had a laugh; I definitely did not find it funny at the time. Not even now either, really. I'm sure his attempts at love-making were meant to be aggressive and powerful, but his idea of this was to switch back and forth into positions at an uncomfortable speed, press against me way too hard, bend his body oddly so his back was curved in and his stomach was sticking way out like a crescent moon, kiss me constantly in that zero-pressure-lips style; pretty soon my face and neck were covered in his nasty smelling spit. I felt like I couldn't even catch my breath- not that could if I wanted to, I'd just be inhaling the horrible fumes of his halitosis-infused saliva. It was almost a relief to move into the 69 position but that's when things got REALLY bad.
As he went to work with much enthusiasm (but little skill) on me, I made my way down to do the same, at a much slower pace since I was feeling a bit shell-shocked. Generally I'm not a huge fan of 69 on the first date, except for that one time when it was amazing; it's an incredibly intimate position that needs a certain comfort level (or blood alcohol level) to enjoy. But nevertheless, I decided to battle on in this never-ending romp that felt like an asthma attack during a sprint race. As I was bracing myself and about to begin, I noticed something that almost made me throw-up for real: the answer to why he was in the bathroom for 20 minutes. TOILET PAPER IN HIS ASS CRACK. I was lucky that Ben kept switching positions every five seconds- I didn't have to go any nearer to the danger zone than his torso before he flipped me over again.
BUT HOLD ON, TIME OUT, SERIOUSLY- You're bringing a girl back to your place. If you have to shit, you have to shit. Fine, whatever, it's understandable. I'm thrilled that you have regular bowel movements. But at least have the freaking decency to clean out your butthole! Especially if you're expecting someone to practically have their nose all up on your taint!!!! Good god. I thought, as a species, we were all past this as a pre-requisite for hooking up.
Sadly, because he was such a massive failure in every other aspect, this boy was blessed with equipment that I wish I could have molded and kept for my own use. Or at least measured, to use as a standard before heading to bed with any future hook-ups. You know, so I could make Random Guy X whip it out to see if his penis would be worth any of my time. God-dayum! What a colossal waste of a beautiful penis on such an unfortunate man. Ben's dick really was a gift of God. Something to be bowed down to, worshipped, and adored. I'd buy it presents, I'd buy it dinner, I'd be it's goddamn sugarmama to keep it around. It was unbelievable, really; no matter the position, his dick was the perfect size to hit my spot every-single-time. Unfortunately, it was attached to Ben. Not just his dirty, dirty butthole but his arrhythmic hips, stinky spit and skinny arms. As a lover, he was not in tune to me at ALL and despite my valiant efforts to follow and adapt to his style, he was just sloppy and floppy and ugh, AWFUL.
Finally, it was over. He wanted to cuddle and oh god. I tried to turn over so he would spoon me, because his breath was so god-awful, but he got incredibly offended and made me face him, which I gave in to because I didn't want the poor boy to start crying. So now on top of everything else, I was stuck here, being held in his sweaty arms in a smelly room; he was a bad sweater, too, the kind that gets all cold and clammy. Finally, after waiting a decent grace period, I said I should be getting home. He offered to pay for my cab, and when he handed me about a pound of quarters, I declined his gesture and said I would just pay for it myself. Needless to say, I did not ever sleep with him again- even though he tried several times.
As much as I consider myself to be a worthy opponent in the bedroom, Ben had me beat. There are just certain levels of awfulness that are impossible to defeat.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Squats are a Girl's Best Friend
Both during college and for the two years after I graduated, I put in some time working at a midtown construction company. I wound up quitting for a variety of reasons, including ridiculous invasions of my personal life and a band of women with a vendetta against me. But through pain comes payoff, since I walked away with a handful of amazing stories. Which is always a plus, but even more so when they are about the very same things that led you to quit. I managed to find a new job, working as an office manager for a marketing firm, also in midtown. My job title may have been office manager, but the only thing I had to manage was my mental health thanks to my boss. Or better know to mankind as Satan Incarnated, founder and CEO. I didn't so much as “work” there, as I was more of a “slave” to my boss, who practically got off on making people cry. I know, I know, we all have horror stories from our places of employ, but that’s not what this story is about. This is about the actual single funny moment that I had happened to experience in the short two months I lasted there before I was fired. So, this marketing firm / my new hell, was the polar opposite from the construction company in terms of size; I went from working at a 500+ employee, six-billion-dollar a year corporation to a 12-person, 3-year old private business. So naturally, along with the supplies budget, the office size was correspondingly smaller. Most relevant to know for this story was that my new job locale was snuggled into a single, 5-room suite in a floor with other firms, and all the suites shared a community bathroom. The bathrooms were located all the way on the opposite end of the hallway, past the elevators and other suites. I actually didn’t mind it as much as I thought I would. It at least gave me the chance to escape the never-blinking Sauron-type eye of boss that seemed to stretch even into the elevators when I was heading home.
I was walking back through the empty hallway one day, back from the bathroom. It happened to me one of my better-looking days (rare as they are in the humid summer months.) I was looking all cute in my short flowing summer dress and hot heels. So, obviously, I switched into Fierce Mode, complete with club music thumping in my head and me sashaying like all the world was my catwalk. Then, as if from an echo-y distance, I head the men’s bathroom door open and shut from behind me, causing the DJ’s record to come to a scratching halt. I quickly came crashing back down into my fluorescent-lit reality, and without turning around I reverted to walking like a normal person back to my office. It wasn’t until I sat down and felt the cool leather of my desk chair hit my bare ass that I realized my dress had been tucked very neatly into my thong underwear.
Honestly, this didn’t immediately strike me as that big of a deal. In fact my initial reaction was laughter. Like my friends always say, this sort of thing always happens to me, so I’m used to it and wasn’t even terribly surprised by this latest event. But then it dawned on me: this wasn’t some private moment of hilarity. The replay of my walk back to the office started up in my mind and I remembered the men’s bathroom door. Oh crap. Some guy had just gotten a free show and I had no idea who it was, or which office he blonged to, or if he even worked in an office in the building at all. He could’ve been a janitor, a delivery guy, a caterer, who the hell knows. For the next two days, I became a walking tomato with legs. No matter where I was- the lobby, elevator, my floor- I would turn bright red and avert my eyes at the sight of every guy I saw.
Later that same week, however, I was walking down the hall, once again, to use the bathroom. When I opened my office door I saw a bunch of the law guys standing around outside their office, which was next door to ours. The only reason I could’ve been happy to see them, and not feel my stomach lurch upon discovering their presence, was the “Hot Guy” who worked there. I would occasionally catch glimpses of him, like a unicorn or other beautiful mythical beast, entering/leaving the office. I found myself praying we would serendipitously find ourselves sharing an elevator ride one day. But alas, this was not that day, as he was nowhere to be found. All to be seen blocking my pathway to the ladies room was this sad bunch of nerdy-looking miscreants standing around talking, and who knows, playing hackey-sack. I was still feeling incredibly awkward and self-concious, even minus-Hot Guy, because in the back of my mind all I was thinking about was the thong/ass-showing incident (I had never figured out who was walking behind me.) Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I tried to walk past them as quickly as possible without being noticed, even going so far as to practically suck my stomach in as I inched my way around their sewing circle. My attempts proved futile as this clearly didn’t make me invisible, especially when one of the guys stopped me. He said, “Hi! Listen, I know I look like shit; I haven’t slept in 36 hours. But you! You are gorgeous, I mean… wow!” I felt ill. I don’t dislike getting compliments but why do they always have to come from guys like this? He was like Fred Flinstone in a suit, with blonde hair and blue eyes. His huge lantern-jaw was only more obvious thanks to his odd way of talking like he had marbles and too much spit in his mouth.
Since that time of my life, I’ve become a hostess at a nightclub and have learned to deal with these sorts of situations. Namely, the incredibly unattractive men who seem to think I will not only interested but a proud recipient of their lines and other assorted hit-on attempts. I’ve grown up a bit too, so when I find myself in these painfully awkward and potentially horrendous moments I don’t freak out about turning them down, or being truthful and upfront. For instance, two years ago I may have even given him my number just to get out of there but then never answer his calls. Had I met him today it would have ended very differently. I would’ve agreed with him that yes, you look like a hot mess and I would never give you my number in a million years. Because let’s be honest here; I would never want to ride what you’ve got and I have zero curiosity in finding out what magic that giant jaw could work on my lady parts.
Sadly, back then I was not able to voice these thoughts which unfortunately stayed within the confines of my brain. So instead of being rude (honest?) to him to get him to leave me alone, I said, “Well, thanks, excuse me though…” I tried to continue down the hallway as if I was in a rush, but he stopped me again and wouldn’t stop talking to me so I patiently made small talk and pretended to be fascinated by what he had to say. My interest, already at zero, was rapidly hitting the negative quadruple digits but then I came rushing to the surface when I heard him utter, “I saw you a couple of days ago,” (oh noooo) “Right here in this hallway actually; but you were walking ahead of me and I didn’t get a chance to say anything. You were wearing a great blue dress though.” Oh mother of god. Why? Just… why, of all the men on this earth, was he the one to see me? To see my ass? Why him, and not The Hot Guy? Is it my fate to have these types of men, with comb-overs in their 30's, see me at my best while hot guys always seem to see me at my worst? It’s times like these that make me convinced I am destined to wind up with a man I don’t really want to be with, a man like this, named Dwayne and from goddamn New Jersey. Dwayne? Really? Are we in 1993 Oklahoma? If we went out on a date, you’d probably show up in acid wash Jordache jeans and sneakers that strap shut with velcro.
My only consolation here was that the mystery as to who had seen my bare booty was finally solved, however unhappy the result that closed the case was. He even got to shake my hand. Although I never did let him take me out, at least I felt good about knowing that my bare ass, even under fluorescent lighting, is considered gorgeous.
I was walking back through the empty hallway one day, back from the bathroom. It happened to me one of my better-looking days (rare as they are in the humid summer months.) I was looking all cute in my short flowing summer dress and hot heels. So, obviously, I switched into Fierce Mode, complete with club music thumping in my head and me sashaying like all the world was my catwalk. Then, as if from an echo-y distance, I head the men’s bathroom door open and shut from behind me, causing the DJ’s record to come to a scratching halt. I quickly came crashing back down into my fluorescent-lit reality, and without turning around I reverted to walking like a normal person back to my office. It wasn’t until I sat down and felt the cool leather of my desk chair hit my bare ass that I realized my dress had been tucked very neatly into my thong underwear.
Honestly, this didn’t immediately strike me as that big of a deal. In fact my initial reaction was laughter. Like my friends always say, this sort of thing always happens to me, so I’m used to it and wasn’t even terribly surprised by this latest event. But then it dawned on me: this wasn’t some private moment of hilarity. The replay of my walk back to the office started up in my mind and I remembered the men’s bathroom door. Oh crap. Some guy had just gotten a free show and I had no idea who it was, or which office he blonged to, or if he even worked in an office in the building at all. He could’ve been a janitor, a delivery guy, a caterer, who the hell knows. For the next two days, I became a walking tomato with legs. No matter where I was- the lobby, elevator, my floor- I would turn bright red and avert my eyes at the sight of every guy I saw.
Later that same week, however, I was walking down the hall, once again, to use the bathroom. When I opened my office door I saw a bunch of the law guys standing around outside their office, which was next door to ours. The only reason I could’ve been happy to see them, and not feel my stomach lurch upon discovering their presence, was the “Hot Guy” who worked there. I would occasionally catch glimpses of him, like a unicorn or other beautiful mythical beast, entering/leaving the office. I found myself praying we would serendipitously find ourselves sharing an elevator ride one day. But alas, this was not that day, as he was nowhere to be found. All to be seen blocking my pathway to the ladies room was this sad bunch of nerdy-looking miscreants standing around talking, and who knows, playing hackey-sack. I was still feeling incredibly awkward and self-concious, even minus-Hot Guy, because in the back of my mind all I was thinking about was the thong/ass-showing incident (I had never figured out who was walking behind me.) Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I tried to walk past them as quickly as possible without being noticed, even going so far as to practically suck my stomach in as I inched my way around their sewing circle. My attempts proved futile as this clearly didn’t make me invisible, especially when one of the guys stopped me. He said, “Hi! Listen, I know I look like shit; I haven’t slept in 36 hours. But you! You are gorgeous, I mean… wow!” I felt ill. I don’t dislike getting compliments but why do they always have to come from guys like this? He was like Fred Flinstone in a suit, with blonde hair and blue eyes. His huge lantern-jaw was only more obvious thanks to his odd way of talking like he had marbles and too much spit in his mouth.
Since that time of my life, I’ve become a hostess at a nightclub and have learned to deal with these sorts of situations. Namely, the incredibly unattractive men who seem to think I will not only interested but a proud recipient of their lines and other assorted hit-on attempts. I’ve grown up a bit too, so when I find myself in these painfully awkward and potentially horrendous moments I don’t freak out about turning them down, or being truthful and upfront. For instance, two years ago I may have even given him my number just to get out of there but then never answer his calls. Had I met him today it would have ended very differently. I would’ve agreed with him that yes, you look like a hot mess and I would never give you my number in a million years. Because let’s be honest here; I would never want to ride what you’ve got and I have zero curiosity in finding out what magic that giant jaw could work on my lady parts.
Sadly, back then I was not able to voice these thoughts which unfortunately stayed within the confines of my brain. So instead of being rude (honest?) to him to get him to leave me alone, I said, “Well, thanks, excuse me though…” I tried to continue down the hallway as if I was in a rush, but he stopped me again and wouldn’t stop talking to me so I patiently made small talk and pretended to be fascinated by what he had to say. My interest, already at zero, was rapidly hitting the negative quadruple digits but then I came rushing to the surface when I heard him utter, “I saw you a couple of days ago,” (oh noooo) “Right here in this hallway actually; but you were walking ahead of me and I didn’t get a chance to say anything. You were wearing a great blue dress though.” Oh mother of god. Why? Just… why, of all the men on this earth, was he the one to see me? To see my ass? Why him, and not The Hot Guy? Is it my fate to have these types of men, with comb-overs in their 30's, see me at my best while hot guys always seem to see me at my worst? It’s times like these that make me convinced I am destined to wind up with a man I don’t really want to be with, a man like this, named Dwayne and from goddamn New Jersey. Dwayne? Really? Are we in 1993 Oklahoma? If we went out on a date, you’d probably show up in acid wash Jordache jeans and sneakers that strap shut with velcro.
My only consolation here was that the mystery as to who had seen my bare booty was finally solved, however unhappy the result that closed the case was. He even got to shake my hand. Although I never did let him take me out, at least I felt good about knowing that my bare ass, even under fluorescent lighting, is considered gorgeous.
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