While taking a break from building an ark this weekend, I did some serious organizing of my home office. Files needed to be started for 2009 (yes, I’m really that anal and organized), get my receipts in order for next years taxes (seriously, I know that I’m crazy) and set up the fabulous new lap top that TH bestowed upon me for our 1 year anniversary. The very laptop I am tapping away on right now while watching Two and a Half Men. The very laptop that has a strange green line running down the side of the monitor. Damnit! I hate new shit that breaks!
So, I’m rifling through all of my crap and came across an old address book. Remember those things? We used them before palm pilot and Blackberry’s. It’s always fun to flip through them and remember all of the people that I used to know:
Jackie: U-ber bitch! Use to cut my hair and do my nails. We became friendly and hung out at a seedy bar a few times. She screwed me over by telling a guy that like me that I was a huge slut and had some nasty gynecological disease. Apparently she liked him too and was a teensy bit jealous. Plus, she was a very bad influence on me and that is saying a lot. People usually say that about me.
Trisha: Sweet innocent Trisha. She was new to the Cape and we waitressed at a restaurant together. I befriended her, we hung out all the time and I introduced her to my friend Stefan who is now her husband. She decided that she didn’t like my new boyfriend and promptly withdrew her friendship. Oh, did I mention that Stefan wasn’t allowed to be friends with me either. I wasn’t invited to the wedding.
Told ya I had bad luck with female friends.
I continued to flip thru, occasionally stopping and trying to guess who these mystery names where. Then I discovered….The Ex Files.
The Ex Files: the secret bunch of names of the men that you use to date. Most of them just first names and phone numbers. I never had a black book. I would just black out the name of the guy after we broke up and add a new names as they would come up.
I began a scary trip down memory lane:
I met him while purchasing a pair of sunglasses. He worked at one of those ski and surf stores and convinced me to purchase a pair of white sunglasses. (Stop laughing! It was 1997. It was in style then) I happened to let it slip in conversation that I was taking my dog down to the beach for a run. Then I pretended to be shocked when he showed up. I'd practically spelled it out for him, but I still thought it was so sweet that he came. That was the last time I thought he was sweet. From then on, he just got dumber and dumber. In fact, he found new levels of stupidity. Bill use to (and probably still does) record a new message on his answering machine every day. He would leave the surf report. Yeah, the swells are so killer on the Cape, dude.
Surprisingly, Bill was in no rush to have sex. We spent most of our time making out on his bed. On our third date, he started to rub up against me and I thought, finally, we’re gonna get busy. The rubbing grew more frenzied and I soon realize….holy shit, this guy is humping my leg. All of a sudden he made strangled sound and I felt something warm, moist on my thigh. He had just spooged all over my leg.
Did I dump him after that? Of course not! I was dumb enough to see this as a challenge. I was desperate to crack this guy. I let him dry hump my leg like horny dog a total of 4 more times until he finally decided maybe there was something under my pants that could be better. Gee, really? Good for me, cause my laundry pile was out of control. Of course he decided that this blessed event was to happen during that special week of the month when I was “in the red”. So, like any good girl I offered him the next best thing.
I thought I gave a really good performance and he seemed to enjoy the experience. It wasn’t until the next day when his friend John told me that Bill spilled to him that it was the worst head he’d even had. (John was later taught that Bill was a big fat liar. I gave him the same experience). It was that day that I placed a call to Bill, listened to him tell me that the swells were breaking at 1 foot, and promptly dumped him on his answering machine. Kowabunga, Dude!
NateNate was my high school fantasy. He was two years ahead of me in school and I use to dream about him during study hall. We had one hot kiss my sophomore year and I’d thought I lost him forever when he graduated. Imagine my surprise when years later I was working out at the gym and in walked Nate, still wearing that faded brown leather jacket. He was there to see some friends and saw me running on the treadmill. We said the hi-how-are-you-fine-how-are-you’s and I continued running, praying that he would ask me out. Thankfully, he did. We met at a coffee shop (he was a half an hour late) and drove down to the beach. It was clear what we were going to do and immediately started swapping spit. He was an amazing kisser, had the body of a Greek god….and wouldn’t shut up. He kept babbling about “passion” and “hotness” and something else that I couldn’t understand. He just kept on talking in between kisses and even as I tried to travel south he just kept talking and talking.
Of course, I went out with him again. I had too. I’d spent 6 months in a frenzied heat in high school. I was gonna get me some.
I invited him over my apartment. I left no confusion to my intentions. I wanted him. We rolled around for awhile, he was chatting away about something, so I took matters into my hands…. literally….and pulled out the box of condoms from under my mattress. He took one look at the box and said, “I don’t wear those. I never cum with them on.”
That trick never worked with me. I was a savvy veteran. I told him if we were gonna do this, he needed to wrap that sucker up. I guess he decided that I wasn’t gonna fold and he donned the parachute.
Here I was having sex with my high school fantasy….and it was awful. The worst sex EVER……. in the history of all mankind. He had no idea what he was doing and I couldn’t wait to get him off of me. And, he was still talking. It was so distracting and I still had no idea what he was saying. I finally squeezed off a few fake O’s and prayed that he would finish fast and shut the hell up!
True to his word, he didn’t cum and finally rolled off of me. Oh, well. Too bad. I wasn’t feeling all that generous after that abysmal and very vocal performance. I didn’t even think to offer him a “smoothie” to finish him off, If had to fake it, there was no way he was getting a real one. I figured I would give him a quick cuddle, hope it would freak him out and he’d get the hell out of my apartment. It worked alright. He asked if I would “get off of him so he could put his clothes on.” I obliged and waited patiently for him to get dressed and leave so I could take the shower of shame and drowned my sorrows in a bottle of wine.
He pulled on his shirt, walked over to my fridge (short walk, it was a studio apartment), opened it and started rifling thru the contents.
“Do you have any peanut butter? I’m gonna make a sandwich” he said.
I couldn't believe it. He was gonna make a sandwich!?!? Why wouldn't he leave? Clearly he wasn't having the best time. Why draw out the torture?
I told him I didn’t like peanut butter and didn’t have any in the fridge.
He turned around from the open refrigerator door and started at me like I had just told him that there were pig’s feet on the second shelf and he should help himself.
“You don’t have any peanut butter? You're a weird chick?”
Yeah, I’m weird. This coming from a guy who sounded like he was reading “War and Peace” out loud while we were having sex.
Thankfully, he grabbed a rice cake, gave me a peck on the check and told me he would call me later.
I drank a lot that night
He did call, I never answered and I haven’t seen him since. Rumor has it he might be gay now. Gee, that’s a surprise.
Thus concludes two of my embarrassing Ex-files. Just wait until I tell you about Mitch, the iguana loving, sage smudging, sweat lodge freak.
Thank God I found my husband.