**Editors' Note: Today's guest post comes in from a gal who knows how to get 'er done. Er something.**
Back in my 'hey day' I was a fun-loving girl looking for a good time. Now, I'm a fun-loving girl looking to get drunk and dance her ass off surrounded by people she knows once every two weeks.
Yeah.
Anyways, back when I was living in Akron, I had a studio apartment on the third floor of a building a couple blocks down from one of my hangouts. Being the 'artistic' type, I hated the fact that I had to lug my garbage down four flights of stairs on a VERY NARROW stairwell, and then walk half a block up to where the dumpsters for our building were. It was winter at this time.
So of course there were about four big black hefty bags full of trash sitting in my extremely tiny kitchen. I couldn't even open the fridge. I didn't let that fact bother me, cause it was Saturday night and it was drinkin' and dancin' time.
At the bar (this one was across town), I proceeded to get very drunk with some acquaintances. I notice, however, this very adorable Skater Boy giving me the eye while he plays pool in the back with his friend. He has sandy blond hair, nice lips, and looks really good in the jeans he was wearing.
We eventually strike up a conversation although for the life of me I cannot remember who said what first. The night goes on, and I say I'm going to head home.
Skater Boy- "Um, did you need some company?"
Me- "Sure, but you have to do one thing for me. If you do that, you can stay the night."
Skater Boy-"Anything!" (sigh, I wish I could hook them in like that nowadays!)
Me- "You have to take all my garbage out."
Skater Boy- "What?!?! You're joking."
Me- "Nope. Deal or no deal."
Cut to Skater Boy looking horribly disappointed when he not only saw how much garbage I had, but where he has to dump it.
But he took that trash out in record time. And he got to stay the night.
Showing posts with label hooking up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hooking up. Show all posts
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
One night stand gone wrong
Most women have the occasional low self-esteem low points. Some women live in that space chronically; we call that having “daddy issues.” One of my worst low points wasn’t daddy related, it was wicked painful breakup related.
I went out solo one night, just because I couldn’t stand to be at home alone another night. My cats were starting to look at me like, “Girl, get the fuck out of here, you’re depressing us, and we’re cats. We always mope.”
So I was sitting alone at the bar, and in walks Chester. He looked vaguely familiar, and when he started talking to me, he told me why. Apparently he and I worked together, or at least for the same company. But we were in different departments, on different floors. We’d never met before, so we chatted for awhile, mostly about work.
No point getting into the nitty gritties here, you guys know where this is going. I got drunk. We made out in the park, we went back to his place. We fucked.
The thing is, he had a nice body. Tall, lean, strong, and, well, nice machinery. So in the morning, when he felt randy again and my head was still swimming in Coors Light and Jaeger bombs, I let him go for it again, and he got me off, again.
Then I looked around as morning filled the room, and memories started coming back to me. There, on the wall, was the picture of his daughter. She looked like maybe she had a touch of the down’s Syndrome. There, on the nightstand, was a photo of his girlfriend. She had Sally Jesse Rafael glasses. There, on another wall, was a poster: A wolf on a cliff, howling at a purple moon. And the thing is? I knew it wasn’t ironic.
I remembered how, the night before, he kept calling me sweetheart and asking if I was OK, if I was comfortable. In my wastedness, I giggled at him and asked why, “Well when an angel falls into your lap, you have to do what you can to hold on.”
As all this flooded back, all I could think was Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
So then he rolls over and tries to go down on me, again, which, I admit, I have a hard time turning down, but as sobriety reared its ugly head, I just needed out. I pushed him off, told him I needed a ride home.
“What’s wrong sweetheart? What happened?” he asked. I cringed when I looked over and saw his awful bowl cut. I remembered that he’d been wearing a Doors T-shirt last night. Tucked in.
Jesus Christ.
“I’m sorry, I just need to go,” I said, tearing around his room looking for clothes.
We got in his El Camino (I am NOT making this shit up). He drove me home. In the driveway, he paused, and seemed about ready to ask a question.
“So,” I said, “I don’t think we need to, like, talk about this. And I really don’t need you to tell anyone at work.”
“What, really? Just one night? That’s it?”
I felt like I was the man. And what I wanted to say was: “One night stand, pal, what do you think that means?”
What I said was: “Chester, you have a girlfriend.”
He nodded, but then tried to tell me again that they were on the outs.
“Nope, I’m sorry. I’ll see you around. Bye.”
I still see him at work from time to time. In the parking lot, or in the hallway. I try to avert my eyes, or just say, “hello,” in the exact same tone I use with all the people I don’t know, but he always smiles brightly. Wistfully, even.
I wonder if he’s told anyone sometimes. But then I think that even if he did, they probably wouldn’t believe him.
I went out solo one night, just because I couldn’t stand to be at home alone another night. My cats were starting to look at me like, “Girl, get the fuck out of here, you’re depressing us, and we’re cats. We always mope.”
So I was sitting alone at the bar, and in walks Chester. He looked vaguely familiar, and when he started talking to me, he told me why. Apparently he and I worked together, or at least for the same company. But we were in different departments, on different floors. We’d never met before, so we chatted for awhile, mostly about work.
No point getting into the nitty gritties here, you guys know where this is going. I got drunk. We made out in the park, we went back to his place. We fucked.
The thing is, he had a nice body. Tall, lean, strong, and, well, nice machinery. So in the morning, when he felt randy again and my head was still swimming in Coors Light and Jaeger bombs, I let him go for it again, and he got me off, again.
Then I looked around as morning filled the room, and memories started coming back to me. There, on the wall, was the picture of his daughter. She looked like maybe she had a touch of the down’s Syndrome. There, on the nightstand, was a photo of his girlfriend. She had Sally Jesse Rafael glasses. There, on another wall, was a poster: A wolf on a cliff, howling at a purple moon. And the thing is? I knew it wasn’t ironic.
I remembered how, the night before, he kept calling me sweetheart and asking if I was OK, if I was comfortable. In my wastedness, I giggled at him and asked why, “Well when an angel falls into your lap, you have to do what you can to hold on.”
As all this flooded back, all I could think was Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
So then he rolls over and tries to go down on me, again, which, I admit, I have a hard time turning down, but as sobriety reared its ugly head, I just needed out. I pushed him off, told him I needed a ride home.
“What’s wrong sweetheart? What happened?” he asked. I cringed when I looked over and saw his awful bowl cut. I remembered that he’d been wearing a Doors T-shirt last night. Tucked in.
Jesus Christ.
“I’m sorry, I just need to go,” I said, tearing around his room looking for clothes.
We got in his El Camino (I am NOT making this shit up). He drove me home. In the driveway, he paused, and seemed about ready to ask a question.
“So,” I said, “I don’t think we need to, like, talk about this. And I really don’t need you to tell anyone at work.”
“What, really? Just one night? That’s it?”
I felt like I was the man. And what I wanted to say was: “One night stand, pal, what do you think that means?”
What I said was: “Chester, you have a girlfriend.”
He nodded, but then tried to tell me again that they were on the outs.
“Nope, I’m sorry. I’ll see you around. Bye.”
I still see him at work from time to time. In the parking lot, or in the hallway. I try to avert my eyes, or just say, “hello,” in the exact same tone I use with all the people I don’t know, but he always smiles brightly. Wistfully, even.
I wonder if he’s told anyone sometimes. But then I think that even if he did, they probably wouldn’t believe him.
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