“Charlie, tell me what’s going on.”
“Ticktock? Now, what exactly did you mean by that?” I was still having a hard time figuring out if Luke was really committed to making our interaction believable or if he was just upset.
“Ticktock? Cock block, you idiot! I saw you coming over and was calling you a cock block.” Daniel Day-Lewis Luke is not.
“Oh, cock block. They’re very similar when being mouthed, you know.” Speaking of cock blocks, I decided to protect mine with my hands in case he was considering seeking some below-the-belt revenge.
“Sorry about that. Look, it’s not too late.…” I began to say, but then realized it was. Bridget had already found herself a new suitor. The douchiest one of them all—the Con-Man. Without even glancing over at Luke, I could tell he was furious with me.
“Will you let me go talk to sluts without getting in the way?” Luke calmly asked. And I was grateful for the new tone.
“Yes. I will let you talk to sluts.”
“That’s What Friends Are For” was written for moments like this.
“Will you be okay alone?”
“Of course,” I assured him.
“Now, will you kindly point me in the direction of the girls above you?”
I showed him the way, which consisted of my calling attention to a few girls huddled around a keg. He was still agitated but thankful for the new possibilities. As he ventured off into the land of perfume and high heels, I stood there by myself. I felt companionless in an ever-growing room of connection, even if it was cheap and alcohol induced.
“Stop moping. You’re always moping,” I imagined my ex saying to me, like she did when we were together.
“I do not mope,” I responded in a mopey tone in my mind.
“You’re at a party and single. Will you go talk to a girl already?”
I was a little saddened by the fact that even in my own hallucination, my ex wanted me to meet someone else. Did she not even feel an ounce of jealousy? Maybe jealousy doesn’t carry over into the illusory world. If I ever got the opportunity to be a figment of her imagination, I would tell her she should live a solitary life, free of all affection and passion, unless she wanted to take me back. Then my imaginary self wouldn’t have a problem with her having those things.
But maybe she was right. Why did she always have to be right? Believe it or not, there once was a time when I had no issues wooing a member of the female gender. Not only that, but I was actually pretty good at it. Just a few years back I had gotten two different girls’ numbers while driving on the 405 freeway and both happened on the same commute! There was a bit of traffic, but still, you try plucking numbers all the way from the carpool lane. It was a dangerous feat, but in the end the nickname I acquired from my friends, “the Freeway Pimp,” was well worth the risk. I campaigned hard for Carpool-Lane Cutie, but you can’t always get what you want.
My main problem in approaching women is that I’m not the right mixture of vulgar and nice. Some girls are into the bad-boy type, while others are more attracted to sensitivity and romance. Unfortunately for me, I fall directly in the middle of the spectrum. No-man’s-land. Very few girls like to hang out in this area. And the ones who do are generally unstable. I’m looking at you, Patricia Sobel from seventh-grade chemistry. It may have been the name of the class, but no chemistry was had that year.
Much like in seventh grade, my chances of finding love at this party felt quite slim. Yet, the possibility of scoring a one-night stand seemed almost unfairly favorable. But was I ready? I figured there was only one way to find out.
So I checked my breath by blowing into my hand (which, by the way, has never worked for anyone, but we as humans continue to do this generation after generation). I put my hand under my armpit to see whether moisture was creating an incredibly unattractive pit stain, and thankfully it wasn’t. Then I gently lifted my right leg and squeezed out a fart that would’ve been deafening in a library but was completely soundless in the spot where I was standing, next to the DJ’s table. It was time for me to get back into the game. Here’s how my series of conversations went:
CHARLIE: Hi.
NOSE JOB GIRL: Hi.
CHARLIE: Hi [now with a made-up accent].
NOSE JOB GIRL: Umm, hi.
CHARLIE: Hi [very quickly].
NOSE JOB GIRL: You already said—
CHARLIE: Hi [in an even more made-up accent].
NOT THE FUTURE MOTHER OF MY CHILD: Last week was my Tic Tac–only diet, this week it’s edamame, next week I might try and only eat gluten.
CHARLIE: I think I’ve heard of this diet before.
NOT THE FUTURE MOTHER OF MY CHILD: So, what kind of stuff do you like to eat?
CHARLIE: Oh, you know, just normal stuff.
NOT THE FUTURE MOTHER OF MY CHILD: [poltergeist voice] Are you saying I’m not normal?
CHARLIE: What? No. I know plenty of people doing the whole Tic Tac thing. I’m very supportive of it.
NOT THE FUTURE MOTHER OF MY CHILD: Hmm. I’m not sure yet, but I think I like you.
SIZE MATTERS GIRL: I miss my ex-boyfriend’s cock.
CHARLIE: Oh, wow. I’m sorry to hear that.
SIZE MATTERS GIRL: It’s just so big, you know? Like way bigger than yours probably.
CHARLIE: That seems unfairly presumptuous.
SIZE MATTERS GIRL: Not really. Guys with big dicks don’t use words like presumptuous.
CHARLIE: What if I showed you with my hands how big mine is? Would you compare the two honestly?
SIZE MATTERS GIRL: Yeah, sure.
CHARLIE: [showing my approximate size plus five inches] There it is.
SIZE MATTERS GIRL: Hmm. His is way bigger.
CHARLIE: Oh come on!
CHARLIE: So, what is it you do?
GIRL WHO WHISTLES WHEN SHE TALKS: Oh, I’m a dog trainer.
CHARLIE: Really?! Don’t they ever get confused?
GIRL WHO WHISTLES WHEN SHE TALKS: By what?
CHARLIE: What’s your name?
GIRL NOT NAMED “DRUNK”: Drunk.
CHARLIE: Oh yeah? Is that a first or last name?
GIRL NOT NAMED “DRUNK”: First and last. My middle name too.
CHARLIE: Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Drunk Drunk Drunk.
GIRL NOT NAMED “DRUNK”: You too, asshole.
SOMEONE WHO JUST MOVED TO LOS ANGELES: I don’t like to tell many people this, but I’m an actress.
CHARLIE: Oh, cool. What kind of stuff do you do?
SOMEONE WHO JUST MOVED TO LOS ANGELES: I’m so embarrassed to even be saying this out loud, but like mostly quirky comedy and period-piece stuff.
CHARLIE: That’s really great. Anything I may have seen?
SOMEONE WHO JUST MOVED TO LOS ANGELES: Oh my God, maybe. I’m blushing just from talking about it. Maybe we should change the subject?
CHARLIE: Okay. No worries. So listen … would you ever be interested in going—
SOMEONE WHO JUST MOVED TO LOS ANGELES: Hey, do you know if there are any agents here tonight?
So maybe I was a bit rusty; I think when my previous relationship started, people were still using CD-ROMs. But, even so, was this what dating was like nowadays? Perhaps I had some brushing up to do. I was better off in my apartment, where it didn’t feel quite so dim.
“Enjoy the party, Wyatt,” I said to the poor bastard on my way out.
“But we didn’t even take drunken pictures in our shirts,” he slurred. “It would’ve been hilarious, man.”
“That’s very true. Maybe some other time.”
“Wait, what’s your name, bro?”
As I walked out the door, I turned back and responded over my shoulder, “Drunk.”
THE GIRLS ON BLOW JOBS
Dear Girls Above Me,
“When he said he didn’t want a blow job, it made me wanna give him one!” Do not make me chicken marsala. You hear me, DO NOT.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“At college I learned to make the gu
y go down on you first: otherwise, you won’t get shit back.” Sounds like community college to me.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“I’d never kiss a guy if he got me something from Kay. But jewelry from Tiffany, blow job fo sho.” I’d like to see that commercial.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“I so would’ve given Prince William carriage-head during that long ride to Buckingham Palace.” And that’s why you’ll never be a princess.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“The best blow job I ever gave was when I wrapped a guy’s thingy in a Fruit Roll Up.” I got some dried apricots down here …
Dear Girls Above Me,
“Jen went down on Tom while he played a video game. Gross!” Was it Mario Kart? That would be the Nintendo equivalent to road head.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“I think we should start like a movement to bring back the hand job. It’s soooooo much easier than giving a blow job.” Good luck with your endeavors.
THE GIRLS ON PENISES
Dear Girls Above Me,
“I don’t care how big his cock is, Claire, he still uses Myspace!” But an average size penis on Facebook is okay, right? Phew.
Dear Girls Above Me,
“I really want a penis just for a day. All I would do is flop it around.” Sorry, did you say something? Was busy slapping my dick.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NOTE TO SELF: Find the architect who designed my building and kill him.
SUBCATEGORY OF THE NOTE: If the architect has a wife and child, do not kill them. They must live to pass on the cautionary tale, and it would be dishonorable to take the life of a woman or child. Unless a woman or child designed the building, then it’s okay to kill them.
The reverberations coming from the party above seemed to be even louder from the comfort of my own apartment. How was that even possible?! But instead of the normal two girls chattering aimlessly, I was under attack by a horde of mind-numbing conversations. I felt like the Grinch on Christmas Eve, forced to listen to the city of Whoville … if the citizens of Whoville spoke like this: “Give me my tequila back, or I’ll shove my stiletto up your ass.” Whoever that was, she was no Dr. Seuss.
I fought back with earplugs, two different types of sound machines, a rickety old fan, and the opening scene to Saving Private Ryan at full blast, but the party, full of intoxicated Whos, roared louder. There was no stopping them. The techno music was not music to my ears and was decreasing the size of my heart with every beat played. I’ve heard the old saying “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.” Of course, nobody came up with that saying after having taken the time to join ’em and failing miserably. I’m going to coin a new phrase.
Dear Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations,
I would like to come forward as the author of the latest hot phrase to hit the streets:
“If you can’t beat ’em, and you didn’t do a very good job of joining ’em, then accept that you’ve been defeated and distract yourself by purchasing a new pair of Nikes or something.”
No doubt this variation on the old proverb has made its way to you already, as it improves a tired old phrase and updates it for the new millennium. Please direct all credit to Charles McDowell, and forward all royalties accordingly.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t even follow my freshly coined advice, because it was two A.M. already and Niketown was almost definitely closed. I stood in my living room wearing the maroon Snuggie my aunt Nancy had recently sent me for my birthday. Underneath my especially comfortable blanket with sleeves, I was in the nude. I apologized to Marvin profusely for the view of my backside, where there was no cloth covering. He didn’t seem to mind, although longterm effects are still to be determined. But that’s one of the many benefits of being single. You can wear whatever you want, whenever you want, and in any position you want. For instance, if I wanted to put my legs behind my head in a pretzel position while naked and wearing the Snuggie, I could. No one would be there to judge me. Apart from God and Marvin … in that order.
A LIST OF BENEFITS TO BEING SINGLE
I don’t have to watch all of the Real Housewives series (including Atlanta) unless I want to. (I want to, it just feels nice not having to.)
I can play Fantasy Football without sneaking off to the hallway closet.
I can play with myself without sneaking off to the hallway closet.
I don’t have to eat only kale salads and drink coconut water.
I can wear Patagonia, even in public.
I don’t have to lie about wanting to go to Las Vegas “just to see Cirque du Soleil’s O.”
I can gain a pound or two and not be reminded of it. Actually, scratch this one. Mr. Molever can be quite passive-aggressive.
To better “focus my organizational skills” I’m not constantly pressured to “make lists” anymore—oh.… Shit.
As I sipped a cup of hot water with freshly squeezed lemon juice (my nighttime drink), I reveled in the possibilities of my newfound freedom. There was no one there to dictate the parameters of my life. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with a desire to express the ownership of my freedom. I could continue sitting there, drinking my nighttime drink. I could trash the whole apartment like a punk rocker (and then carefully clean it before Pat returned from his trip). I could do most anything.…
I began bobbing my head to the rhythm of the party music. Slowly, I introduced a couple of leg movements into my routine. A few pelvic thrusts later, I had placed my hot drink down in order to prevent any more spillage. With the extra free hand, I was able to incorporate finger snaps and knee lifts into my number. I paused for a moment, wondering if this was the beginning of my path to insanity or a career with Debbie Allen. But my shimmying hips had a mind of their own.
Marvin got up from his very comfy position on the top of the couch and went into my bedroom. The poor bastard had seen enough. In retrospect, it was probably a good thing that he wasn’t there to witness my attempt to ride a bicycle around the coffee table. No animal needs to see that.
I had broken into a sweat from all the movement, which felt like my cue to get some much-needed sleep. The party was slowly starting to die down, thank God. I figured it would remain somewhat active as long as Luke was still there, but the volume was low enough that I could probably go to sleep with just two white-noise machines tonight.
I finally crawled into my place of rest at three fifteen A.M. And as I lay in bed, I was able to hear Luke and Claire in deep conversation. Since I knew Claire’s room was directly above mine, I figured Luke was well on his way to a night of copulation with my neighbor. This was the conversation:
CLAIRE: As you can see, I got the bigger room because Cathy pays less rent.
LUKE: It’s really nice. I like the color of the walls. Gray, but with a hint of purple.
CLAIRE: Elephant’s Breath! That’s what the color’s called. I did it myself—well, I mean I didn’t actually paint the walls myself, Mexicans did that, but I chose the color.
LUKE: It’s really great.
CLAIRE: Thanks.
(a moment of silence)
LUKE: Hey, you, get over here.
CLAIRE: Who? Me?
LUKE: Yeah, you. Come next to me. I feel like you’re a million miles away.
CLAIRE: Yeah, I guess I am kinda far.
(high heels)
LUKE: Can I be brutally honest with you about something?
CLAIRE: For sure, honesty is like my favorite.
LUKE: Okay. Look, I could be making a complete fool out of myself right now, but you know what, I’m totally cool with that. When I saw you for the first time, over by that keg stand, I couldn’t take—
CLAIRE: Oh my God, I’m so sorry. But I have to tell you, just now when you were talking to me, you rubbed your eye like you were a little kid and it was honestly the cutest thing ever!
LUKE: Oh, really? I had no idea.
I couldn’t believe it. He’d told me all about this “move.” I didn’t think in a million
years any girl would actually fall for it, but in this instance I was happy to be wrong. I could only imagine the smile he must’ve had on his face knowing that I was probably listening to their conversation. Clearly I was witnessing a true master at work.
CLAIRE: I’m sorry. What were you saying?
LUKE: I seem to have lost my train of thought.…
CLAIRE: You were talking about noticing me for the first time.
LUKE: Oh, right. How could I forget? [probably another eye rub] Baby, you took my breath away.
CLAIRE: Reeeaaallly?
LUKE: Really.
CLAIRE: Well, I’ll admit I was pretty jealous when I saw you laughing it up with Bridget.
LUKE: Who?
CLAIRE: [laughing] You’re so funny.
I could tell he actually had no idea which girl she was talking about. In fact, chances were very high that he didn’t even know Claire’s name.
LUKE: Do you mind if I just hang out in here for a little while to sober up?
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