I ran into 7-Eleven while he waited in his car. I got a turkey sandwich out of their "deli case" and the largest bag of Doritos they sold. I hopped back in my car and proceeded to gnaw away at my Doritos and sandwich like a barnyard animal. It was like I was punishing this guy for being so willing. Did I really have to get Doritos, food that leaves your mouth smelling like a Dumpster. I'm surprised I didn't just get a block of jalapeno cheddar to suck on. It was like I was daring him to back out.
We got to his place, and it looked a lot like his personality. Just a bunch of space filler, nothing to really wow you. It looked like he had bought a lot of stuff from IKEA and then decided to refinish it at home. Everything was neat and tidy, but you wouldn't want any of it for yourself.
I sat down on his black pleather sofa and proceeded to make a spread for myself. He put on some Lou Rawls and went in to the bathroom for a couple minutes too long. Maybe he was putting in his diaphragm. By this point I was really considering leaving, but I was enjoying my sandwich and chips too much. Also, I was trying to figure out who the bigger loser was, this guy, or me for being at his apartment.
A couple more minutes passed and then I heard someone whistling. I had to assume it was him because my mouth was full. Then the bathroom door swung open and he walked out.
Now, I've seen guys do some crazy things in the movies but never in real life. He was buck naked, except for a leather neck brace/helmet and a black leather holster. There was a set of shackles around his ankles, but they weren't connected, and he was holding a flashlight.
I had no idea what to make of this. After staring at him for thirty seconds with my mouth full, I managed to ask, "What's up with the flashlight?"
The smile on his face made me wonder if he might be a serial killer.
He started playing with his penis. It was time to put down the sandwich.
"I want you to hit me," he said with a big ugly grin.
I didn't want to appear frightened, so I played along. "I love hitting guys," I told him. I couldn't figure out if he was crazy or just plain stupid. I decided he didn't fit the profile of a serial killer--he was too outgoing.
I was not sleeping with this idiot. No one should have to sleep with this guy.
He came over to the couch and sat down on the side of me that was not occupied by food.
"I love kisses," he whispered, leaning in to make his move.
I held his chest back with my hand. I should have used my sandwich to block him. I was trying to remember if I had my camera in my car. Getting some pictures of him would be fun for years to come, but that would mean spending more time with him.
"Wait," I said, in my most seductive voice. "I have something in my car that I think you are really going to go nuts over."
He got excited. "What is it?" he asked.
"Oh, you're really going to like this."
"How do you know I don't already have it?" he cooed.
"Oh, believe me, you don't have this," I said.
"Okay, sexy, you go get it for Daddy."
This was getting good. I loved that he referred to himself as my father. My dad was going to really get a kick out of this one.
I collected all my belongings, including what was left of my sandwich and bag of Doritos. He asked me why I was taking my food, and I said it was part of the surprise.
Right before I got up from the sofa, I turned and smacked him in the face. I couldn't pass up the opportunity to hit this guy. His nostrils flared and his smile grew so big I thought his head might split open. I smacked him once more for good luck.
I sashayed up to the door without breaking eye contact, walked outside, and went to my car. Then I got in, started the engine, and turned around just in time to see him standing in his doorway, buck naked in his get-up, with his penis dangling in front of him.
I rolled down my window and waved good-bye. He started to wave back and then stopped and looked confused.
If I were a believer in the theory of "rock bottom," this could very well have been it. As it stands, I am not a believer. Rock bottom is for sissies, I've hit rock bottom dozens of times. I've woken up next to a billy goat, for Christ sakes. You don't just give up!
The result of going home with someone just for the sake of getting back at a boyfriend only ended in disappointment with myself. This clearly wasn't the guy for me or any other human. And sometimes going through the roller coaster of emotions instead of trying to distract yourself from it helps the pain move along more quickly. Even if times are tough and you're enduring a terrible heartache, it's important to focus your anger on a vibrator, not another person.
SKID MARK
I WAS AT a little bar in Brentwood called El Dorado with Lydia. One of the reasons I like Lydia so much is that she's easy. The minute a glass of cheap chardonnay hits her collagen-injected lips, she is minutes away from being on her back. We're a great team.
This is also a girl who once sat me down to tell me she had joined a club called Sex Addicts Anonymous, and in response to my laughing said, "Chelsea, it's very serious. It's about being addicted to having sex with strangers."
"Isn't that just being a whore?" I asked her.
She went to a few meetings and then quit, once she realized that any sort of promiscuity was not going to be cured by fifty other people who were all trying to have sex with her.
At El Dorado, we came upon two cute boys whom we had met a couple months before when Lydia went home with one of their friends. She and the guy never spoke again, a true one-nighter. Apparently, Lydia's dream of getting gang-banged by an entire football team never came to fruition, so she at least wanted to frequent the same circle of guys. Then, whoever was videotaping these affairs would be able to piece it together like a real live gang bang. See? Dreams can come true.
More important, their friend Gavin was a babe. Beautiful. The kind of face no one could say was eh. He was about five-ten and lean but muscular, with black hair and bright blue eyes. He was Ricky Martin cute minus the bounce in his step. He was a bit standoffish and I smelled a challenge.
Since I hadn't had sex with anyone they knew (not that they were aware of, at least), I was deemed the sweet, naive "good girl." I took on my new role with conviction. I talked of the all-girls private school I never attended, the Peace Corps in Guatemala that taught me so much, and how, if I played my cards right, one day I might head up the American Red Cross. It was a winning performance. At one point this guy asked me if I was Christian. I nodded piously and told him that while I don't agree with Jesus on absolutely everything (like not having sex on the first night), I did believe you had to live a life full of morals and goodwill.
I excused myself to do a little mingling, mostly because I had gas and didn't want to let one loose in front of Gavin, but also because I didn't want Gavin to take me for granted. Minutes later I returned and continued to conversation-rape him about my fictitious life full of noble dreams, hopes, and ambitions. I told him how the year I spent volunteering at the Boys & Girls Club of Santa Monica had really helped put me in touch with the urban youth. "Tomorrow's future," was the term I used. I could not stop lying, throwing out one ridiculous story after another. I was having a blast.
"What is that smell?" he asked as he crinkled his face in disgust.
My fart had ricocheted its way back to me.
"Ugh, gross, somebody totally farted. That is disgusting. People have no manners," I said to him, shaking my head.
Then I got a little cocky. I made my father Cuban with an indecipherable lisp who couldn't read or write. I confessed to Gavin how hard it was to grow up with a father who traveled to the States by way of an inner tube, and that all the kids used to call me Elian Gonzales. This is when Gavin started to clue in, considering that Elian Gonzales had gained notoriety only the week before, and I was talking about a time twenty to twenty-five years ago.
My gas was really acting up, so I decided to cut my losses, go to the bathroom, and take a dump. Boy, did I ever. I made a mental note to mys
elf never to eat Mexican on weekends and came back to find Lydia making out with Gavin's friend.
She caught me by the back of my hair and whispered, or tried to, "We're going home with these guys."
I quickly pulled her aside and told her about my massive accomplishment in the restroom and that due to their lack of a bidet and toilet paper, I should probably go home and clean my butt. She reminded me that she had acted as my wingman on more than one occasion prior to this, and that a good friend will help you sleep around. Why we both needed to have sex on the same night was beyond me, but I was interested in seeing Gavin without his shirt on, so it didn't take much to twist my arm. Gavin seemed like someone who would have soap at his place, so I took comfort in the fact that at some point, my ass would be addressed.
We got back to Gavin's place and I immediately ran to the bathroom. I washed myself with soap but didn't feel right about wiping with one of his towels, so opted for toilet paper instead. Big mistake. I had used way too much water to clean myself and the toilet paper basically fell apart in my butt and got stuck there.
The real mistake turned out to be Gavin. He had a flat ass. One of the biggest turn-offs ever. I prefer a little something to hold on to. Guys can be on the skinny side, but a rear is a special thing to me. Gavin's ass wasn't just flat, though. He had a pancake in the place of an ass. A shovel, if you will.
What a disaster. The sex was okay, but for some reason I lost interest ... or consciousness. Whichever. I awoke to a blinding sunlight burning into the room at around seven A.M. This guy didn't even have blinds on his windows. This place was turning into some sort of torture chamber.
I climbed over him to get myself dressed so I could skedaddle, when there they were at the foot of the bed: my panties. Along with one giant skid mark straight down the center.
I immediately looked over to see if Gavin was awake, and when I saw he wasn't, I lunged toward the evidence. I grabbed my panties and did something I'm still not sure I understand. I threw them out his window into his backyard.
I scooped up the rest of my clothes and ran into the bathroom. As I got dressed, I tried to piece together the previous night's events, to get an idea if Gavin had seen my stain. I couldn't remember the exact moment my underwear came off. All I could recall were flashes of the two of us rolling around and, at one point, falling off the bed. I started going over different names I could adopt, other cities I could live in.
The door was cracked partway open and I heard footsteps coming toward me from the other bedroom. I peeked my head out.
Lydia was striding down the hallway into the bright, bright light, wearing nothing but black wool men's dress socks. Up to her knees. A series of thoughts ran through my head: Did Gavin and his friend live with their grandfather? Did Lydia have a threesome with their grandfather? Did she have an extra toe she was trying to hide?
There was dried mascara streaked down both sides of her cheeks and her hair was insane. She looked like a streetwalker. She explained the socks by saying she hadn't had a pedicure in two weeks and that her feet were starting to resemble something out of Jurassic Park. Then we heard a dog barking in the yard.
"Whose dog is that?" Lydia said.
Cujo's barking grew louder and louder. I heard a loud groan come from Gavin's room. That meant that contact was inevitable.
Lydia crept back to her bedroom, while I finished pulling on my outfit from the night before and raced to Lydia's door, screaming about my aunt's baby shower.
"Lydia! Lydia! I totally forgot! My aunt's shower is this morning. I'm late."
My aunt's tubes were tied about five years prior to that night, but I've always been good in a pinch. That is, until I saw Cujo running toward me with my panties in his mouth.
Gavin grabbed me from behind and started to nuzzle my neck as I stood in frozen horror, watching the dog approach. I just kept hoping that at least the soiled part of the panty had been digested. Please, Jesus, please.
"Oh, shit, your underwear!" Gavin exclaimed. Here it was. I either had to come clean or completely turn the tables.
So I lied.
"Ah, I don't think so, asshole, I'm wearing mine." Before he could check, I mustered up some tears and ran back to the bedroom, plowing into some serious acting skills.
"Oh, I get it, Mr. Man," I sobbed. "You just bring girl after girl after girl after girl after girl back to your place whenever you feel like it, is that it? What, and then you collect their panties? Should I take mine off and leave them here for your collection too? Would you like that?"
I didn't want to lose momentum, so I didn't wait for his response.
"I confided in you! I was a virgin up until a month ago! And I thought we had a real connection. You really are some piece of work, mister!"
"Listen, I have no idea whose panties those are. I've never seen them before in my life. I honestly thought they were yours."
Then Cujo wandered into the room chewing on the remains of my panties. I thought I was home free. Then I saw a piece of the stained underwear hanging from his lower jaw.
The look of disgust on Gavin's face was mortifying. "Ew," was all I heard on my way out.
I got in the car and slammed the door. As I was pulling away, I saw Lydia running out the front door in only her shirt and the grandpa socks. I was hoping she would have retained a little of my dignity, but apparently not. Clutching her jeans and shoes she screamed, "Wait for me!"
I slowed the car in order for her to jump in but refused to stop completely. She hit her head on the door as it was closing. "What is your fucking problem?" she said.
I told her the story, and soon the mascara stuck to her face was no longer dry. We were both hungry and decided anywhere public was out of the question. So we opted for McDonald's and as we pulled up, saw a sign that read, "The McRib is back."
"Back from where}" I asked.
"I dunno, but you better not have one," Lydia said.
It took me many sleepless nights to get over the humiliation of what had taken place. Where did I go wrong in life? I thought to myself over and over again. I would lie awake wondering how many pairs of underwear a Mexican goes through in a year. Once the initial mortification wore off, I realized that like many things in life, this was a gift. I wouldn't have to learn twice about avoiding Mexican food on the weekends. Who knows how many girls I've helped by sharing my story?
THUNDER
ONE OF MY girlfriends was getting married. This was becoming an annoying pattern. Sarah was my third girlfriend to get engaged within six months, and it was becoming clear to me that more and more people were going to go through with it. It's not the concept of marriage I have a problem with. I'd like to get married too. A couple times. It's the actual wedding that pisses me off.
The problem is that everyone who gets married seems to think that they are the first person in the entire universe to do it, and that the year leading up to the event revolves entirely around them. You have to throw them showers, bachelor-ette weekends, buy a bridesmaid dress, and then buy a ticket to some godforsaken town wherever they decide to drag you. If you're really unlucky, they'll ask you to recite a poem at their wedding. That's just what I want to do--monitor my drinking until I'm done with my public service announcement. And what do we get out of it, you ask? A dry piece of chicken and a roll in the hay with their hillbilly cousin. I could get that at home, thanks.
Then they have the audacity to go shopping and pick out their own gifts. I want to know who the first person was who said this was okay. After spending all that money on a bachelorette weekend, a shower, and often a flight across the country, they expect you to go to Williams Sonoma or Pottery Barn and do research? Then they send you a thank-you note applauding you for such a thoughtful gift. They're the one who picked it out! I always want to remind the person that absolutely no thought went into typing in a name and having a salad bowl come up.
I prefer giving cash. When I get married, I'm gonna register at Bank of America. Both times. I'm a Jew. I don't
mess around when it comes to money.
But it doesn't end after the wedding. Next they want you to come over and watch the wedding video. Like I really want to see footage of me passed out in a cake.
A wedding can really put a damper on a good friendship. Once people get married, they think they've got the whole world figured out. Immediately they think all their single friends are sad and pathetic.
"Oh, why don't you come over Friday? We're gonna have a bunch of people over and play some board games. Maybe you'll meet someone nice." What a hoot. My response is always the standard, "Unless you're playing Who's Hiding the Ecstasy?, I don't think I'm gonna be able to make it. I've got plans." Don't married people know that the last thing a single person wants to do on a Friday night is play a nutty game of Yahtzee? I'd rather take a bubble bath with my father.
And then there was Sarah's bachelorette party. Las Vegas and I have a special relationship. We never let each other down. Olympic Gardens is touted as the best strip club in Vegas, and for good reason. Eight of us went there on the very first night, and I will never forget the look on all of our faces when we saw our man. They announced his name, "THUNDER," and I thought, Excellent.
THUNDER was beautiful. This wasn't a Playgirl pinup type with long hair and a bowtie who could rival Fabio in a "Who's Grosser?" competition. This guy was Dylan McDermott good-looking, with an ass that could double as a shelf--by far the most beautiful body any of us had ever laid eyes on.
All the girls were drooling and signing up for personal dances with him onstage. It quickly became clear what had to be done. I had to take one for the team.
I had never seen all my girlfriends go goo-goo over the same guy. Most of them were in relationships and two were already married. Each one of us was in her own personal fantasy of what could be done with a body like that, and I knew I had to be the one to act on it. I saw Lydia and Ivory out of the corner of my eye start to drool and told them to step off. "He's mine."
My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands Page 5