I like to think I'm a badass. A short, blonde, adorable badass, but a badass nonetheless. Sometimes badassery is a conscious choice. Sometimes we just have to deal with the shit we're handed.
When asked about my relatively short, yet illustrious teaching career, I flat-out tell people, "My kids fucking loved me." And most of them, along with their parents, did. I had high standards, I wasn't afraid to push them to recognize their potential, and as I'm sure you've gathered, I'm just fun to be around. The slackers and their slacker parents didn't always love me, but whatever. We all know who was right in those situations.
A little over a year ago (so about six months after I got laid off?), I got pretty sick. The brilliant doctors never quite figured out what was wrong with me, but it was the start of some seriously un-fun times. Whatever was going on triggered flares of my chronic illness and it was thought that one of the medications I'd been taking for years could be making me sick, so away it went. It was time to find a replacement, and no matter how high I raised my eyebrows at my doctor, it was decided that the replacement would come in syringes instead of pills. Yaaaaay.
The drug company arranged for a nurse to come and show me how to inject myself, free of charge, and Nurse Shelly called me to set up the appointment. We chose a Wednesday afternoon, I cleared my schedule, and waited. She called a while before she was supposed to arrive, saying she was caught in traffic in the city, and we could either do it later or reschedule for a different day. I figured I might as well get it over with and told her to get here whenever she could.
She arrived and we took a seat at my kitchen table, where she presented me with a mountain of paperwork. As we were merrily going through it, her cell phone rang and she sighed. "I'm so sorry," she apologized as she looked at the screen. "It's one of my kids." I kept on signing my name on every other line for five million pages as she answered the phone. "This is not an emergency!" she said sternly. "No, I will not buy brownies for you on my way home!"
I don't know what it was about that brief conversation, but something started to click for me. I looked at her. I looked at her full name on her paperwork. "So...do you live around here?" I casually asked.
"Not too far away, I live in [town where I used to work]."
"What school do your kids go to?"
"[Schools where I taught]"
"...Did I teach your kids?"
Just like I had done moments before, she eyed me carefully and then looked down at the paperwork. "Oh! Miss Jentastic! I didn't recognize you!"
"Well, whenever you saw me, I was dressed nicely and wearing makeup and heels. When you come to my house to teach me how to stab myself, you get yoga pants and a ponytail."
From that moment on, Nurse Shelly and I were best friends. She filled me in on how her kids were doing (I'd taught the oldest two) and how much she wanted to kill her now 14-year-old son. "I don't know what happened to him. I'm going to snap one day and say, 'look, I don't think I can even have a reasonable conversation with you for the next three years'."
"You're not the first parent to tell me that. Middle school teachers get a lot of parents wondering where their sweet little babies went and where these monsters came from."
"Do you want him? You know how skinny he is, he doesn't take up much room. He'd fit in that closet right over there. He does eat a lot, though."
"That's really nice of you to offer, but I'm going to have to pass."
She then gave me a hilarious rendition of her son's phone conversations with girls and I asked how the rest of his little social group was doing. I was being honest with her when I told her that his class was a really great group of kids and I'd enjoyed working with them so very much and she told me that I must have had an infinite amount of patience (I got that a lot). Somewhere in there, we started talking about various methods of classroom management and discipline and she told me about the time the (scary strict) social studies teacher made her son's class write letters home about how they had misbehaved for a substitute teacher. I told her that I once had a class write letters of apology to the custodians after they left a mess, but it wasn't her son's class, as his class knew better. "I'm sure your kids told you, I don't mess around," I said. She had zero issues with how my colleague and I had handled these situations, which was so refreshing to hear, as it seems that more parents than not are the "Not my child!" type these days.
Amidst our shooting the shit, we did actually remember that she was there for a reason. After finally finishing up the paperwork, Nurse Shelly pulled out the practice kit. Inside were syringes filled with water and a little foam pad that was supposed to be like my skin. "It's nothing like your actual skin," she told me. "In fact, most patients say it's easier when you finally do it on yourself." Using a pencil to demonstrate, she showed me what I was going to do and the motion I would use. "It's a flick of the wrist. Just like throwing a dart. Go back to your college days, when you were throwing darts at the bars." Nurse Shelly apparently knows me better than I thought.
After flicking my wrist with the pencil, it was time for the practice syringes. I took one out of the pack, uncapped it...and immediately felt nauseous. I was expecting one of those little insulin-type pen things...but no. No. This was a needle. A huge fucking needle. "This whole thing is going in my leg?" I weakly asked.
"Yes. Sorry."
"It's a good thing I'm already sitting down...You don't have to tell your kids about this part."
A few more flicks into the foam and a little more gossip about her kids and their friends, and it was time. I rolled up my pant leg and she showed me how to make a little cushion of flesh for the needle to go into. She also warned me that a lot of patients said the medication burned going in the first time. Greeeeeat. Before I could take the real medication-loaded syringes out of the pack, she stopped me. "Twenty minutes," she said.
"What?"
"Twenty minutes. It takes everyone at least twenty minutes before they can do the real thing. Don't squeeze the syringe too tight. Your hand will go numb, because it's going to take twenty minutes. Keep both feet flat on the floor, because it's going to take twenty minutes. When you make your little mountain for the needle, don't squeeze too tight there, either. Because you'll lose circulation because it's going to take -"
"Twenty minutes. I got it."
"Right. So don't worry about it. I can start dinner, if you want. I've fed babies, I've walked the dog, all sorts of things while people sit there with the syringe. For twenty minutes."
"Eh, it's just a pasta night, I'll just start boiling the water after you leave. But thanks."
She nodded. "Now, you're also going to have little red dots all over your leg by the time we're done here."
"Why?"
"About fifteen minutes in, you're going to very gently put the needle to your skin...and pull it away. Then you'll test the waters again...and pull it away. But it's okay. Don't worry about it. Everyone takes twenty minutes."
"Well, then I guess we might as well get started."
I ripped open the little packet and took out the alcohol swab. I picked a place on top of my thigh that looked pretty good and rubbed it down. I uncapped the syringe, tried not to look at the giant fucking needle and made my little flesh mountain with my other hand.
"Close your eyes," Nurse Shelly instructed. "And take a deep breath."
I did as I was told. And then I opened my eyes and jammed that motherfucker right in there. Nurse Shelly gaped at me in shock and awe. "Uh...wow. Okay. Now just push it down."
"That wasn't so b...okay, it burns. Now it burns. Ow. Ow. Ow. It's burning. Okay, it's done. How do I take it out?"
And since this medication was so super-awesome, I got to do it all over again! Because each dose was separated into two syringes! Fan-freaking-tastic.
Once I was done, Nurse Shelly was still shaking her head and marveling at me. "You are the fastest person I have ever seen."
"I told you I don't mess around. Just ask your kids."
"I should take you with me to all my appointments." She started filling out one last bit of paperwork. "I'll just need to you to sign one more thing."
"Make sure that you write down that I took less than twenty minutes."
"Oh, I am. I definitely am."
"You can tell your kids that part."
We cleaned up, I signed everything else that needed to be signed, and we hugged each other like the best friends we now were before I walked her to the door. Even as she was leaving, she was still surprised at my lightning-fast speed. I am just that spectacular.
In reflecting upon this, I haven't decided if it's a good or a bad thing if your child's teacher will just fearlessly slam a loaded syringe into their leg without worrying about it first. I mean, it's not like it was filled with heroin or anything. It contained magic fluids that were going to allegedly make me feel better and it had to be done eventually, so I just went and got my shit done. It wasn't fun, it didn't tickle, but it is what it is. And maybe if I ever do go back to teaching (highly unlikely in the near future), word will get around. "Don't fuck around in her classroom. She's not afraid to stab herself with giant needles." That's right, kids. There will be no fucking around.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Evolution: Survival of the Shittiest
I am a huge fan of Judge Judy, and an unashamed and unapologetic one at that. For at least the past five years, 4:00 EST has always been "knitting and Judge Judy time", no matter what. I think it's what kept me sane in grad school, because regardless of how much pointless boring shit I had to get done, I would drop everything and take that hour for myself to recharge. I'm not going to sit here and ramble on at length about why she and the show are awesome and why I love it so much; I don't feel I need to argue my point here because it's my damn (co-)blog and my opinion is always right. I'll just sum it up by saying she says the things to people that everyone else WISHES they could say, but don't (probably in fear of getting punched in the face).
As awesome as the Shingaling is at smacking down the morons that appear before her, I'm not going to lie - the show is worrisome at times. Obviously, the people on the show represent only a small section of society, but still...watching some of these idiots is scary. And the most frightening part of it is the fact that an overwhelming majority of them have already reproduced. Many many times over, in some cases.
In general, every generation seems to think that theirs is the best and that the current one is fucking everything up and they get all wistful for the way "things used to be". I'm not sure if I completely agree with that. Part of me is (already) old and crochety and shakes my head while thinking "kids these days!" and waving a rake at them to get off my lawn while complaining that their music is too loud (or whatever it is old people do). The other part is well aware of the fact that there have been major fuck-ups in EVERY generation and that age has nothing to do with fuck-up-ery.
I think part of the reason for the wistfulness and the headshaking is that every single thing is more publicized these days. We, as a society, bitch and moan every time we can't find something to watch on our 300 cable channels, but then complain about the famewhores and other tools that appear on them. Which brings us back around to my beloved Judge Judy. Fifty years ago, these assholes still existed. They just acted like assholes in private and only a small handful of people witnessed their behavior, rather than the millions that can now.
Now here's a question: Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I really don't know. For me, I do get satisfaction at watching these people who have scammed their way through life, wasting resources and oxygen, finally have to listen to someone call them out on their shit. (Does it make a difference? Probably not. Though I do hope she follows through on her threats and reports some of these people to the IRS or their employers or whatnot.) As someone who taught in the public schools for a number of years, I've seen my fair share of people who NEVER SHOULD HAVE HAD KIDS and have had to bite my tongue practically off in order to avoid losing my job/the aforementioned punch to the face. I've also seen the kids who WILL be in court one day and it will be the very first time (if we're lucky) that they will have to be held accountable for their behavior and actions, because it sure as shit isn't happening now.
(In the interests of full disclosure, I will freely admit the obvious and say that one of the reasons I get so much enjoyment from watching the show is pure schadenfreude. Sure, I may have been laid off from my job and I may be a full-time student again in my late 20s and I may not own my own house yet and there are all sorts of other things that aren't perfect, but hey! I'm definitely better off than that fool on my TV screen!)
Even though we've established that idiots have been in our mix since the beginning of time, in thinking about it, I really think there has been a swing lately (like maybe the past couple decades). So many of the cases are exactly the same - girl meets boy, boy is a loser, girl buys him stuff and loans him money anyway, then is surprised when he doesn't pay her back. Bonus points if they had a baby (or several) together somewhere in there. Only half a bonus point if she already had kids and rather than saving money for them, she went out and spent it on her flava of the month.
(I realize I'm probably being a bit sexist here, and there are definitely times when the situation is reversed, when the man spent money on his dippy girlfriend and then she hightailed it out of there, but as I'm making a very poor attempt at being halfway science-y, we're talking about evolution here and I'm going to aim a lot at the womenfolk. Unfair as it may be, a lot, if not most, of matters concerning reproduction is still up to the ladies.)
I'll be blunt: What happened? Where did our standards go? Fifty years ago, if you were a lazy bum who refused to get a job and was still slumming it in your parents' basement, you were left there to rot. It was shameful, not something to be proud of. And you usually weren't rewarded for your inaction with sex, because in a time where not as many women worked outside the home, they sure didn't want to forever hitch their wagons to losers who couldn't provide for them.
Obviously, we've made great strides, and I for one am thrilled that I am not destined for a life of being a bored housewife, as I think I would go crazy. (And if you do want to be a housewife, super! We've achieved the right to choose for ourselves! Go us!) But somewhere along the way, something shifted. It almost seems that as our standards for ourselves got higher, the standards for those we allow to stick their dicks in us got lower.
Many men who do nothing but sit around a basement playing video games for 23 hours a day or hang out with their boys and drink their weight in beer on a nightly basis somehow don't seem to have much of a problem finding a woman willing to fuck them. (Now, there's nothing wrong with playing video games, as I've been known to spend many a weekend sitting on my squishy ass and zoning out to them for many consecutive hours...but I also get the rest of my shit done.) And not only will a woman fuck them, but sometimes she'll play fast and loose with her birth control, silently implying that it's okay to make another generation of bums.
Even though some days it seems like I've handed in my girlcard, I'm going to stand on my soapbox and call out to the rest of the sisterhood:
WE CAN DO BETTER.
Since the days of the cavemen and cavewomen, it has been up to us to seek out the very best sperm to fertilize our happy little eggs in order to ensure that our children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren are the very best they can be. Unfortunately, I think we lost a bit of that. The urge to have sex is a primal, biological drive, but some of us seem to have evolved into not caring so much about WHAT we're fucking.
The maternal instinct is still in us. We want to reach out and cuddle the poor, lost souls and help them to become better people and we want to be the strong woman supporting our superhero. That's all well and good, but unfortunately, some people just don't want to be helped. A lot of women genuinely believe that when dating a guy, they can change him (either into what they want him to be or for the general "better), but you know what? 99% of the time it just ain't gonna happen.
Can people change? Of course they can. But if a guy's had a life free of responsibility and is content with basically doing nothing with said life, a well-meaning girlfriend isn't going to change all that. She may nag him, but the droning can be tuned out if he gets to bang her enough. And then when a condom breaks or a pill is missed (assuming they were used in the first place) and the baby arrives, Mommy is sometimes shocked to find out that Daddy STILL doesn't want to take responsibility for anything in his life. Even something that looks nearly exactly like him.
So I return to my soapbox: Let's put an end to this. Let's stop and think about what we're doing to the future. Let's seriously evaluate our priorities when choosing that prime sperm and let's not reinforce bad behavior. If a guy is unmotivated to do anything even remotely productive...don't have sex with him. I'll give a nod to the primal urges, though, and say that if he's drop-dead gorgeous and his cock is just irresistible, sometimes it's useless to try to fight nature, but for Darwin's sake, use a condom AND spermicide AND take a pill AND do everything else you can possibly think of to make sure YOU DO NOT CREATE A GENETIC LOSER. I'll even flip it around for the men as well: if you do not like the idea of having a child with a particular woman...don't put your unsheathed penis anywhere near her.
We can do this. We can save the future. Judge Judy isn't going to be around forever to deal out the scathing remarks to the morons. Let's allow her to retire happily and become obsolete as we set the bar higher for ourselves.
(Note: I'm aware, of course, that in today's economy, a lot of people are struggling and jobs are hard to come by and plenty of people are still crashing with their parents and so on. That's fine. I myself have gone back to school since I couldn't find employment, but you'll notice that I am not rushing right out to go have a baby for lack of better things to do. What we're talking about here is motivation and the desire to be a productive member of society, and I think those are intangible things that aren't measured by salary or possessions. We should all know the difference between the type of people I've written about and the people who may currently be having a rough time of things, but are always actively trying to improve their situations. You have my permission to fuck the people in the latter category, but as always, birth control is MANDATORY until said situations do get better.)
As awesome as the Shingaling is at smacking down the morons that appear before her, I'm not going to lie - the show is worrisome at times. Obviously, the people on the show represent only a small section of society, but still...watching some of these idiots is scary. And the most frightening part of it is the fact that an overwhelming majority of them have already reproduced. Many many times over, in some cases.
In general, every generation seems to think that theirs is the best and that the current one is fucking everything up and they get all wistful for the way "things used to be". I'm not sure if I completely agree with that. Part of me is (already) old and crochety and shakes my head while thinking "kids these days!" and waving a rake at them to get off my lawn while complaining that their music is too loud (or whatever it is old people do). The other part is well aware of the fact that there have been major fuck-ups in EVERY generation and that age has nothing to do with fuck-up-ery.
 |
| "Things were way better when we were apes. And the rhythmic beating of sticks on rocks the kids are listening to these days? Yeesh." |
I think part of the reason for the wistfulness and the headshaking is that every single thing is more publicized these days. We, as a society, bitch and moan every time we can't find something to watch on our 300 cable channels, but then complain about the famewhores and other tools that appear on them. Which brings us back around to my beloved Judge Judy. Fifty years ago, these assholes still existed. They just acted like assholes in private and only a small handful of people witnessed their behavior, rather than the millions that can now.
Now here's a question: Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I really don't know. For me, I do get satisfaction at watching these people who have scammed their way through life, wasting resources and oxygen, finally have to listen to someone call them out on their shit. (Does it make a difference? Probably not. Though I do hope she follows through on her threats and reports some of these people to the IRS or their employers or whatnot.) As someone who taught in the public schools for a number of years, I've seen my fair share of people who NEVER SHOULD HAVE HAD KIDS and have had to bite my tongue practically off in order to avoid losing my job/the aforementioned punch to the face. I've also seen the kids who WILL be in court one day and it will be the very first time (if we're lucky) that they will have to be held accountable for their behavior and actions, because it sure as shit isn't happening now.
(In the interests of full disclosure, I will freely admit the obvious and say that one of the reasons I get so much enjoyment from watching the show is pure schadenfreude. Sure, I may have been laid off from my job and I may be a full-time student again in my late 20s and I may not own my own house yet and there are all sorts of other things that aren't perfect, but hey! I'm definitely better off than that fool on my TV screen!)
Even though we've established that idiots have been in our mix since the beginning of time, in thinking about it, I really think there has been a swing lately (like maybe the past couple decades). So many of the cases are exactly the same - girl meets boy, boy is a loser, girl buys him stuff and loans him money anyway, then is surprised when he doesn't pay her back. Bonus points if they had a baby (or several) together somewhere in there. Only half a bonus point if she already had kids and rather than saving money for them, she went out and spent it on her flava of the month.
(I realize I'm probably being a bit sexist here, and there are definitely times when the situation is reversed, when the man spent money on his dippy girlfriend and then she hightailed it out of there, but as I'm making a very poor attempt at being halfway science-y, we're talking about evolution here and I'm going to aim a lot at the womenfolk. Unfair as it may be, a lot, if not most, of matters concerning reproduction is still up to the ladies.)
I'll be blunt: What happened? Where did our standards go? Fifty years ago, if you were a lazy bum who refused to get a job and was still slumming it in your parents' basement, you were left there to rot. It was shameful, not something to be proud of. And you usually weren't rewarded for your inaction with sex, because in a time where not as many women worked outside the home, they sure didn't want to forever hitch their wagons to losers who couldn't provide for them.
Obviously, we've made great strides, and I for one am thrilled that I am not destined for a life of being a bored housewife, as I think I would go crazy. (And if you do want to be a housewife, super! We've achieved the right to choose for ourselves! Go us!) But somewhere along the way, something shifted. It almost seems that as our standards for ourselves got higher, the standards for those we allow to stick their dicks in us got lower.
Many men who do nothing but sit around a basement playing video games for 23 hours a day or hang out with their boys and drink their weight in beer on a nightly basis somehow don't seem to have much of a problem finding a woman willing to fuck them. (Now, there's nothing wrong with playing video games, as I've been known to spend many a weekend sitting on my squishy ass and zoning out to them for many consecutive hours...but I also get the rest of my shit done.) And not only will a woman fuck them, but sometimes she'll play fast and loose with her birth control, silently implying that it's okay to make another generation of bums.
 |
| "My ovaries are all a-quiver!" |
Even though some days it seems like I've handed in my girlcard, I'm going to stand on my soapbox and call out to the rest of the sisterhood:
WE CAN DO BETTER.
Since the days of the cavemen and cavewomen, it has been up to us to seek out the very best sperm to fertilize our happy little eggs in order to ensure that our children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren are the very best they can be. Unfortunately, I think we lost a bit of that. The urge to have sex is a primal, biological drive, but some of us seem to have evolved into not caring so much about WHAT we're fucking.
The maternal instinct is still in us. We want to reach out and cuddle the poor, lost souls and help them to become better people and we want to be the strong woman supporting our superhero. That's all well and good, but unfortunately, some people just don't want to be helped. A lot of women genuinely believe that when dating a guy, they can change him (either into what they want him to be or for the general "better), but you know what? 99% of the time it just ain't gonna happen.
Can people change? Of course they can. But if a guy's had a life free of responsibility and is content with basically doing nothing with said life, a well-meaning girlfriend isn't going to change all that. She may nag him, but the droning can be tuned out if he gets to bang her enough. And then when a condom breaks or a pill is missed (assuming they were used in the first place) and the baby arrives, Mommy is sometimes shocked to find out that Daddy STILL doesn't want to take responsibility for anything in his life. Even something that looks nearly exactly like him.
 |
| Irresponsibility makes babies cry MORE. |
So I return to my soapbox: Let's put an end to this. Let's stop and think about what we're doing to the future. Let's seriously evaluate our priorities when choosing that prime sperm and let's not reinforce bad behavior. If a guy is unmotivated to do anything even remotely productive...don't have sex with him. I'll give a nod to the primal urges, though, and say that if he's drop-dead gorgeous and his cock is just irresistible, sometimes it's useless to try to fight nature, but for Darwin's sake, use a condom AND spermicide AND take a pill AND do everything else you can possibly think of to make sure YOU DO NOT CREATE A GENETIC LOSER. I'll even flip it around for the men as well: if you do not like the idea of having a child with a particular woman...don't put your unsheathed penis anywhere near her.
We can do this. We can save the future. Judge Judy isn't going to be around forever to deal out the scathing remarks to the morons. Let's allow her to retire happily and become obsolete as we set the bar higher for ourselves.
(Note: I'm aware, of course, that in today's economy, a lot of people are struggling and jobs are hard to come by and plenty of people are still crashing with their parents and so on. That's fine. I myself have gone back to school since I couldn't find employment, but you'll notice that I am not rushing right out to go have a baby for lack of better things to do. What we're talking about here is motivation and the desire to be a productive member of society, and I think those are intangible things that aren't measured by salary or possessions. We should all know the difference between the type of people I've written about and the people who may currently be having a rough time of things, but are always actively trying to improve their situations. You have my permission to fuck the people in the latter category, but as always, birth control is MANDATORY until said situations do get better.)
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Small reflection on my non-alcoholism and marketing design.
Well, it's been a while since I updated. I'm sadly in the middle of exams (fucking finals), but I want a little rest and fun after a whole afternoon and early night checking time diagrams depending on binary inputs... Fun... well, not...
Anyway, I was thinking about something that happened a few days back. Last friday I was stressed as shit, so I thought "You know what, Myself? I WANT BOOZE TOO." while talking with my fellow blogger here (that has updated more often than I have lately).
So, I told her I'd be right back and then walked to the grocery store to get the vehicle of cerebral intoxication for the destruction of neurones we all know as... BEER...
I walked to the fridge in the corner I NEVER had visited. THE BOOZE CORNER.
My eyes scanned the whole two fridges trying to choose with what I was going to poison myself in a responsible way (Or so I say, so fuck you, naysayers!). Then, I saw a small cache of cans of beer that are a reddish purple. "That one!" I thought. I reached out to grab, but noticed they were grouped in packs of six. I stopped and thought "Wait... I don't have money to buy a whole six pack!" Then I asked a clerk "Hey, are the beer cans sold individually, or in packs of six?" The guy immediately gave me a weird look. "Individually." Well, the guy was right. I was out of the norm. It was actually my FIRST time buying beer. I have consumed it, but never bought it myself. Not being a regular of the local custom of drinking parties, I had remained oblivious to the ins and outs of the booze-drinking world.
I went back and picked two cans of beer. I brought them to the counter and paid for them. I came back home and prepared to drink them until... "Alcohol free". My eyes fixated themselves on the label...
"FUCK!! I'VE BEEN HAD!! BY MYSELF!!"
Then I started thinking "Hey, what's the probability of this happening!?" Pretty low, I guess, but since I don't really give a crap about a concrete number, I'm not going to attempt calculating it.
Anyhow, I remembered that event a few minutes ago (as of writing this). It's not just probability. The packaging is what drew me to buy those cans. They had a pretty, dark, reddish purple color. The normal booze was in shades of gray and light blues. The impact of the coloring DOES play an important role in how we select the products we buy. It's a marketing strategy that's studied with psychology, only I had never really paid ANY attention to it.
That means I'm a conscious (now) victim of those fucking psychologists! ARGH! =P
Classy Hussy: Patience is a Virtue, Part II
(In case the "Part II" didn't alert you to the fact that this is a continuation, go read this first.)
Part I left off at Super Bowl weekend during my senior year of college. All sorts of stuff not relevant to this story happens, and my posse and I graduate in May. (Except for Tojo, who got kicked out of his school for not going to class, that lazy shit.) Real life kicks off for most of us, and hey! It turns out that real life is not nearly as fun as college. Boo.
Somewhere in the passing year, I hear from Dr. ManDiva and/or facebook that PartyBoy and AntiPartyGirl have gotten engaged. Yay for them, I guess? They seemed a little on the young side, but my rule of thumb has always been "you should be of legal drinking age at your own wedding reception", and by that point, both of them passed that test, so I wasn't going to argue. We all merrily go about living our lives and sometime after the one-year anniversary of our graduation, I go out with Dr. ManDiva and some other members of the Hussy Posse.
"Did you hear about what happened with PartyBoy and AntiPartyGirl?" he asks me.
"I did not."
He fills me in on the gossip. (This shall be a vague summary because 1) this conversation took place a long time ago and 2) it didn't have anything to do with me directly, so I admit my attention was sort of in and out.) PartyBoy and AntiPartyGirl did, in fact, get engaged and started planning a lavish wedding. There were engagement parties and showers and all sorts of other celebrations, during which Dr. ManDiva and two of his friends dropped some serious cash on a gift, as even the cheapest thing on their wedding registry was expensive enough that it had to be split three ways. All was good, until it came time to choose a wedding date.
PartyBoy suggests a date within a few months. AntiPartyGirl hems and haws and doesn't want to commit to it. She suggests a date a year from PartyBoy's suggestion. He is not happy with this. They argue. He tells her that if she doesn't want to marry him in a few months, what's going to change her mind in a year? She agrees with his logic...and calls the whole thing off. Oops. That backfired slightly, methinks.
PartyBoy was devestated, and Dr. ManDiva and one of the gift sharers decide to take him out to a baseball game to cheer him up a week after the breakup. They go to the game, and he seems to be in better spirits...until they run into AntiPartyGirl. Who is there with another guy. A guy who she had always claimed was "just a friend". It was clear that he wasn't. Ouch. Ouch.
I resist the urge to call up NotBrendanFraser right then and there to bitch him out yet again. Why? By my logic, had he not pulled the pussyblock that night over a year ago, PartyBoy and I would have had a sublime night of ecstasy, which could have led to a dissolution of this doomed relationship in a number of ways. Sure, the breakup would have hurt either way, but breaking up with a girlfriend is a lot less painful than than cancelling a wedding and debating whether or not to return the very expensive gifts your friends and family have bought you. I maintain that by trying to help his friend and interfering, NotBrendanF actually did MORE damage in the long run. Moral of the story: the pussyblock is very rarely a good move. Don't do the pussyblock. Ever.
Anyway, I file this information away in my head for later use and more time passes. Dr. ManDiva comes home for Thanksgiving and starts planning a New Year's Eve party. It is decided that NotBrendanF and his brother will host the party in the house they now share in their hometown and as they live two hours away from most of us, we can crash there for the night.
The lightbulb goes on over my head and I ask Dr. ManDiva 1) if PartyBoy is going to be at the party and 2) if he's currently seeing anyone. He tells me yes and no, in that order. Win! Not long after this, the oh-so-helpful facebook alerts me to PartyBoy's birthday. I send him a cute little note wishing him a happy birthday, asking how he's been, and suggesting that it would be really great to see him at NotBrendanF's party. He happily responds and tells me that I should definitely go to the party and catch up with him. Hell yes, I will.
The Hussy Posse makes a traditional late-night run to the super-skeevy White Castle in the middle of the night and I fill the rest of them in on what's been going on. "Guys," I start, "I really want to hook up with this guy. I need a plan."
One of the other posse members, Scut, shakes his head at me and rolls his eyes. "Jen, what are you talking about?" he sighs in exasperation. "You're a woman and you're hot. You don't need a plan to get laid. You walk up to a man and say 'Have sex with me!' End of story."
He may have had a point. And I didn't have a better plan anyway, so all I could do was wait for New Year's to roll around. Roll around it did, and Dr. ManDiva, Tojo, and I pile into one of the Present-Sharer's car with our overnight gear and head back up to the frozen wastelands of upstate New York. Due to our longer travel time, we are the last to arrive at the party; PartyBoy is already there, along with some other guys and a random chick. (THE MANATEE WAS NOT PRESENT.) PartyBoy and I are excited to learn that our sizzling chemistry has not vanished in the year and a half since we've last seen each other and the game is on.
It is a party, after all, so we start out with some beer pong in the kitchen. Obviously, PartyBoy and I ensure we are on the same team and there is all sorts of inappropriate behavior.
"If you don't make this shot, I'm going to slap your ass!"
"...So am I supposed to be making the shot or not?"
The teasing continues, but there are other people around, so it doesn't progress much past the grabbing of asses. I notice the random chick casting a glance at PartyBoy, and I pull her aside to let her know "he's mine tonight, bitch". She concedes this and lets me know that she has her eye on NotBrendanF anyway. I'm almost interested in this, but I have better things to do.
Eventually, everyone else goes into the living room to drink more and smoke a little, and PartyBoy and I are left alone in the kitchen. I was only at this party for about an hour before his tongue was in my mouth. I guess Scut was right after all.
We sneak kisses here and there in between bouts of Guitar Hero and watching the ball drop at midnight (more kissing there, of course). Now that it's after midnight, it's time to REALLY get things started. NotBrendanF calls a cab and we (me, him, PartyBoy, Dr. ManDiva, Tojo, and the random chick) all cram inside in a vaguely not-legal situation. We get downtown to where the clubs are and as soon as we get out of the cab, Tojo, who is drunk and high and on his second shirt of the evening since he vomited on the first one, bolts. He went to college in this town (before the dumb shit flunked out) and he knows where we're going, so we decide not to go after him and head to our chosen club.
There's loud music and more alcohol and lots of grinding and groping and making out and it's a damn good time. Somewhere in there, PartyBoy tells me he has a confession: he hasn't seen any action since his breakup with AntiPartyGirl. I give him the "buh??" look and refuse to believe him, as he's still a total hottie. He tells me it's true. I tell him we're going to change that.
Hours pass and after an entertaining moment where some drunk guy tried to cut in front of us at the coat check line, made a scene, and got tossed out on his ass by the bouncer, we decide it's time to head back to the house. Calls to Tojo are unsuccessful, as his cell phone ran out of battery power, but somehow, he miraculously stumbles upon us as we're leaving the bar and helps us look for a cab. As you can imagine, it is difficult to find one, as it's New Year's Eve and it is snowing. PartyBoy and I frolic hand-in-hand for a bit and cuddle under the snowflakes, but eventually, Dr. ManDiva finds a cab with only one passenger inside, and we hijack it and probably scare the shit out of this poor stranger.
We get back to the house and Dr. ManDiva pulls me aside. He tells me that he has the keys to his younger brother's dorm (as his brother still went to school in that town) and was planning on sleeping there so he wouldn't have to sleep on the floor. He invites me back with him and offers me the "sure thing". I sincerely thank him for the offer, because we did have some awesome sex from time to time, but I tell him that I want to see this thing through with PartyBoy. He understands and takes off.
The rest of us change into our pajamas and spread out our sleeping bags. I set up near the edge of the room, PartyBoy is next to me, Tojo is next to him, and everyone else is scattered about on the floor and the couches. (NotBrendanF went to his bedroom, of course...the random chick joined him, but he told us the next day he turned her down because he had a girlfriend at the time.) Tojo, that dumb shit (are we sensing a recurring theme here?), realizes that he left his pillow at home, so he takes his plastic grocery bag of clothing and decides to rest his head on that.
The lights are turned out and PartyBoy and I resume our kissing and groping. Our plan is to wait until everyone else is asleep and then really get down to business. (And by "business", I obviously mean "sex".) We have fun passing the time, but every time we think that everyone else is asleep, we hear the rustle of plastic from Tojo flopping around on his makeshift pillow. Oh, Tojo. *sigh*
Frustrated, we eventually realize that our original plan is not going to work out (and why the thought of going into the other room and fucking on the beer pong table never crossed our minds, I'll never know) and we need to do something less...conspicuous. He fingers me and it's decent. I reach around for the unpierced penis and know that it's my turn to reciprocate.
I quietly duck my head under the sleeping bag and make sure that everything's out in the open and easily accessible. I take his dick in my hands, go to put it in my mouth...and as soon as the head passes my lips, he comes.
...
Wha?
Since I'm a Classy Hussy, I did the right thing and went through the motions until I was sure he was completely done. And since I'm classy, I didn't bring it to his attention. (I'm sure he didn't need me to point out that he only lasted about five seconds...you know, based on this and the Death By Blowjob story, I'm starting to think that my skills in this area really are far above average.) We wrap our arms around each other and get into the snuggling position; once I'm sure that he's asleep, I extract myself from his grip and scoot over a few inches to fall asleep on my own. Jentastic don't cuddle, yo. Don't fucking touch me when I'm trying to sleep.
The morning comes, we all go eat breakfast, watch a movie, and say our farewells. PartyBoy and I give each other a half-assed hug and pretend we're going to call each other in the next few weeks before he heads back to the city where he'd been living following graduation. Everything is always shared with the posse, so when Dr. ManDiva and I go out for sushi a few days later, I spill all the details. Up to and including the shortest blowjob ever. He finds this very interesting and ponders it for a few moments.
"Well, he did say that he hadn't gotten any in a long time," I remind him.
"True. And your boobs are a LOT bigger and nicer than AntiPartyGirl's," he points out.
"Also true. Anyway, I'm really glad we didn't actually have sex. That would have been an epic disappointment. I would have been very unfulfilled."
"I told you you should have come with me that night."
Even though it didn't work out the exact way I had planned, I still consider this a move into the "win" column. It took me almost two years, but I eventually finished what I started, dammit. So there you have it. I guess I am a far more patient person than I originally thought.
(a quick little coda to this story: The following year, Dr. ManDiva hosted the New Year's Eve party at his parents' vacation house. I was already dating Husband by that point and brought him along. Upon our arrival, I was interested to learn that PartyBoy's hotness factor had dropped considerably since the previous year's festivities. I guess living on nothing but take-out will do that to you. Anyway, he hit on me all night, tried to reminisce about the good time we had, and went to kiss me when Husband was in the bathroom. I pushed him away and told him he'd already had his chance and if he wanted me, he should have picked up the damn phone a year ago. I still think I win.)
Part I left off at Super Bowl weekend during my senior year of college. All sorts of stuff not relevant to this story happens, and my posse and I graduate in May. (Except for Tojo, who got kicked out of his school for not going to class, that lazy shit.) Real life kicks off for most of us, and hey! It turns out that real life is not nearly as fun as college. Boo.
Somewhere in the passing year, I hear from Dr. ManDiva and/or facebook that PartyBoy and AntiPartyGirl have gotten engaged. Yay for them, I guess? They seemed a little on the young side, but my rule of thumb has always been "you should be of legal drinking age at your own wedding reception", and by that point, both of them passed that test, so I wasn't going to argue. We all merrily go about living our lives and sometime after the one-year anniversary of our graduation, I go out with Dr. ManDiva and some other members of the Hussy Posse.
"Did you hear about what happened with PartyBoy and AntiPartyGirl?" he asks me.
"I did not."
He fills me in on the gossip. (This shall be a vague summary because 1) this conversation took place a long time ago and 2) it didn't have anything to do with me directly, so I admit my attention was sort of in and out.) PartyBoy and AntiPartyGirl did, in fact, get engaged and started planning a lavish wedding. There were engagement parties and showers and all sorts of other celebrations, during which Dr. ManDiva and two of his friends dropped some serious cash on a gift, as even the cheapest thing on their wedding registry was expensive enough that it had to be split three ways. All was good, until it came time to choose a wedding date.
PartyBoy suggests a date within a few months. AntiPartyGirl hems and haws and doesn't want to commit to it. She suggests a date a year from PartyBoy's suggestion. He is not happy with this. They argue. He tells her that if she doesn't want to marry him in a few months, what's going to change her mind in a year? She agrees with his logic...and calls the whole thing off. Oops. That backfired slightly, methinks.
PartyBoy was devestated, and Dr. ManDiva and one of the gift sharers decide to take him out to a baseball game to cheer him up a week after the breakup. They go to the game, and he seems to be in better spirits...until they run into AntiPartyGirl. Who is there with another guy. A guy who she had always claimed was "just a friend". It was clear that he wasn't. Ouch. Ouch.
I resist the urge to call up NotBrendanFraser right then and there to bitch him out yet again. Why? By my logic, had he not pulled the pussyblock that night over a year ago, PartyBoy and I would have had a sublime night of ecstasy, which could have led to a dissolution of this doomed relationship in a number of ways. Sure, the breakup would have hurt either way, but breaking up with a girlfriend is a lot less painful than than cancelling a wedding and debating whether or not to return the very expensive gifts your friends and family have bought you. I maintain that by trying to help his friend and interfering, NotBrendanF actually did MORE damage in the long run. Moral of the story: the pussyblock is very rarely a good move. Don't do the pussyblock. Ever.
Anyway, I file this information away in my head for later use and more time passes. Dr. ManDiva comes home for Thanksgiving and starts planning a New Year's Eve party. It is decided that NotBrendanF and his brother will host the party in the house they now share in their hometown and as they live two hours away from most of us, we can crash there for the night.
The lightbulb goes on over my head and I ask Dr. ManDiva 1) if PartyBoy is going to be at the party and 2) if he's currently seeing anyone. He tells me yes and no, in that order. Win! Not long after this, the oh-so-helpful facebook alerts me to PartyBoy's birthday. I send him a cute little note wishing him a happy birthday, asking how he's been, and suggesting that it would be really great to see him at NotBrendanF's party. He happily responds and tells me that I should definitely go to the party and catch up with him. Hell yes, I will.
The Hussy Posse makes a traditional late-night run to the super-skeevy White Castle in the middle of the night and I fill the rest of them in on what's been going on. "Guys," I start, "I really want to hook up with this guy. I need a plan."
One of the other posse members, Scut, shakes his head at me and rolls his eyes. "Jen, what are you talking about?" he sighs in exasperation. "You're a woman and you're hot. You don't need a plan to get laid. You walk up to a man and say 'Have sex with me!' End of story."
He may have had a point. And I didn't have a better plan anyway, so all I could do was wait for New Year's to roll around. Roll around it did, and Dr. ManDiva, Tojo, and I pile into one of the Present-Sharer's car with our overnight gear and head back up to the frozen wastelands of upstate New York. Due to our longer travel time, we are the last to arrive at the party; PartyBoy is already there, along with some other guys and a random chick. (THE MANATEE WAS NOT PRESENT.) PartyBoy and I are excited to learn that our sizzling chemistry has not vanished in the year and a half since we've last seen each other and the game is on.
It is a party, after all, so we start out with some beer pong in the kitchen. Obviously, PartyBoy and I ensure we are on the same team and there is all sorts of inappropriate behavior.
"If you don't make this shot, I'm going to slap your ass!"
"...So am I supposed to be making the shot or not?"
The teasing continues, but there are other people around, so it doesn't progress much past the grabbing of asses. I notice the random chick casting a glance at PartyBoy, and I pull her aside to let her know "he's mine tonight, bitch". She concedes this and lets me know that she has her eye on NotBrendanF anyway. I'm almost interested in this, but I have better things to do.
Eventually, everyone else goes into the living room to drink more and smoke a little, and PartyBoy and I are left alone in the kitchen. I was only at this party for about an hour before his tongue was in my mouth. I guess Scut was right after all.
We sneak kisses here and there in between bouts of Guitar Hero and watching the ball drop at midnight (more kissing there, of course). Now that it's after midnight, it's time to REALLY get things started. NotBrendanF calls a cab and we (me, him, PartyBoy, Dr. ManDiva, Tojo, and the random chick) all cram inside in a vaguely not-legal situation. We get downtown to where the clubs are and as soon as we get out of the cab, Tojo, who is drunk and high and on his second shirt of the evening since he vomited on the first one, bolts. He went to college in this town (before the dumb shit flunked out) and he knows where we're going, so we decide not to go after him and head to our chosen club.
There's loud music and more alcohol and lots of grinding and groping and making out and it's a damn good time. Somewhere in there, PartyBoy tells me he has a confession: he hasn't seen any action since his breakup with AntiPartyGirl. I give him the "buh??" look and refuse to believe him, as he's still a total hottie. He tells me it's true. I tell him we're going to change that.
Hours pass and after an entertaining moment where some drunk guy tried to cut in front of us at the coat check line, made a scene, and got tossed out on his ass by the bouncer, we decide it's time to head back to the house. Calls to Tojo are unsuccessful, as his cell phone ran out of battery power, but somehow, he miraculously stumbles upon us as we're leaving the bar and helps us look for a cab. As you can imagine, it is difficult to find one, as it's New Year's Eve and it is snowing. PartyBoy and I frolic hand-in-hand for a bit and cuddle under the snowflakes, but eventually, Dr. ManDiva finds a cab with only one passenger inside, and we hijack it and probably scare the shit out of this poor stranger.
We get back to the house and Dr. ManDiva pulls me aside. He tells me that he has the keys to his younger brother's dorm (as his brother still went to school in that town) and was planning on sleeping there so he wouldn't have to sleep on the floor. He invites me back with him and offers me the "sure thing". I sincerely thank him for the offer, because we did have some awesome sex from time to time, but I tell him that I want to see this thing through with PartyBoy. He understands and takes off.
The rest of us change into our pajamas and spread out our sleeping bags. I set up near the edge of the room, PartyBoy is next to me, Tojo is next to him, and everyone else is scattered about on the floor and the couches. (NotBrendanF went to his bedroom, of course...the random chick joined him, but he told us the next day he turned her down because he had a girlfriend at the time.) Tojo, that dumb shit (are we sensing a recurring theme here?), realizes that he left his pillow at home, so he takes his plastic grocery bag of clothing and decides to rest his head on that.
The lights are turned out and PartyBoy and I resume our kissing and groping. Our plan is to wait until everyone else is asleep and then really get down to business. (And by "business", I obviously mean "sex".) We have fun passing the time, but every time we think that everyone else is asleep, we hear the rustle of plastic from Tojo flopping around on his makeshift pillow. Oh, Tojo. *sigh*
Frustrated, we eventually realize that our original plan is not going to work out (and why the thought of going into the other room and fucking on the beer pong table never crossed our minds, I'll never know) and we need to do something less...conspicuous. He fingers me and it's decent. I reach around for the unpierced penis and know that it's my turn to reciprocate.
I quietly duck my head under the sleeping bag and make sure that everything's out in the open and easily accessible. I take his dick in my hands, go to put it in my mouth...and as soon as the head passes my lips, he comes.
...
Wha?
Since I'm a Classy Hussy, I did the right thing and went through the motions until I was sure he was completely done. And since I'm classy, I didn't bring it to his attention. (I'm sure he didn't need me to point out that he only lasted about five seconds...you know, based on this and the Death By Blowjob story, I'm starting to think that my skills in this area really are far above average.) We wrap our arms around each other and get into the snuggling position; once I'm sure that he's asleep, I extract myself from his grip and scoot over a few inches to fall asleep on my own. Jentastic don't cuddle, yo. Don't fucking touch me when I'm trying to sleep.
The morning comes, we all go eat breakfast, watch a movie, and say our farewells. PartyBoy and I give each other a half-assed hug and pretend we're going to call each other in the next few weeks before he heads back to the city where he'd been living following graduation. Everything is always shared with the posse, so when Dr. ManDiva and I go out for sushi a few days later, I spill all the details. Up to and including the shortest blowjob ever. He finds this very interesting and ponders it for a few moments.
"Well, he did say that he hadn't gotten any in a long time," I remind him.
"True. And your boobs are a LOT bigger and nicer than AntiPartyGirl's," he points out.
"Also true. Anyway, I'm really glad we didn't actually have sex. That would have been an epic disappointment. I would have been very unfulfilled."
"I told you you should have come with me that night."
Even though it didn't work out the exact way I had planned, I still consider this a move into the "win" column. It took me almost two years, but I eventually finished what I started, dammit. So there you have it. I guess I am a far more patient person than I originally thought.
(a quick little coda to this story: The following year, Dr. ManDiva hosted the New Year's Eve party at his parents' vacation house. I was already dating Husband by that point and brought him along. Upon our arrival, I was interested to learn that PartyBoy's hotness factor had dropped considerably since the previous year's festivities. I guess living on nothing but take-out will do that to you. Anyway, he hit on me all night, tried to reminisce about the good time we had, and went to kiss me when Husband was in the bathroom. I pushed him away and told him he'd already had his chance and if he wanted me, he should have picked up the damn phone a year ago. I still think I win.)
Monday, December 5, 2011
Classy Hussy: Patience is a Virtue, Part I
I always claim to be an impatient person, but when I really sit down to think about it, I don't think that's really the case. (I mean, I was a teacher for five years, and some of that time was spent in elementary schools. Maybe I don't give myself enough credit.) Sometimes things just take a while to happen. Sometimes it's a long while.
This lovely tale starts not long after the previous Classy Hussy story, so make sure you're still picturing my smokin' hot college senior self (as opposed to my current smokin' hot self). That year, I wound up living in an old shithole of a house with Dr. ManDiva, who is one of my closest friends, and three of his friends/roommates - NotBrendanFraser (the resemblance is uncanny!), the Manatee, and someone who is irrelevant. Our house was sort of a crazy place - NotBrendanF didn't want to be in an official "relationship" with the Manatee, but she still let him fuck her every night, and Dr. ManDiva and I fooled around whenever there was a lack of better things to do and kept it a secret, and the irrelevant one would sometimes go out to bang random gangstas, but that's irrelevant. Dr. ManDiva later said that had he known ahead of time what our house was going to be like, he would have called up MTV to alert them to their new reality show.
Somewhere near the beginning of the school year, I was introduced to the friends of my friend and new roommates. Enter PartyBoy: as his pseudonym indicates, PartyBoy (who was pretty damn hot) was known for partying hard. Or at least he USED to party hard. By the time I met him, he was dating a girl we shall call...I don't know, AntiPartyGirl. (*shrug?*) AntiPartyGirl put a serious leash on PartyBoy; he had to massively cut down on his drinking and other herbal refreshments, take out his various piercings (yes, including...that one), and stop hooking up with chicks that weren't her. Many people resented AntiPartyGirl for allegedly killing PartyBoy's good time; however, as I never knew his previous incarnation, I didn't have a problem with her. Since I'm a good person (or can at least pretend to be), I was always nice to her and made sure to talk to her when she actually made an appearance at PartyBoy & Co.'s house parties; these acts of kindness did not go unnoticed by PartyBoy.
One Friday night in January, NotBrendanF and the Manatee wanted to go out to a local bar and I decided to join them. PartyBoy wound up meeting us there and we all started off with a pitcher of beer. While the Manatee was bitching and moaning about whatever it was that had annoyed her that day into the ear of poor NotBrendanF, PartyBoy and I start talking over our beers. He eventually confesses to me that he doesn't know if he's really happy with AntiPartyGirl and just feels they don't have a lot in common, blah blah blah. I've neglected to mention up until this point that I've had a boyfriend this whole time, but that relationship was nearly completely dead by January; I tell him that I understand, that I just feel like I'm at a totally different stage in life from my (younger) boyfriend and that we just don't click the way we used to. Cue the consumption of more beers and mutual venting about how "they just don't UNDERSTAAAAAAAAAAAND us!"
NotBrendanF and the Manatee were around us somewhere, but we hadn't really been paying attention to them. The Manatee starts whining to NotBrendanF about how she wants to dance! and he should take her out on the dance floor! because she really wants to dance! and come on, let's dance! NotBrendanF tries to get out of it by claiming he doesn't want to leave the two of us alone, but the Manatee will have none of this and says, "PartyBoy and Jen can just dance together!" ...Okay. Sure.
We get out there and do the usual clubbing thing - sort of bounce around to the music while the people who actually know what they're doing head to the center of the dance floor and get their groove on, or whatever the cool kids are calling it these days. As the night progresses, the music slows down and PartyBoy and I are getting rather cozy on the dance floor. We're pressed up against each other, he's stroking my hair and tickling the back of my neck, and we're whispering all sorts of mildly suggestive things into each other's ears. NotBrendanF sees all of this, but he has his hands full with the Manatee, so he can't really do much.
Last call is called and we leave the bar. PartyBoy lives much closer to the bar than the rest of us and he invites me back there. I mentally curse myself for not shaving my legs that morning, but whatever, it's winter in upstate New York and we have a nice buzz going anyway, it's a minor detail. NotBrendanF senses some hanky panky about to go down, and he jumps in and says he'll come with us. The Manatee, however, is completely oblivious to everything and starts mooing like the sea cow that she is that she wants a slice of pizza and NotBrendanF has to take her! Because she wants pizza! Like, really wants it! Now! As we've already established, he wasn't really all that good at saying no to her (this, luckily, did change in a few months) and he goes with her to the pizza place. PartyBoy and I make our escape to his place, knowing that after last call, the pizza place is always mobbed.
In an unusually cruel twist of fate, there was no line at the pizza place (for the first time in...well, ever) and the other two are back with us before anything happens. We hang out for a few minutes and then the Manatee starts bleating that she's ready to go home (GOD, she was annoying). As I wouldn't want to walk home by myself, I start openly debating whether or not I want to leave with them. PartyBoy invites me to stay and his subtext is clear. NotBrendanF, however, tells me that I want to leave. I don't believe him. He grabs my purse, shoves it into my hands, puts my jacket on my shoulders, and pushes me out the door. I manage to get out a sulky farewell to PartyBoy before I am led back out to the street.
For the entire walk home (maybe only about ten minutes or so), I loudly berate NotBrendanF. Seriously, I didn't let up the whole time. Even when he was urinating onto the side of some random house, I was bitching him out. (The Manatee was still oblivious to the rest of the world.) Somewhere in this lengthy rant, we establish that the female equivalent of the "cockblock" is the "pussyblock" and the name sticks. "You pussyblocked me! I can't believe you did the pussyblock, you asshole!" I continue to yell.
We get home, NotBrendanF puts the Manatee to bed so we don't have to deal with her, and then we sit down to have a serious conversation. He explains to me that while he was friends with both me and PartyBoy, he'd known PartyBoy longer and was afraid that he'd really regret cheating on AntiPartyGirl the next day. He says he wanted to be a good friend and prevent any bad feelings if he possibly could, which I could understand and respect...to a certain point. I remind him that I had not had sex in close to three months (I didn't count the Death By Blowjob incident, as I didn't get that much out of it, and I hadn't started sleeping with Dr. ManDiva at this point) and he was in a position where he was having sex every single night if he wanted it, so it wasn't really fair of him to deprive me of that. Likewise, he understood and respected my viewpoint.
Since we were mad classy in our shithole of a house, we come up with a solution to our problems: the following day (Saturday), we would each present our case to Dr. ManDiva (who wasn't around for this because he'd gone to some other college town to bang some random girl), and he, acting as the Kitchen Judge, would decide who was right and who was wrong. We stipulated ahead of time that if Judge ManDiva ruled in NotBrendanF's favor, I would only be allowed to be mad at him for the rest of Saturday. If I won the case, I would be allowed to be mad at him for Saturday, Monday, and Tuesday until 10:00PM, because that's when "Law & Order: Special Victims Unit" was on. I agreed to the terms that I would not be allowed to be mad at him in any circumstance on Sunday, because it was Super Bowl Sunday, and ergo, it was a day of peace.
Dr. ManDiva gets home Saturday morning from sticking his dick into that random girl from whatever town, and takes his place on top of the kitchen counters, calling the Kitchen Court to order. We each present our side and he seriously contemplates the situation (as in, for almost a full minute). His noble ruling is that we were both right and we were both wrong: NotBrendanF was trying to be a good friend, which is commendable, but as someone who was receiving sex on a daily basis, he was in no position to honorably perform the pussyblock. In a very fair compromise, the judgment decrees that I would be allowed to be mad for the rest of Saturday and Monday.
So I was a bit disappointed at not getting to fool around with the tantalizingly hot PartyBoy. Oh well, I thought, I guess it just wasn't meant to be. However, to make up for the bizarre circumstances regarding the lack of a pizza line, the universe would eventually smile upon me...
This lovely tale starts not long after the previous Classy Hussy story, so make sure you're still picturing my smokin' hot college senior self (as opposed to my current smokin' hot self). That year, I wound up living in an old shithole of a house with Dr. ManDiva, who is one of my closest friends, and three of his friends/roommates - NotBrendanFraser (the resemblance is uncanny!), the Manatee, and someone who is irrelevant. Our house was sort of a crazy place - NotBrendanF didn't want to be in an official "relationship" with the Manatee, but she still let him fuck her every night, and Dr. ManDiva and I fooled around whenever there was a lack of better things to do and kept it a secret, and the irrelevant one would sometimes go out to bang random gangstas, but that's irrelevant. Dr. ManDiva later said that had he known ahead of time what our house was going to be like, he would have called up MTV to alert them to their new reality show.
Somewhere near the beginning of the school year, I was introduced to the friends of my friend and new roommates. Enter PartyBoy: as his pseudonym indicates, PartyBoy (who was pretty damn hot) was known for partying hard. Or at least he USED to party hard. By the time I met him, he was dating a girl we shall call...I don't know, AntiPartyGirl. (*shrug?*) AntiPartyGirl put a serious leash on PartyBoy; he had to massively cut down on his drinking and other herbal refreshments, take out his various piercings (yes, including...that one), and stop hooking up with chicks that weren't her. Many people resented AntiPartyGirl for allegedly killing PartyBoy's good time; however, as I never knew his previous incarnation, I didn't have a problem with her. Since I'm a good person (or can at least pretend to be), I was always nice to her and made sure to talk to her when she actually made an appearance at PartyBoy & Co.'s house parties; these acts of kindness did not go unnoticed by PartyBoy.
One Friday night in January, NotBrendanF and the Manatee wanted to go out to a local bar and I decided to join them. PartyBoy wound up meeting us there and we all started off with a pitcher of beer. While the Manatee was bitching and moaning about whatever it was that had annoyed her that day into the ear of poor NotBrendanF, PartyBoy and I start talking over our beers. He eventually confesses to me that he doesn't know if he's really happy with AntiPartyGirl and just feels they don't have a lot in common, blah blah blah. I've neglected to mention up until this point that I've had a boyfriend this whole time, but that relationship was nearly completely dead by January; I tell him that I understand, that I just feel like I'm at a totally different stage in life from my (younger) boyfriend and that we just don't click the way we used to. Cue the consumption of more beers and mutual venting about how "they just don't UNDERSTAAAAAAAAAAAND us!"
NotBrendanF and the Manatee were around us somewhere, but we hadn't really been paying attention to them. The Manatee starts whining to NotBrendanF about how she wants to dance! and he should take her out on the dance floor! because she really wants to dance! and come on, let's dance! NotBrendanF tries to get out of it by claiming he doesn't want to leave the two of us alone, but the Manatee will have none of this and says, "PartyBoy and Jen can just dance together!" ...Okay. Sure.
We get out there and do the usual clubbing thing - sort of bounce around to the music while the people who actually know what they're doing head to the center of the dance floor and get their groove on, or whatever the cool kids are calling it these days. As the night progresses, the music slows down and PartyBoy and I are getting rather cozy on the dance floor. We're pressed up against each other, he's stroking my hair and tickling the back of my neck, and we're whispering all sorts of mildly suggestive things into each other's ears. NotBrendanF sees all of this, but he has his hands full with the Manatee, so he can't really do much.
Last call is called and we leave the bar. PartyBoy lives much closer to the bar than the rest of us and he invites me back there. I mentally curse myself for not shaving my legs that morning, but whatever, it's winter in upstate New York and we have a nice buzz going anyway, it's a minor detail. NotBrendanF senses some hanky panky about to go down, and he jumps in and says he'll come with us. The Manatee, however, is completely oblivious to everything and starts mooing like the sea cow that she is that she wants a slice of pizza and NotBrendanF has to take her! Because she wants pizza! Like, really wants it! Now! As we've already established, he wasn't really all that good at saying no to her (this, luckily, did change in a few months) and he goes with her to the pizza place. PartyBoy and I make our escape to his place, knowing that after last call, the pizza place is always mobbed.
In an unusually cruel twist of fate, there was no line at the pizza place (for the first time in...well, ever) and the other two are back with us before anything happens. We hang out for a few minutes and then the Manatee starts bleating that she's ready to go home (GOD, she was annoying). As I wouldn't want to walk home by myself, I start openly debating whether or not I want to leave with them. PartyBoy invites me to stay and his subtext is clear. NotBrendanF, however, tells me that I want to leave. I don't believe him. He grabs my purse, shoves it into my hands, puts my jacket on my shoulders, and pushes me out the door. I manage to get out a sulky farewell to PartyBoy before I am led back out to the street.
For the entire walk home (maybe only about ten minutes or so), I loudly berate NotBrendanF. Seriously, I didn't let up the whole time. Even when he was urinating onto the side of some random house, I was bitching him out. (The Manatee was still oblivious to the rest of the world.) Somewhere in this lengthy rant, we establish that the female equivalent of the "cockblock" is the "pussyblock" and the name sticks. "You pussyblocked me! I can't believe you did the pussyblock, you asshole!" I continue to yell.
We get home, NotBrendanF puts the Manatee to bed so we don't have to deal with her, and then we sit down to have a serious conversation. He explains to me that while he was friends with both me and PartyBoy, he'd known PartyBoy longer and was afraid that he'd really regret cheating on AntiPartyGirl the next day. He says he wanted to be a good friend and prevent any bad feelings if he possibly could, which I could understand and respect...to a certain point. I remind him that I had not had sex in close to three months (I didn't count the Death By Blowjob incident, as I didn't get that much out of it, and I hadn't started sleeping with Dr. ManDiva at this point) and he was in a position where he was having sex every single night if he wanted it, so it wasn't really fair of him to deprive me of that. Likewise, he understood and respected my viewpoint.
Since we were mad classy in our shithole of a house, we come up with a solution to our problems: the following day (Saturday), we would each present our case to Dr. ManDiva (who wasn't around for this because he'd gone to some other college town to bang some random girl), and he, acting as the Kitchen Judge, would decide who was right and who was wrong. We stipulated ahead of time that if Judge ManDiva ruled in NotBrendanF's favor, I would only be allowed to be mad at him for the rest of Saturday. If I won the case, I would be allowed to be mad at him for Saturday, Monday, and Tuesday until 10:00PM, because that's when "Law & Order: Special Victims Unit" was on. I agreed to the terms that I would not be allowed to be mad at him in any circumstance on Sunday, because it was Super Bowl Sunday, and ergo, it was a day of peace.
Dr. ManDiva gets home Saturday morning from sticking his dick into that random girl from whatever town, and takes his place on top of the kitchen counters, calling the Kitchen Court to order. We each present our side and he seriously contemplates the situation (as in, for almost a full minute). His noble ruling is that we were both right and we were both wrong: NotBrendanF was trying to be a good friend, which is commendable, but as someone who was receiving sex on a daily basis, he was in no position to honorably perform the pussyblock. In a very fair compromise, the judgment decrees that I would be allowed to be mad for the rest of Saturday and Monday.
So I was a bit disappointed at not getting to fool around with the tantalizingly hot PartyBoy. Oh well, I thought, I guess it just wasn't meant to be. However, to make up for the bizarre circumstances regarding the lack of a pizza line, the universe would eventually smile upon me...
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)