Hickeys.
"Damn I'm so pissed," he said, "look at this. SIX hickeys. I mean seriously. That girl was cool, but that was pretty nuts."
I don't reply, my faculties firmly engrossed in the act keeping my Honda Civic from willfully ramming itself into, I don' t know, a minivan full of retarted children, unless you count "steely, acrid silence" and "choking the wheel" as responses.
"I mean seriously," he carries on again, apparently Meaning It Seriously, "what would YOU do if you woke up with six hickeys?"
I realized that I was being unwillingly drawn into conversation with the only other living being in the car. Slowly, gradually, my eyes turned independently to the source of this unsolicited outburst, my head following eerily, trailing behind like the dusty, hollow souls of the damned.
"I suppose I would think, 'hey, fuck yeah, i got laid last night,'" said I, the surly frost of Dante's Satan settling inconspicously, insidiuously, and poisonously onto my every word.
He thumbed his neck in the car mirror, obviously dissatisfied with this answer, and grumbled something else about Crazy Bitches making Six Hickeys in One Night, Gddmmt.
I kept driving.
The soul in question, my friends, is none other that what I have come to consider my best friend here in the glorious state of Texas, a position that shifts frequently as they consecutively move away or quietly stab me in the back. I have, as some folks are wont to do, also made the mistake of succumbing to that great White Elephant that stands between all male/female platonic partnerships, and that is the great, the inexorable, the inevitable "Why Aren't I Having Sex With You? At Least Once, I Mean Seriously?"
Actually I had made two mistakes: I had slept with a friend and coworker because I... like... to do such things and he has a cute superman curl down the front of his great big forehead. The other mistake was that I had elected to Give A Damn, as opposed to shag him till I became bored of him and his superman curl and never call him back.
Thus, giving a damn, I have come to care about this person, with whom I genuinely spend more time not shagging than I ever have spent shagging, who stays over, not always just to get some, with whom I have come to spend days on end of spare time. I also go well out of my way for him regularly, as he is broke, does not have a car, and his mom is crazy. I pick em good, don't I. I picks em good.
So here I am, in actual danger of falling for Loser McLoseystein, the first guy I have allowed myself to give two shits about in the past year, and here he is, sitting in my car recieving once again the favors of my transportation, this time to go Toobing, not only HAVING six hickeys that don't belong to me, but demanding to know my opinion of them.
What the fuck am I supposed to say? "Oh, that one's quite irregular, she must have slipped while attempting to devour your neck through her gaping suckerhole," or, "Look, those three there look like Mickey Mouse!"
I mean
seriously.
Naturally heckling arose from sources other than myself as well. Flanigan, sighting the blood-sore constellations and aware of the rumors encircling us, made appreciative, fratboy-esque hooting noises of congratulations. "Damn Mel," said he, "lookit those hickeys!"
"They're not mine," I said stonily, like denying a child born horribly disfigured. Six children born horribly disfigured.
Flanigan dropped his awkwardly angular jaw and said "seriously? YOU didn't make those?" as if, perhaps, one of them was cleverly in the shape of my signature.
"Nope."
The offending, hickied gentleman looked unruffled.
Throughout the day he must have proudly told the story of his hickeys three times, then wondered why on earth I was dissatisfied with him. I mean here I am, putting out rides, money, companionship and sweet nookie all the time, and here he is with six damn alien hickeys that he wants to TELL me about.
Now I know, fair reader, and especially amongst the mens of you, that you may say "well, you were not dating this fellow, can you really be mad?" Well, yes, I fucking can, but I am a lady of reason and I know, yes, it is true, that I really don't have any genuine recourse to fall back on. We are not dating, we were not dating, he is not a cheater. As however, though, it also came out in a game of never have I ever that he's slept with no less than FOUR women this month, I can say you know what? I don't need to be one out of four. I don't need to have other women rubbed in my face. I don't need to feel insufficient all the damn time. I don't need someone to keep me on their rotating rolodex of names to call for complacent vagina.
Thusly that night I was grumpy, then disparaging of myself, then angry and bitchy to him, then quietly and lonlely asleep. The next day I awoke and at my earliest convenience declared unto him the lines, now famous on LiveJournal,
"Oh by the way, we're not having sex anymore."
"Oh!" He replied, "so I'm getting cut off for this, eh?"
"Yep!" I said cheerfully. And I felt awesome.
I don't reply, my faculties firmly engrossed in the act keeping my Honda Civic from willfully ramming itself into, I don' t know, a minivan full of retarted children, unless you count "steely, acrid silence" and "choking the wheel" as responses.
"I mean seriously," he carries on again, apparently Meaning It Seriously, "what would YOU do if you woke up with six hickeys?"
I realized that I was being unwillingly drawn into conversation with the only other living being in the car. Slowly, gradually, my eyes turned independently to the source of this unsolicited outburst, my head following eerily, trailing behind like the dusty, hollow souls of the damned.
"I suppose I would think, 'hey, fuck yeah, i got laid last night,'" said I, the surly frost of Dante's Satan settling inconspicously, insidiuously, and poisonously onto my every word.
He thumbed his neck in the car mirror, obviously dissatisfied with this answer, and grumbled something else about Crazy Bitches making Six Hickeys in One Night, Gddmmt.
I kept driving.
The soul in question, my friends, is none other that what I have come to consider my best friend here in the glorious state of Texas, a position that shifts frequently as they consecutively move away or quietly stab me in the back. I have, as some folks are wont to do, also made the mistake of succumbing to that great White Elephant that stands between all male/female platonic partnerships, and that is the great, the inexorable, the inevitable "Why Aren't I Having Sex With You? At Least Once, I Mean Seriously?"
Actually I had made two mistakes: I had slept with a friend and coworker because I... like... to do such things and he has a cute superman curl down the front of his great big forehead. The other mistake was that I had elected to Give A Damn, as opposed to shag him till I became bored of him and his superman curl and never call him back.
Thus, giving a damn, I have come to care about this person, with whom I genuinely spend more time not shagging than I ever have spent shagging, who stays over, not always just to get some, with whom I have come to spend days on end of spare time. I also go well out of my way for him regularly, as he is broke, does not have a car, and his mom is crazy. I pick em good, don't I. I picks em good.
So here I am, in actual danger of falling for Loser McLoseystein, the first guy I have allowed myself to give two shits about in the past year, and here he is, sitting in my car recieving once again the favors of my transportation, this time to go Toobing, not only HAVING six hickeys that don't belong to me, but demanding to know my opinion of them.
What the fuck am I supposed to say? "Oh, that one's quite irregular, she must have slipped while attempting to devour your neck through her gaping suckerhole," or, "Look, those three there look like Mickey Mouse!"
I mean
seriously.
Naturally heckling arose from sources other than myself as well. Flanigan, sighting the blood-sore constellations and aware of the rumors encircling us, made appreciative, fratboy-esque hooting noises of congratulations. "Damn Mel," said he, "lookit those hickeys!"
"They're not mine," I said stonily, like denying a child born horribly disfigured. Six children born horribly disfigured.
Flanigan dropped his awkwardly angular jaw and said "seriously? YOU didn't make those?" as if, perhaps, one of them was cleverly in the shape of my signature.
"Nope."
The offending, hickied gentleman looked unruffled.
Throughout the day he must have proudly told the story of his hickeys three times, then wondered why on earth I was dissatisfied with him. I mean here I am, putting out rides, money, companionship and sweet nookie all the time, and here he is with six damn alien hickeys that he wants to TELL me about.
Now I know, fair reader, and especially amongst the mens of you, that you may say "well, you were not dating this fellow, can you really be mad?" Well, yes, I fucking can, but I am a lady of reason and I know, yes, it is true, that I really don't have any genuine recourse to fall back on. We are not dating, we were not dating, he is not a cheater. As however, though, it also came out in a game of never have I ever that he's slept with no less than FOUR women this month, I can say you know what? I don't need to be one out of four. I don't need to have other women rubbed in my face. I don't need to feel insufficient all the damn time. I don't need someone to keep me on their rotating rolodex of names to call for complacent vagina.
Thusly that night I was grumpy, then disparaging of myself, then angry and bitchy to him, then quietly and lonlely asleep. The next day I awoke and at my earliest convenience declared unto him the lines, now famous on LiveJournal,
"Oh by the way, we're not having sex anymore."
"Oh!" He replied, "so I'm getting cut off for this, eh?"
"Yep!" I said cheerfully. And I felt awesome.