sluts superpower.
The first time I had unprotected sex I learned French.
No that's not a metaphor and it's not the story of man whispering sweet French nothing's in my ear.
I should back up.
In college I dated a man named John, John, not Jean but oh god how he wished it was Jean, he would introduce himself slightly whispering a pronunciation somewhere between the two and hope it caught on, but to his dismay, he was simply an all American John.
John, was a Francofile, I've long since forgotten what piqued his obsession with France, but for a few months I was along for the ride, French dinners, French films, daydreams of trips to the French countryside where we could sunbath naked and drink wine with every meal, it wasn't my obsession but it wasn't all bad.
Back to the night in question, or rather the next morning. A bottle of wine over dinner topped off with warm beer from the unexpected party johns roommates threw meant I didn't remember the actual night too well. Waking up in Johns bed with a splitting headache and feeling unusually sticky between my legs I was however able to remember an unfruitful search for a condom and my drunken instance that "it'll be fine".
Fuck.
Well like a good modern girl I was on the pill, but I never went without condoms and I was angry at myself for the slip up, to make matters worse John walked in singing some inane song about pigs going to the butchers shop.
I tried to convince myself I was still asleep, I pulled the pillow over my head and prayed I would fall asleep and wake up feeling human. The pillow could not fully block the sun or muffle the song.
"Enough with the fucking pigs" I grumbled throwing the pillow to the end of the bed and sitting up.
"What?" John said looking startled
"Stop singing, I have a splitting headache, I don't know why your so chipper"
"You know I don't get hangovers, I didn't think you knew French?"
"What?"
I felt like I missed a step
"I don't, a bit of Spanish but that's it"
"How did you know the song was about pigs"
Had the song been in French? I thought about bit for a second, I suppose it had been.
"I dunno, you must've told me, or I picked up the word for pig, your rubbing off on me babe"
"Hmm, anyway I have coffee and croissants in the kitchen if you would like breakfast"
"Ugh, no. I don't want to think about food, anyway I need to go home and take a shower"
We said our good byes and made plans for a few days later. Walking back to my apartment I couldn't help thinking of the song. How did I know what it was about? My explanation made sense, but didn't really ring true, I didn't only pick up the word pig, I knew the whole story, the farmer fattening the pigs up and going for a ride to meet the butcher, I found myself softly singing it. It's one of those horribly catchy kids songs you find yourself singing days after hearing it. How could I know this?
Just from hearing John sing it? That didn't really make any sense.
I got home showered and caught a 15 minute nap before running to my first (blessedly late) class of the day, and the whole incident got forgotten in the haze of the hangover.
Until the pattern began to emerge.
No that's not a metaphor and it's not the story of man whispering sweet French nothing's in my ear.
I should back up.
In college I dated a man named John, John, not Jean but oh god how he wished it was Jean, he would introduce himself slightly whispering a pronunciation somewhere between the two and hope it caught on, but to his dismay, he was simply an all American John.
John, was a Francofile, I've long since forgotten what piqued his obsession with France, but for a few months I was along for the ride, French dinners, French films, daydreams of trips to the French countryside where we could sunbath naked and drink wine with every meal, it wasn't my obsession but it wasn't all bad.
Back to the night in question, or rather the next morning. A bottle of wine over dinner topped off with warm beer from the unexpected party johns roommates threw meant I didn't remember the actual night too well. Waking up in Johns bed with a splitting headache and feeling unusually sticky between my legs I was however able to remember an unfruitful search for a condom and my drunken instance that "it'll be fine".
Fuck.
Well like a good modern girl I was on the pill, but I never went without condoms and I was angry at myself for the slip up, to make matters worse John walked in singing some inane song about pigs going to the butchers shop.
I tried to convince myself I was still asleep, I pulled the pillow over my head and prayed I would fall asleep and wake up feeling human. The pillow could not fully block the sun or muffle the song.
"Enough with the fucking pigs" I grumbled throwing the pillow to the end of the bed and sitting up.
"What?" John said looking startled
"Stop singing, I have a splitting headache, I don't know why your so chipper"
"You know I don't get hangovers, I didn't think you knew French?"
"What?"
I felt like I missed a step
"I don't, a bit of Spanish but that's it"
"How did you know the song was about pigs"
Had the song been in French? I thought about bit for a second, I suppose it had been.
"I dunno, you must've told me, or I picked up the word for pig, your rubbing off on me babe"
"Hmm, anyway I have coffee and croissants in the kitchen if you would like breakfast"
"Ugh, no. I don't want to think about food, anyway I need to go home and take a shower"
We said our good byes and made plans for a few days later. Walking back to my apartment I couldn't help thinking of the song. How did I know what it was about? My explanation made sense, but didn't really ring true, I didn't only pick up the word pig, I knew the whole story, the farmer fattening the pigs up and going for a ride to meet the butcher, I found myself softly singing it. It's one of those horribly catchy kids songs you find yourself singing days after hearing it. How could I know this?
Just from hearing John sing it? That didn't really make any sense.
I got home showered and caught a 15 minute nap before running to my first (blessedly late) class of the day, and the whole incident got forgotten in the haze of the hangover.
Until the pattern began to emerge.