About my "date" last night -- the mistaken mating call of the shock dropped jaw
Last night I left the New Year's Party/Concert with a friend of a friend ... yes, a male. We both were awake and felt like continuing the evening, but it was late enough that we had to go down into the city, not necessarily a bad thing. I was sitting at a barstool and he was standing and I could have sworn he was intentionally rubbing his you-know-what up against my knee. Rutting. Foreshadowing.
We finally meander our way back west to where my car is parked, and just after we pull up next to it, he kind of leans over and asks me for a kiss. Well, hell's bells, it IS New Years ... what can a little peck on the lips hurt? Certainly nothing, had I actually had that opportunity. But oh no! In a move that felt reminiscent of my pastor trying to dunk a twelve-year-old me under the water for baptism, this loser grabs the back of my neck and pulls me halfway across his SUV to attempt to suck face with me. Now, I love kissing, don't get me wrong, but let me just say this: I never really truly comprehended the expression "suck face" until last night. Eewww, that tongue--like a rat in a dumpster.
Now, honestly, I'm kind of stunned at this point because the last time I was so accosted was when I was seventeen, and well, I just think that's what a lot of eager seventeen-year-olds just do. So I'm sitting there, eyes wide open, neck in a sling, looking in sheer horror at this thing that is stuck to my face when I sense movement midway to the nether region. As his hand cups my right breast, my jaw drops in complete shock. It was just a reflex for me, but it must have been the great and grand opening for him. I mean, did he honestly mistake my shocked dropped jaws as interest? As kissing back? As an invitation to yes, yes, lick my tonsils, suck my (what's that thing that hangs down in the back of your throat)?
Yes, apparently he did because that nasty little hand makes a move to go down my shirt. And then when I reach down to stop him, he takes that as a sign of me going for his you-know-what. So he takes that hand I've thrown as a block and jams it solidly into his crotch. I mean solidly. And yes, I said crotch. Then he leans over in his sly little way and asks me if I want to have sex.
Now let me take a brief break from my storytelling and let my reader, dear reader, know how glad I am that I returned to teaching. It's a hard career and most days feels thankless, but there are a few benefits to it as well. Among other things, you develop this thing called a "teacher voice." You all know it; you've heard it. It has been directed at you, or it has been directed at someone in your class, but you know what I'm saying. So hear it, reader, hear my teacher voice.
About that time my fight-flight reflexes kick in with a vengeance--both will get to shine tonight. I push this wad off of me and say, very clearly, in that voice: "No, I do NOT want to have sex with you. I want to go home." And I open the door to get out. He yells, "Wait!" and jumps out of his door. I open the back door on my side to retrieve my bag, which is sitting on the back seat. He opens the back door on his side, jumps in, grabs my bag, and puts it on the floor underneath his feet. He is beckoning me to join him: "Five minutes. Just five minutes." (As an aside, I'm guessing more like 30 seconds with a guy like this).
So I reach in, grab the bag off the floor, and again, say, "No. No, I'm not getting in this car for you, not for five minutes, not for one, not for a second. I am going home," at which point he asks me if I feel weird about it. "About going home?" I say in my very snide what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about-asshole voice, and he says .... He Says ... HE SAYS ... AND HE FUCKING SAYS THIS: "Well, don't you feel weird about taking someone you just met home to spend the night?"
This time my jaw drops so solidly into utter shock position that I fear I may never close my mouth again, and I shout: "You fucking idiot. Goddamned prick. I am NOT taking you home with me. Not tonight. Not next weekend. Not ever!" But I am making absolutely no sense. (Shout those lines, reader, with your jaw dropped. Not only do they make no sense whatsoever, but it is sadly conceivable that this series of vowels could actually be mistaken for some kind of mating call, at least by some men.)
"I'll follow you," he said. (Let that line sink in, reader.)
About this time, I literally punch myself in the chin, knocking shocked dropped jaw back up into line. I gather my entire body into teacher mode, and I say very clearly, with appropriate hand gestures, and in no uncertain terms: "No, you will not follow me home. You will go to your house. That way. I will go to my house. That way. Opposite directions. We will each take a shower when we get there, you a cold one, and me a nice hot one to wash your stinkin' smell off of me. We will sleep in separate beds, separate houses, separate cities, and separate states if I had my way. We will not be having sex tonight. Not with each other anyway." And with that, I opened my car and got in.
The last thing I heard from him? "Can I call you?"
And I, honestly, laughed uproariously all the way home, with a smug understanding of just why it is that I try to limit myself to one date a year. And since that happened completely in 2005, I could be free for a potential 729 days.
We finally meander our way back west to where my car is parked, and just after we pull up next to it, he kind of leans over and asks me for a kiss. Well, hell's bells, it IS New Years ... what can a little peck on the lips hurt? Certainly nothing, had I actually had that opportunity. But oh no! In a move that felt reminiscent of my pastor trying to dunk a twelve-year-old me under the water for baptism, this loser grabs the back of my neck and pulls me halfway across his SUV to attempt to suck face with me. Now, I love kissing, don't get me wrong, but let me just say this: I never really truly comprehended the expression "suck face" until last night. Eewww, that tongue--like a rat in a dumpster.
Now, honestly, I'm kind of stunned at this point because the last time I was so accosted was when I was seventeen, and well, I just think that's what a lot of eager seventeen-year-olds just do. So I'm sitting there, eyes wide open, neck in a sling, looking in sheer horror at this thing that is stuck to my face when I sense movement midway to the nether region. As his hand cups my right breast, my jaw drops in complete shock. It was just a reflex for me, but it must have been the great and grand opening for him. I mean, did he honestly mistake my shocked dropped jaws as interest? As kissing back? As an invitation to yes, yes, lick my tonsils, suck my (what's that thing that hangs down in the back of your throat)?
Yes, apparently he did because that nasty little hand makes a move to go down my shirt. And then when I reach down to stop him, he takes that as a sign of me going for his you-know-what. So he takes that hand I've thrown as a block and jams it solidly into his crotch. I mean solidly. And yes, I said crotch. Then he leans over in his sly little way and asks me if I want to have sex.
Now let me take a brief break from my storytelling and let my reader, dear reader, know how glad I am that I returned to teaching. It's a hard career and most days feels thankless, but there are a few benefits to it as well. Among other things, you develop this thing called a "teacher voice." You all know it; you've heard it. It has been directed at you, or it has been directed at someone in your class, but you know what I'm saying. So hear it, reader, hear my teacher voice.
About that time my fight-flight reflexes kick in with a vengeance--both will get to shine tonight. I push this wad off of me and say, very clearly, in that voice: "No, I do NOT want to have sex with you. I want to go home." And I open the door to get out. He yells, "Wait!" and jumps out of his door. I open the back door on my side to retrieve my bag, which is sitting on the back seat. He opens the back door on his side, jumps in, grabs my bag, and puts it on the floor underneath his feet. He is beckoning me to join him: "Five minutes. Just five minutes." (As an aside, I'm guessing more like 30 seconds with a guy like this).
So I reach in, grab the bag off the floor, and again, say, "No. No, I'm not getting in this car for you, not for five minutes, not for one, not for a second. I am going home," at which point he asks me if I feel weird about it. "About going home?" I say in my very snide what-the-fuck-are-you-talking-about-asshole voice, and he says .... He Says ... HE SAYS ... AND HE FUCKING SAYS THIS: "Well, don't you feel weird about taking someone you just met home to spend the night?"
This time my jaw drops so solidly into utter shock position that I fear I may never close my mouth again, and I shout: "You fucking idiot. Goddamned prick. I am NOT taking you home with me. Not tonight. Not next weekend. Not ever!" But I am making absolutely no sense. (Shout those lines, reader, with your jaw dropped. Not only do they make no sense whatsoever, but it is sadly conceivable that this series of vowels could actually be mistaken for some kind of mating call, at least by some men.)
"I'll follow you," he said. (Let that line sink in, reader.)
About this time, I literally punch myself in the chin, knocking shocked dropped jaw back up into line. I gather my entire body into teacher mode, and I say very clearly, with appropriate hand gestures, and in no uncertain terms: "No, you will not follow me home. You will go to your house. That way. I will go to my house. That way. Opposite directions. We will each take a shower when we get there, you a cold one, and me a nice hot one to wash your stinkin' smell off of me. We will sleep in separate beds, separate houses, separate cities, and separate states if I had my way. We will not be having sex tonight. Not with each other anyway." And with that, I opened my car and got in.
The last thing I heard from him? "Can I call you?"
And I, honestly, laughed uproariously all the way home, with a smug understanding of just why it is that I try to limit myself to one date a year. And since that happened completely in 2005, I could be free for a potential 729 days.