I love sex. I really do.  For a while, I tried to hide my enjoyment of one-night stands, but i know it isn’t all that acceptable.  Or, is it?  Either way, I love sex, I love men, and I’m not ashamed of it.

In fact, one of my favorite things is the morning after a good session with a particularily well-endowed man, and that consistent soreness you have all day.  It lingers with you until you find your way back into bed that evening…perhaps alone…just a friendly whisper of, “You really got it last night.”

Unfortunately, my latest “suitor,” I’ll deem him “Spicoli” to preserve his anonymity, did not give me that I-just-had-a-great-workout-post-sex feel.  In fact, I woke up many times not knowing if we had sex.  The only clue was that I’d be fully naked.  Only then did I assume we did.

On one particular afternoon I checked my phone.  I have a text from a number I vaguely recognize and open it: “Hey, I’m sure you hate me, but I was just thinking of all the fun we had and wanted to see what you were up to.”  Only such poetry could be written by Spicoli.  You see, after four weeks of no communication he decides to reach out to me as I’m probably the only female who willingly had sex with him after finding out what lies beneath his zipper.  I realize I have three choices:

A) I could text him back saying, “Damn straight, I do hate you.  How’s your small wiener doing?”

B) I could ignore the text, or

C) I could go and tell/show him how I really feel.  As I haven’t emotionally matured past the age of 14, I chose option C.

I find myself wrapped in the most BORING and vague text conversation ever, and I’m having flashbacks to why I never really missed this guy following him dumping me.  (Oh, I should also note, he apparently has been telling his friends that I “drank too much” for him while we were dating.  It’s amazing that none of them found out about our last conversation in which he stated he didn’t ”know what to do with” the clitoris.

Finally, he got his tiny dick out of his hand and asked if I wanted to go over to hang out with him and this couple that I really enjoy spending time with.  The fact that other company would be involved was all the motivation I needed to go.  I couldn’t handle the thought of standing in his filthy apartment with just him for the entire evening.

I make my way up to his place, and find him in his kitchen working on some motorcycle garbage, without a shirt on.  Convenient, right?  I fight the urge to turn around and walk out due to my embarrassment for him.  We hug awkwardly, I sit at his fisher-price-sized kitchen table and we proceed to have a staring contest.  He opens a beer.  I ask him what’s been “going on.”  He goes, “Uhm…hmm…what’s been going on…hmm…well…”

Right before I fall asleep he says, “I won the lottery.”  I say, “No, you didn’t.”  He replies, “No.  No, I didn’t.  But, I am moving.”  I go, “No, you’re not.”  He tells me that I’m right, he isn’t moving.  Thrilling isn’t it?  He asks me what’s been going on.  I tell him that since we last spoke, I may have a new job, which may involve more money, I turned 29 and I’m trying out vegetarianism.  After my vegetarianism declaration, he shows the most interest in me that he ever has during our whole relationship.  During this epic conversation some awful, disgusting music is playing in the background and I’m trying so so hard to ignore it.  I guess he can’t take the lack of conversation anymore, and goes, “So, do you like this music?”  And I tell him, “No.  I do not.”  He says, “It’s LCD Soundsystem.”  I say, “Yeah, I don’t like them at all.”  He asks if I’ve seen them live, and it takes everything in me not to take the fucking motorcycle engine or whatever he’s working on and slam his face into it.  I just look at him and say, “No.  I hate them.  I do not like LCD Soundsystem.”  I ask him to find out where his friends are so we can go out.

We meet his friends and I basically hang out with them all night.  Our friend orders a hurricane and tells me I should get one as well, so I follow suit.  I’m sure many of you have seen them, but for those that haven’t hurricanes are what an alcoholic vagina would drink if they had the ability to do so.  All fruity, all alcohol, with cherries, pineapple and orange slices.  We are all talking and our friend starts uncontrollably yawning.  I try to let the first few slip out as he has a baby at home, and the most responsibility I had today was to pick someone up from the airport which I was even able to screw up.  Soon it’s getting to the point that he’s unable to speak, just a full-on yawn session.  I ask him if the “face rub” is next.  You see, when Spicoli isn’t stimulated he just completely shuts down, yawns, and rubs his face to such excess you can’t even hold a conversation with him.  It drives me fucking nuts.  The “face rub” comment gets a few laughs as apparently everyone has noticed this trait in him, and Spicoli’s freaking out asking how I knew he did that, who told me, etc. and I said, “You did it in front of me the whole night when we went to dinner at the Lounge that I had to ask you if you were bored and wanted to go home.”   He didn’t have much to say after that.

We decide to go to another bar that has a dance party.  The two boys walk in back, the girls walk in front.  We get there and I decide to buy the first round.  I ask my friend what he wants, to which he responds “gin and tonic,” and he follows me to the bar.  He says, “So, I was really happy that I heard you were coming out.  I was surprised.”  This was basically his way of saying, “Why the hell did you agree to come here after this guy’s dicked you around for three months?”  I tell him the main reason was to hang out with them, which is the truth.  We hug.  I find his wife who kicks off our conversation with the same, “So, good to see you, but I was surprised to hear you were coming,” conversation.  I tell her the same thing and we dance.

Somewhere during the night I find myself with just the boys.  They are in mid conversation about guys in skinny jeans.  I tell them I still haven’t made up my mind on them, but I can either get behind them or go against them.  Spicoli says, “I mean, you know me.  I have a pretty big ego, so I know that if I had them, I’d totally be able to rock them.”  I turn my head away from him to hide my disgust.  Guy friend says he tried on a pair once and didn’t know what to do with his dick the whole time.  He just couldn’t position it right.  I laugh and say, “Do you have a secret monster cock?” and before he could answer Spicoli’s hand is in the air and he says, “I don’t.”  I take a long sip of my beer to deafen the awkwardness of that situation.  How’s your ego now, bro?

I dance more.  Soon Spicoli comes up and is dancing with us, which is basically composed of his left hand behind his back while he waves his right hand in the air and moves from side to side.  God forgive me for this comparison, but it’s very similar to the Nazi salute.  There’s your mental picture.  We’re all dancing together and just having a good time, and all of a sudden somewhere he goes, “So, where did you learn to dance?”  I wanted to respond with, “Juilliard, obviously.”  These are the exact exchanges with Spicoli that I just want to say, “What is the correct answer to this question?”  I constantly found myself in these states of defending or selling myself when we were “dating.”  Like the time he asked me if I enjoyed chewing gum.  Yeah, buddy.  I get wet off of it.

At some point during the evening, I find myself standing alone with him.  I think we were both standing in silence.  I have to give him credit because he clearly wanted to break the tension, it’s just that he did it with one of the most uncomfortable statements I’ve ever been fortunate enough to receive.  He says, “So, when we weren’t speaking, I, uhm, went and got a dick implant.”    After I picked my jaw up from the floor, I believe I responded with, “Yeah?  How’s that working out for you?  Painful?”

Closing time, we head home.  Say goodbyes to our friends, no conversation’s really had, so I get to my car and I say, “I’m leaving.”  He goes, “I don’t know what you want me to say.”  And, I just lost it.  I can’t remember exact specifics, but luckily I have the highlights saved.  We take the conversation inside and I just ask him what he fucking thought I was going to do?  Drive to your tiny apartment to see your tiny dick?  He says he doesn’t want a relationship.  I tell him I never asked him for that.  He agrees with me.  I tell him that we didn’t even talk when we were “dating.”  He agrees.  He’s doing the face rub.  I want to stab him.  I asked why he called me.  He says because he “really likes me.”  My eyes do a 360 degree revolution in my head.  He says, “Fine maybe there are a few things I don’t like about you.”  I say, “Give them to me, as this is obviously the last time we’re going to talk.”

He says, “Fine.  You want to know?  I don’t like ice in my water.”

Holy shit.  Is this happening to me?

I ask him if he’s joking.  He says no.  He suggests we go to bed as it’s 3am.  I want to get the hell out of there, but I am also freaking exhausted from my day and I enjoy living and think how much it would suck if I killed myself on the ride home from telling off Spicoli.  We turn our backs to one another, I fall asleep fully clothed.  As soon as my eyes open that next morning I’m in operation-get-the-hell-out-of-there mode.  As I’m putting my boots on I feel him slightly reach over and poke me.  “That was a great sleepover,” he says.  I ask if he’s being sarcastic.  He says yes.  I believe he says, “I’m not sure what you want me to say, but know that you’ll always have a friend here.”  I roll my eyes again.  He says, “See?  This is why I fucking shouldn’t say anything.”  I ask him if we were “friends” before.  He says we were.  I tell him that was the wrong answer because as my “friend” he dicked me over for four months.  I tell him that unless he says something now, know that I’ll be leaving there thinking the reason he dicked me over was because I put ice in his water.  He laughs.

I walk to the door, he says, “Goodbye” and i think to myself… So, this is what’s out there.