“You’re such a great guy! Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” she pressed annoyingly. 

I reflected on her question for a moment. If I was truly “great” she’d be slipping me her number when Dylan wasn’t looking . . . → Read More: How to Lose a Girl in 4 Weeks]]> “You two would be perfect for each other,” my friend Dylan’s girlfriend insisted after knowing me for five minutes. 

“You’re such a great guy! Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” she pressed annoyingly. 

I reflected on her question for a moment. If I was truly “great” she’d be slipping me her number when Dylan wasn’t looking and sending seductive glances – not talking to me like an overgrown baby. Still, she was right. I needed a girlfriend. I agreed to a blind date with her friend.

I met Emma at Dylan’s house. I wore a blue polyester shirt, brown corduroy pants, aviator glasses, and wavy hair combed over my forehead like Bill Murray. I was into vintage clothes at the time, going for the Matthew McConaughey look from Dazed and Confused. But I probably looked more like the dorky redhead from Harry Potter. 

“So how do you two know each other?” I asked, pointing to Emma and Stacey (Dylan’s girlfriend). 

“We play soccer.” Stacey answered. “Emma’s really good, like the best on the team. She’s already been offered a bunch of scholarships.”

Emma blushed. ”Do you play any sports?” she asked me, modestly steering the conversation away from her. 

“I uh . . . no. Well, I used to play baseball but that was like in 6th grade. And I kinda sucked, I usually sat the ben– “ 

“He surfs.” Dylan interrupted. “He’s really good too,” he lied. “And he rides dirt bikes, that’s how we met.” 

Her face lit up. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to surf! That’s so cool. Maybe you could teach me sometime?”

“Maybe, I mean, yeah.” 

She smiled.

During the short walk from the parking lot to the Jamba Juice, Dylan discretely pulled me back for an update. “How are things going? What do you think? She’s cute yeah?” he whispered. 

I nodded, watching Stacey and Emma likely having the same discussion. 

We all ordered our drinks and sat down. 

“Brian’s a really good artist!” Stacey blurted out, as if answering a trivia question she’d been trying to figure out for the past half hour. 

“Neat! What kinds of stuff do you draw? I can’t even draw a stick figure.” Emma said, lamely. “Neat” should be eliminated from the english language.

“Um, everything I guess. I have a landscape painting class where I’m doing this painting of the grand canyon. I also have a figure drawing class where I get to draw naked people.” 

Everyone smiled uncomfortably and sipped their drinks. 

On the ride home, I told Emma we should hang out again. I grabbed a lost pen underneath the seat, took her arm, and wrote down my phone number on the back of her hand. She bit her lower lip in a moment of hesitation, then grabbed my hand and did the same. 

The next time we hung out there were no chaperones. I pulled up to her house at eight wearing a new shirt heavily doused in cologne. Before I could get to the front she stepped outside, opening the heavy wooden door just enough to wedge her tiny frame through. Her brown hair curled over her smooth tan shoulders. Her tight lips smiled, revealing a perfect set of pearly whites. She was cuter than I remembered. I knew I had to bring the A-game. 

Since I was 18, bumping cool music was decidedly a better tactic than actually talking. I let the artistic expression of someone else define me as an individual, rather than articulating my own thoughts and ideas – much like a hipster. I aggressively drove my 94 Ford Ranger, weaving in and out of all the pussies doing the speed limit. Distorted guitars and angry vocals filled the air as we raced to the sushi restaurant with an urgent sense of purpose. After running a yellow light I heard a whaling siren drowning out my music. Red and blue lights flashed in my rear view mirror as I entered the parking lot of our destination. I played it cool for the cop, then bitched about the “stupid pig” after he wrote me a speeding ticket. This might have looked punk rock if I didn’t accidentally lock my keys in the car after we got out. I also realized I’d used up all my free AAA calls for the year. My dad arrived twenty minutes later to save the day. 

“That was nice of him to bring a spare key.” she said, scooting her chair up to the table. I agreed and started pointing at things on the menu, trying to ignore the fact that she’d just met my dad on basically the first date.

We ordered three different kinds of cut rolls. I took a bite out of one, foolishly thinking I could eat it like a cookie. The elasticity of the seaweed wrap held strong while everything else fell apart. Rice covered my lap. I dropped the chopsticks and grabbed what was left of the roll, then yanked back with my teeth like I was trying to break off a stubborn piece of beef jerky. 

“Have you had sushi before?” she laughed, gracefully picking up a roll with her chopsticks and eating it whole. I brushed the food from my lap and gave it a second shot. The fish and rice filled my mouth, leaving just enough extra space to shut my lips and chomp down. 

“How’s the Yellowtail?” she asked.

“Great,” I said, still chewing clumsily.

I watched her take down another roll with ease. 

Is she fucking with me? 

I glanced at the other tables to see how they were all doing it. 

One bite. 

One big massive crazy huge bite. 

Fuck sushi. 

I asked the server for a set of utensils and cut up the rolls into more manageable sizes. 

We drove home with the radio down and my hands at the 10 and 2 position. Any romantic ideas of being the cool guy from the movies were shot. I escorted her up the dark walkway, anxious to get the ordeal over with. 

“I had a really good time tonight . . . despite, you know.” she said with her back to the front door as if she needed to guard the entrance. 

“Yeah. Me too. Sorry about the . . . you know.” 

She leaned over and gave me a kiss, then said goodnight. I was too shocked to get any words out. She cracked the front door and quickly jammed through. I looked up at the dark windows above to see if anyone had been watching us before walking back to my car. I found a Backstreet Boys song on the radio and sang along the entire drive home. I was definitely punk rock.

On our third date I showed up to her house with my hands behind my back, concealing a gift.  I drew her name in block letters with a cartoon soccer player next to it. 

“Ohh! I love it!” she gushed, gingerly taking the paper from my hand. “This guy Tyler in my science class drew my name too but it wasn’t nearly as good as this! This is sooo good!” 

Obviously.

“I’ll tape it to my bedroom door right now!” she said before disappearing. Quietly waiting out front, I saw no lights turn on, no window curtains rustle, no dogs bark, no cats meow. Nothing ever seemed to come in the house and nothing ever came out. She lived in a darker, scarier version of the Wonka Factory – one that didn’t make candy.

She returned with a worried look on her face. 

“My parents want to meet you.” 

I shrugged my shoulders, nodded my head and made a that’s cool face. 

“Okay. Just . . . We’re like kind of organizing some stuff in our house right now, so that’s why it’s a little messy. It’s normally not like this.”

She opened the door. 

The five-bedroom two story house had been converted into a giant storage closet. It looked like a reverse garage sale where everyone in town dumped their useless crap inside. I walked through a narrow alley of old blenders, dishes, deflated soccer balls, microwaves, lamps, and useless television sets stacked in boxes head high. I imagined the lights turning off and all the appliances coming to life like in Brave Little Toaster. I weaved through stacks upon stacks of junk and followed Emma into the kitchen where her parents greeted me. 

Normally I’d be nervous to meet mom and dad, but their garbage maze living room leveled the playing field. I wasn’t the only one to be judged now. Either her dad sensed this, or he was literally the nicest guy on the planet. Instead of asking me about my sinister intentions, he asked me friendly questions like “What are you studying in school?” Emma’s mom smiled a lot and offered me sugar cookies that looked like soccer balls. 

By the fourth week of our courtship I got antsy. We’d made out a few times, but it never went further (except for maybe one close encounter in my truck when she let me touch her boobs – with my mouth!). Frustrated with having no where to get a potential blow-job, the gods of oral sex took pity on me and presented an opportunity. 

“I’m house-sitting for my parents’ friend’s this weekend. You should come over and hang out. There’s a spa,” she told me over the phone. 

If there was ever a place to take things to the next level, it was in a jacuzzi. 

“Sounds great, Can’t wait.” 

In the post high school world there’s nothing sexier than having a place to party – let alone a mansion with a spa. Word of this prime spot quickly spread amongst my circle of friends and my popularity soared. People I’d never said more than two words to were suddenly curious what I was up to Friday night. I got greedy. I wanted a blow-job AND the fame and prestige of hosting an epic party. I could have both. Everyone hangs out for a while – Me, Emma, thirty of my closest friends – then we quietly slip off later to the spa where she blows me because I’m the dopest guy around. Fail proof. 

Two minor flaws in the plan. Emma was cool with me bringing a train of people over, or at least she acted cool, but she was still responsible for the house. She spent the entire night running from room to room, making sure no one set any beers down without a coaster, or spilled on the white carpet, or touched the piano, or went into the master bedroom. No chance I was dragging her away for a few minutes of sexy time. The second problem was – everyone had to be out by midnight, including her. Being only 17, she still had a strict curfew to abide by – her parents expected her home at 12. At 11:30 we started corralling people out the front door. Everyone stood around their cars and watched Emma turn off the lights, lock the front door, and bid us farewell. I got a lousy kiss on the cheek. The party had just started and now we were stuck on a dark empty street with nowhere to go.

We reconvened at the local McDonald’s parking lot to brainstorm. 

The Plan:

Tomorrow I call Emma, tell her we had a good time, NO, tonight I text Emma to tell her we had a great time – show our appreciation. Tomorrow I call her to see if a few of us can come over again, not quite as many, maybe ten or so. When she answers the door we greet her with a jovial hello, then distract her with . . . beers. We’ll hand her a case of beer and ask where we can put them. She’ll insist on taking them to the fridge herself, during which time Zach will sneak in undetected. Then, he’ll hide in the master bedroom closet for the duration of the night. Ten people in, nine accounted for. When she locks everything up at midnight to go back to her parents’ house, we all drive away too. We meet back at McDonald’s and wait for our man inside to call us when the coast is clear. Genius. 

Zach, who’d watched Predator over twenty times, insisted on painting his face and wearing camouflage. I didn’t see how this would help him blend in to the domestic landscape, but I wasn’t going to share any disparaging words with the guy who was about to sit in a dark closet for three hours. He was making the ultimate sacrifice for the good of mankind. When he suggested bringing his eight-inch hunting knife “just in case” however, I finally had to draw the line. We approached the front door armed with nothing but a few cases of beer. 

The plan worked perfectly. We got about ten feet in the house before the front door shut. Zach was no where to be found. I looked down the hallway to see if I could catch a fleeting glimpse of his camo-jacket, or maybe a few rustled house plants still swaying – nothing. The guy was good. 

We continually updated each other on Zach’s stagnant status, using ridiculous codes like “The eagle is still in the nest” or “The crow has flown south for the winter”. None of them really made sense, but they all translated to the same message – ” Yep, Zach’s still in the closet, chillin’.”  

Midnight grew closer. 

“Ah man, that sucks you gotta kick us out, I totally understand though, thanks for having us over,” I announced theatrically. She locked up and kissed me on the cheek. We all drove away. About five minutes later, loitering in the local McDonald’s parking lot, we got the call. “Um, she’s gone now . . . you guys can come back.” 

He stood at full attention in front of the open door with his arm pointing inside. Pats on the shoulder and fist bumps greeted him as our line walked back inside. We did a couple rounds of shots, dedicating the first one to “The man who made this all possible tonight, Mr. Zach Jensen.” Then we got on our Nokia’s and called more peeps. We set beers down without coasters; we thoroughly watered the backyard plants; and we hit bong loads in the master bedroom. At 4:00 a.m., we finally called it quits. After a half-assed cleaning job we congratulated ourselves for a party-well-done and hit the road. 

The next day I waited for the phone call. 1:00, 2:00, 3:00 . . . By 6:00 I still hadn’t heard anything. I knew she must’ve known – we couldn’t have cleaned up that well. There was surely evidence; a forgotten bottle behind a houseplant, a roach on the coffee table, an empty food cabinet once full of chips and cookies and snacks. I nervously called around 8:00 – nothing. I called again around 10:00 and left a message- still nothing. A knot in my stomach began to form. My immature need to impress my friends had cost me a girlfriend. 

Two weeks later, after no communication, I found out from a friend she was dating Norm Schuster. A month later someone told me she lost her virginity to him. I wondered where it happened. The movie theater? The spa? Inside the fortress of garbage?  I thought about the unsuccessful night in my truck and wondered what Norm had done so differently. I thought about her pretty smile, her beautiful eyes, and her firm tan legs – then I googled “girl takes off shirt at soccer game” and rubbed one out. I’m a fucking moron.                                                                                                                                     .    

Kim was a cute skinny blonde who had complained to my friend Ben that there were “No good guys out there”. She wanted someone nice. Apparently I was the closest thing to this, at least that Ben knew of, so he decided to set us up. She liked my Myspace pics, and . . . → Read More: The “One” That Got Away]]>

Kim was a cute skinny blonde who had complained to my friend Ben that there were “No good guys out there”. She wanted someone nice. Apparently I was the closest thing to this, at least that Ben knew of, so he decided to set us up. She liked my Myspace pics, and after learning I didn’t have commitment issues, agreed to meet me. I headed down to Long Beach that Friday night for my partially blind date.  

The conversation didn’t start well. She said she loved baseball, I told her I hated sports. She said she wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, I told her I never wanted kids. Yet somehow, at the end of the night, we ended up in bed together–Ben’s bed, to be specific. He sacrificed his room and the sanitation of his bed sheets to help me get laid. When he and his friend Mike heard the noises and noticed a yellow light glowing from underneath the door, they crept out back to watch us through the window. I was careless enough to leave the light on, and they saw everything. For a brief moment, I was a porn-star.

Ben gave an eerily spot-on impersonation of my “technique” the next morning. “How fuckin’ long were you guys out there?” I asked, feeling as if we shared some form of sick bond. “I went back inside after like five minutes, but Mike stayed out there for a while,” he grinned, mimicking my hip thrusts and giggling. Mike swears he didn’t jerk-off, but I don’t believe him. It’s okay dude, I would have too.

I got her number and we set up a “second date”. Despite our many differences, we got along great. We loved to hate each other. I told her sorority girls are all obnoxious, she sang her sororities alma matter to the tune of Lynard Skynard – “Sweeeeet home Delta Gamma!” We eventually made a game of it, trying to see how many things we disagreed on. It got to the point where we’d be disappointed to find something in common. “You like country music? . . . dammit . . . I like country too.”

After a couple weeks things got serious. We hung out every other day and started calling each other “babe”. I’ve never bought into my friends’ theories that first-night-bang girls aren’t date-worthy. A cool chick is a cool chick, and I enjoyed spending time with her. I prefer girls who can make their own decisions, rather than wait three or four dates because society pressures them into holding out.

Around the third week, Ben and I met up with her for a Long Beach Dirtbags baseball game. It was here I also met her best friend Heather – a tall, dark haired, gorgeous 21-year-old. She informed us she’d just been accepted into a prestigious law school up north. At the time, Ben was applying to law schools. He had books like Black Law Dictionary and Glannons Guide to Civil Procedure on his shelf. His favorite show was Boston Legal.

“Umm, so how in love with Heather are you?” I asked him when it was our turn to get the next round of beers.

“Eh, she’s okay.” he replied, looking at the snack menu, pretending to be uninterested.

“Okay? Our 30th row seats behind 1st base are okay. This moderately cold Bud Light is okay. Your 15-dollar haircut is okay. That girl is amazing! How are you not in love with her? She’s a lawyer!”

“She’s a law student, and technically not even that yet.”

“Okay, she’s a future lawyer. And she’s hot. She’s funny and hot and smart and . . . hot!”

“Yea, I dunno, she’s okay.”

That Friday I invited Kim and her okay friend Heather to my school’s senior show – an art show. I was a year out, but my roommate was displaying. Looking through the wide variety of work hanging on the walls, Heather asked the most incisive questions.

“Do they do a pencil sketch on the canvas before painting?”

“What advantages do Oils have over Acrylic or Watercolor?”

“What kinds of reference material would you use for a piece like this?”

We had extensive conversations about fashion illustration, comic books, and conceptual art. All the stuff no one ever wants to hear me drone on about. She was into it. The only time I talked to Kim was when I gave her directions to the bathroom.

Around the fourth week, Kim invited me to Heather’s 22nd birthday celebration in Long Beach. I couldn’t make the dinner, but planned to meet up for drinks afterwards. She called me, unhappy with my text message explaining this.

“It would reeeeaally mean a lot to me if you could make it to the dinner.” she whined, trying to guilt me into changing my mind. At this point, we were doing almost everything together. In her opinion, missing just one meal was completely unacceptable. I’ve never wanted to be one of those guys who ditches all his friends as soon as he gets a girlfriend, but this seemed to be the direction I was heading. I got scared.  

“Um okay. . . I just told you I can’t. Sorry.” I meekly reiterated.

Driving down, she bombarded me with text messages asking where I was, and why I wasn’t there already, and how much longer I would be. Her neediness was beginning to turn me off. We weren’t even boyfriend and girlfriend yet and she was treating me like we were unhappily married for 25 years.

I pulled up to Ben’s place, walked inside, and immediately got a call from her as if she’d been watching me through a magic crystal ball like the Wicked Witch of the West. When I told her where I was, she yelled at me for not meeting her first, then accused me of lying and purposely avoiding the dinner.

“I don’t think I wanna date Kim anymore.” I announced after she hung up on me.

“Actually . . . I’m pretty sure I’m in love with Heather,” I thought out loud before reaffirming my epiphany ” Yeah, I’m in love with Heather, and I think I should tell her this before she moves away to school and I never see her again.”

Ben shook his head before answering, “Could you do this after I leave tonight? I’ve seen Kim go crazy before, it’s not a pretty sight.” I told him I couldn’t make any promises.

We met the girls at a bar down the street. Heather screamed, opened her arms, and gave me a big hug. Kim gave me the cold shoulder – literally, she didn’t even turn around to greet me. I introduced myself to one of their guy friends, who turned out to be Kim’s brother. We all drank and made merry. Kim stopped being a bitch.

The second stop for the night had a dance floor in the back, secluded from our group’s table. This was my chance. While Kim was ordering a drink, I asked Heather if she wanted to dance. We stopped in front of the DJ booth where I turned to her and shouted over the Kanye West song blasting.

“I DON’T REALLY WANT TO DANCE. . .”

She looked at the sweaty couple grinding next to us and grimaced in agreement.

“ACTUALLY, I HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU.” I screamed into her ear.

“I KNOW.” she interrupted.

“YOU KNOW? YOU KNOW WHAT I’M GOING TO SAY?”

“YES, AND . . . ME TOO.”

I was pretty sure we were both talking about the same thing, but before I could confirm this, Kim and her brother showed up. I smiled and excused myself to get some fresh air. I walked through the club, unaware Heather was following. When we got outside she suggested we talk, like, somewhere else. We settled on the side of the building.

“So uhh, I sort of think you’re amazing.” I blurted out, immediately embarrassed. The whole time I was trying to figure out how to get her alone, I never thought about what I’d actually say once I did.

“I feel the same about you. I really wish I’d met you before Kim, I think we’d be great together.” she confessed, grabbing my arm and looking into my eyes.

“I know, I think so too, but I’d hate to come between two best friends.” I lied, hoping this would make me sound virtuous. I also wanted to play up the forbidden angle, thus becoming more desirable. She looked at me like she wanted to rip off my clothes and fuck me right there.

Our clever hiding spot was soon infiltrated by Kim and her brother and her brother’s friend. There would be no back-alley-sex. Heather quickly ran off to avoid confrontation. Kim looked at me for an explanation, but I had nothing. Her eyes watered and she stormed off, leaving me standing in a dark alley with her older brother and his friend. My thoughts raced back to the karate class I took in second grade. I tried remembering the defensive strategy our sensei taught us in the case of multiple attackers.

“Sorry.” I said, wishing I could call time-out like Zack Morris and figure out what the hell just happened.

“Sorry? You ruined the whole fuckin’ night. Now we gotta deal with this shit,” her brother snapped.

I nodded my head and lit a cigarette. I was already the asshole – might as well embrace the role. Arguing erupted from around the corner as we all stood in a circle, or more of a triangle, and remained silent. The girls blocked our only exit. “I’m really sorry,” I said again, blowing out smoke and sounding as sincere as Mitch’s wife in Old School when she apologized for hosting a gang-bang.

 “Whatever,”he replied, not looking at me “Let’s just get the one I’m related to and get the hell out of here,” he instructed his sidekick. They cautiously walked back when the screaming subsided. I waited another five minutes before exiting the slummy side street. I went back inside the bar.

While ordering a drink, a chubby burnette with mid-90′s bangs informed me that my friend had left about ten minutes ago. I recognized her from a pervious night months ago – she was Ben’s post-2 a.m. drunk-dial. I thought about hitting on her, then decided against it. You can’t go for your best friend’s girl. That’s fucked up.

After two more beers and many failed attempts at flirting, Kim called me. She wanted to talk in person. “Meet me on the corner of 3rd and Spring,” she instructed sharply, as if she were going to hand me a top secret message that would self destruct after I read it. I agreed to the midnight rendezvous and closed out my tab. I was too scared to ask if Heather was with her.

I foolishly imagined the two of them standing on the corner waiting for me. Kim blurting out before I could say a word: “Good news Brian–we worked it out. We both totally agree that you and Heather are a better match. You guys should be boyfriend and girlfriend. . . but just for old times sake, could we have one more romp in the bedroom? Heather can join us.”

It didn’t quite workout this way. It was just Kim. And she wasn’t happy.

“What the fuck? How long has this thing with you two been going on? Did you plan this?”

“No, not at all. I dunno, it just . . . happened. We sort of connected or something. It wasn’t planned.”

“I was good to you, you know. You have no idea how good I was. I had soooo many opportunities to hook-up with other guys, but I turned them down because I really thought this was going some where.”

I believe this comment was intended to make me jealous, but really it just reaffirmed my decision. Apparently Kim liked to string along other guys as some twisted form of collateral in case I screwed her over. I wondered if this would’ve stopped once I made her my girlfriend, or if I would’ve always had to keep a paranoid lookout. As soon as I slipped up even just the slightest bit, BAM! she’s sucking someone else’s dick. Fuck that, I’d rather be the other guy.

She eventually grew tired of scolding me and we walked quietly to her apartment. Then it started up again.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU HOOKED UP WITH MY BEST FRIEND!” she yelled, holding up her hands as if to say “Who does that!? Honestly!”

I corrected her before she could go on. “I didn’t hook-up with your best friend. I TRIED to hook-up with your best friend.”

“THAT’S EVEN WOOOOOORRRRSSE!” she wailed, letting the last word ring out like an opera note before flailing her arms in the air and collapsing in the middle of the street.

Her purse smacked against the ground and everything in it scattered like a smashed gum-ball machine. Tubes of lip gloss and compacts and bobby pins spun around my feet. Her legs stuck out in an unnatural way, almost like a reverse indian-style. She hunched her head over her knees and let her arms rest lifeless on the pavement. A mess of tangled blonde hair covered her face as she sobbed uncontrollably. I froze.

A couple walking by asked her if she needed help. They ignored my presence. A beam of light blinded me as an oncoming car stopped in front us. The driver, a middled aged man with grey streaks in his hair, got out, looked at me, then said something to his wife in the passenger seat. Probably “Stay here and be ready to call the cops.” He slowly walked toward the weeping ball of hair at my feet, then crouched down and turned his shoulder away from me like he was joining a football huddle. “Are you okay? Do you need any help?” He asked, peeking over his shoulder. “I’m ffffff fff ffiiiiiinnne,” she stuttered unconvincingly before inhaling deeply. “She’s okay,” I said, picking up all the stuff from her purse. We both helped her up and walked her to the curb where she could continue crying without getting run over. He looked me up and down one more time before hesitantly leaving.

By the time we arrived at her apartment her face was dry. All traces of make-up had been removed by the tears. An SUV pulled up – her roommate.

“Ohhh myyy Goooddd” she said to the girl in the drivers seat after the window rolled down. ” You would not believe the night I had!”

“I know, I just dropped off Heather,” the hot roommate answered, peaking over Kim to get a glimpse at me. I smiled and waved. She didn’t smile back.

When we got inside, I called Ben and gave him a rushed synopsis of my situation before begging him to pick me up. Worried my phone would die at any minute, I was economical with my words. “Told Heather I love her, Kim cried in street, looked like rapist, phone is dying, pick me up! Oh and I saw your old booty-call, dude! She’s gained at least 15 more pounds!” I hung up when he said he was on his way. Kim and I sat in the dark kitchen.

While waiting, I thought I’d be evil and say the bullshit condescending line girls always give to guys. “I’d like to still be friends. . .”

“Friends! . . . FRIENDS! . . .what the fuck are you talking about FRIENDS!” she shot back.

This is exactly how every guy wants to react when they hear those words. It was refreshing to witness such an honest reaction to such a fake statement. Almost cute in a way. Guys are so conditioned early on to deal with this humility. Our skin is thick and calloused from the beatings of false sincerity. We’ve learned to take it in stride and force a smile. But she’s a pretty girl – who’s probably never heard it in her life. She had no idea how to suppress her frustration and anger. It all flowed out in one beautiful stream of consciousness. I sat back and watched, reveling in the cathartic experience of finally being on the other side. I found myself wishing I’d had the balls to scream at every girl who said she “just wanted to be friends” the same way Kim was now yelling at me. It was magnificent.

She deleted me on Myspace the next day after writing a scathing message. I can’t remember what it said but I believe the words “whore” and “Heather” were in the same sentence. I then wrote Heather a long message with lines that still make me cringe like – “I never imagined I’d be so lucky to find someone as wonderful as you.” and “Knowing that you feel the same way truly warms my heart.” When I checked my outgoing box and saw that she’d read it, my heart raced as I anxiously awaited her response. That ugly bitch never wrote me back.

My dick is bigger than yours!” Collin exclaimed, folding the tips of his fingers over mine. It looked like the scene in Tarzan when Jane presses her dainty palm against the wild beast-man’s hand. “Your dick is the same size as your middle finger. See, mines bigger than yours, a lot bigger. You have a small dick,” . . . → Read More: My First Blowjob]]>  

My dick is bigger than yours!” Collin exclaimed, folding the tips of his fingers over mine. It looked like the scene in Tarzan when Jane presses her dainty palm against the wild beast-man’s hand. “Your dick is the same size as your middle finger. See, mines bigger than yours, a lot bigger. You have a small dick,” he explained, showing its alleged size with his thumb and index. Since this was a gross overestimate, I remained silent, not sure if I should correct his mistake.

In 5th grade I got my first boner. I immediately wanted to tell Collin it was bigger than my middle finger, but decided against this after realizing it might inspire new questions I didn’t care to answer, like “How much bigger?” This was inconsequential. I was above average.

In 6th grade, a popular song by a girl named Gillette played on the radio constantly. “Don’t want no innie weenie shriveled little short tort man,” she whined to a repetitive dance beat. Being the smallest in my class, kids would point and serenade me with these lyrics during recess and lunch. When my best friend bought the unedited, parental advisory version, I found out the song really went “Don’t wan’t no short DICK man,” which I’d been hearing incorrectly for the past month. Now I wasn’t sure if people were insulting me or my dick.

In Junior High I had my first “real” girlfriend. There were a few in elementary school, but we never actually hung out or talked. This girl kissed me – on the lips. She opened her mouth and rolled her tongue around mine in a clockwise pattern. She held my hand in public and let me grab her ass while we walked. We were legit. Her parents never came home before 5 pm, so we’d go to her house after school and have long make-out sessions that would strangely make me more insecure. After thirty solid minutes of kissing we’d take a break, then I’d go right back in, just to make sure she’d still do it.

During one heated afternoon, I took my hand out of her hair and placed it on her stomach. We slowly leaned back to a lying position and I started moving it in circles, too scared to head north or south. I continued to rub her stomach like it was a good luck Buddha-belly, ocassionally sliding my fingers underneath the tight fit denim below. Finally I started playing with the button on her jeans, testing the waters — no resistance. After minutes of uncertainty, I wussed out and went back to her stomach, considering the consequences of putting my hands down her pants. She might then put her hands down mine. That damn song popped into my mind again. That fucking Gillette bitch cock-blocked me from getting my first hand-job. Or maybe I cock-blocked myself and was looking for a scapegoat.

In 9th grade, a friend gave me an old VHS porn. Before this I had to rely on the Reef ads in my Surfer Magazine, or the “Help My Troubled Teen” episodes of the Jenny Jones show. Since porn stars are unusually large, I still had no accurate frame of reference to compare myself. When I expressed doubts about the middle finger theory to a classmate, he demonstrated how to measure on his own hand. “From the bottom of your palm to the top of your middle finger,” he showed me. Which if true, meant the average size now doubled. Another wildly uncredible source told me to measure with my feet. “Take your shoe size, divide it by two, and turn that number into inches . . . so if you wear a size 10, you have a 5 inch dick,” he said pointing down. I believed this for about five seconds until noticing the smaller UK measurement next to the US number inside my Converse. Surely everyone in this UK place didn’t have smaller dicks. Plus, I was a 9.5 in Converse, and a 8 in DVS’s. Frustrated, I turned to the web for advice. One of the earliest Google searches I remember doing was ” average male penis size”. This information varied and proved useless since there was no universal set of instruction on where to measure from. Upper shaft? Underneath? Side? Balls included?

In 10th grade, I made it to second base. A curvy 16-year-old with full C’s let me motorboat her before I knew there was a name for such a thing. We dated briefly and this became a daily ritual, though I never took it further. One night over the phone she asked me, “Do you ever get so horny you just don’t know what to do?” My 15-year-old brain pondered this deeply before answering, “No, I just jerk-off.” We then went back to discussing homework and she never brought it up again. I later found out she lost her virginity to the guy after me.

In 11th grade I got a car – one more place for me to not have sex in. I also got a job where I could meet other horny girls I wouldn’t know how to please. Amy was one of them. Since we worked for a call center, it didn’t matter how we dressed. Amy always wore the same baggy sweatshirt over a pair of blue overalls. Occasionally she’d get hot and remove the sweatshirt, revealing a tube-top shirt hugging her thin waistline. My eyes would wander down into the dark crevice on the side of her overalls where skin showed, and on several fortunate occasions, the frilly lace of her underwear. She had messy dark hair that covered what would’ve been a very pretty face, if not for the acne. In an attempt to hide this, she caked on a foundation thicker than Edwards Scissor hands, inadvertently drawing more attention to the uneven surface of her cheeks. This was just the flaw I needed to possibly hook-up with her.

I knew she liked me when she began to mimick my awkward conversations with the customers as soon as I hung up. If I messed up a line in the prompted script, she’d parrot the mistake back. This gave me license to grab a pen and poke her in the side and outer thigh, and basically all the places I really wanted to slowly run my hands over while she undid her overalls and grinded me like a stripper.

The first time I saw her outside of work was at our mutual friend Greg’s house. His Dad was gone for the day and had left an unattended case of Heineken in the garage. “He won’t notice,” Greg assured us, handing out three warm beers; one to myself, one to Amy, and one to his friend I didn’t know. He rummaged through the box and pulled out a fourth. We all gave a cheers, then took baby sips while bumping our heads to System of a Down. Scared of getting drunk for the first time, I sneaked into the bathroom and poured out half of my beer in the sink. I flushed the toilet and walked out taking a sip, indicating I’d been drinking all the while. After doing this a second time, Amy confronted me.

“They went outside to play basketball, wanna see if we can find some better music to put on upstairs?” she asked me in the same childish voice girls in porn use when asking their boss for a raise. I took a swig from my empty bottle before tossing it in the trash. I followed her up.

We ended up in his parents bedroom where all the potential music CD’s would be. To our shock and dismay, they didn’t have any Offspring or Weezer — just a bed. She flopped onto it, letting out a sigh. I sat on the edge with one foot safely planted on the ground. “I could go for another beer,” I lied, looking at the baby pictures of Greg hanging in tacky gold frames. “I could go for another beer,” she mocked me in a macho voice. I lunged over and thrust my hands into her sides, producing a squeal followed by laughter. I tried to pull her closer by the hips but she didn’t move more than an inch. Unsure of how to continue, I kept touching and pushing on her stomach and sides. It wasn’t quite tickling and it wasn’t quite wrestling. It was somewhere in between. There’s a lot of guys who can pull off the play wrestling flirtatious move perfectly, lifting 120 pound women over their shoulders effortlessly and flinging them around like a rag doll. I, however, am not one of them. I learned this early on and decided to do the female population a favor by never trying. After my failed attempt at man-handling, she proposed an idea.

“Let’s play a game. You name something you’ve never done, and if the other person HAS done it, they have to . . . ” She lifted her eyes up and to the left, “They have to remove an article of clothing.”

“Who goes first?” I asked, omitting from my thoughts the part where I might have to remove my clothes.

Each time it was her turn to take something off, she’d lift up her shirt to reveal the bottom of a purple satin bra, then suddenly change her mind and remove a damn sock. I had to strike weird GQ poses with one knee up so she wouldn’t see the increasing bulge in my pants.

After ten minutes she’d taken off her scrunchie, her earrings, both socks, a toe ring, and a bracelet I could’ve sworn she wasn’t wearing at the start of the game. After removing my hat, sun glasses, socks, and pooka shell necklace, I was down to the essentials – shirt and shorts. It was her turn. She said she’s never bleached her hair before, grinning at my frosted tips.

“Me neither.” I joked, trying to buy some time.

“Off with the shirt!” she cheered, proud of herself. “Or the pants!”

I forced a laugh and said the first thing that popped into my head. “I’m not taking my pants off unless you wanna slob my knob.” – my exact words. She looked me up and down before replying.

“Okay.”

She said okay. Without even cracking a smile. No grin. No awkward “only kidding” laugh afterwards. Just okay – as in “Okay Brian, whip out that knob so I can start slobbing.”

I sat upright, rigid with adrenalin. I always knew the time would come when I’d have to show my dick to a girl. And that time was now. No longer would my hard-on stay hidden. This boner wouldn’t get tucked underneath a silly Quasimotto walk, or shy behind a three-ring binder. This boner was coming out. This boner was ready to enter a brave new world in which no other boner had dared to venture — Amy’s mouth.

“Well, let’s um, go in here . . . I don’t want to make a um, mess, on the parents’ bedroom,” I reasoned, grabbing her hand and leading her into the bathroom like true gentleman. I flipped the switch and a bright white light beamed down on us, accompanied by the loud hum of a fan. We stood facing each other in the cramped space lit up like a football field. No sucking was happening. I looked around and pointed to the toilet. “Should I uh, sit down on here, and we can do it like that?” I suggested, assuming it would be rude to drop my pants and start pushing her head down. She looked at the porcelain chair and nodded.

I sat down. She stayed standing. I unzipped my pants and pulled them down to my ankles. She stayed standing. I slowly undid the tiny button for the hole in my boxers, as if my dick was so huge the entire flap needed to be open for it to get out. I pulled it out through the hole, then pushed down on the skin around the base and thrust out my pelvis, trying to make it look as big as possible. She stayed standing. She looked down at it. I looked down at it. I kept my hand around the bottom and thrust it out even more, almost sliding off the edge of the toilet.

And then . . . she laughed.

Not a long or loud laugh. A thin, breathless exhale given with a smile.

“Is there something wrong?” I asked looking up, still holding my junk and trying to keep my voice from trembling.

“No.” she replied, making the same weak chuckle while gazing upon my manhood.

“It’s just that . . . Well . . . it looks like you’re about to go pee or something.”

I slouched my shoulders and sat back on the bowl, relieved that the words “Small”, “Tiny”, “Innie” or “Weenie” were not in that sentence. Then she dropped to her knees, put her hands on my thighs, and began.

Unlike a push-up, if you were to count both the up and the down part as separate actions, or perhaps I should say the “back” and “forth” parts as “one” and “two”, I’d say she got to around seven and a half before that familiar tingling sensation started running through my body. I swiftly shoved her off, hoping to extend this longer. “Perhaps she could take off her shirt, or show me her underwear,” I thought. “Or we could kiss for a little while – we hadn’t even done that.”

She removed her mouth and I reached for it. If you were still keeping a count, I suppose you could say this grabbing action brought it up to an even eight. And as it turns out, eight was the magic number. Before I could suggest back tracking into some fore-play, the “mess” I referred to earlier now covered my hand, my leg, my underwear, and the tile floor. Amy stayed on her knees staring at my crotch, dumbfounded with what she witnessed.

“I just came,” I informed her stupidly.

Her face switched from shock to “No shit, dumb-ass” to a peculiar disappointment. We both remained silent, letting the fan make all the noise, until finally, she spoke.

“You were supposed to come in my mouth.”

Two weeks later she gave me another chance. After trying to fondle what would’ve been my first vagina, and getting shut down like I was asking for dry anal sex, I gave up and let her slob my knob. For some reason, even light touching of her private parts (through the clothes) was strictly forbidden, or “too intimate”. Shooting loads into her mouth however, was fine. And so I did. After thinking about baseball, cold showers, and Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day, I outlasted my old record by at least seven minutes. Thank you.

So if you have not Raptured by 7pm Saturday, you are invited to attend Our Thursday’s blasphemous . . . → Read More: Announcement: OC Live Show 5/21!]]> They say Saturday is the Rapture.  I, for one, am sure they are right.  But if Christ Himself fails to show up, we will pick up His slack (as usual).  Sigh.  That guy is late for everything.

So if you have not Raptured by 7pm Saturday, you are invited to attend Our Thursday’s blasphemous story reading in Orange County.  We are much less discerning than most fundamentalist religions.  We will take the scraps of those who were not Saved.

Miracles to be performed:  I will turn water into cheap beer. Danielle will feed the entire crowd with only 2 loaves of bread and a can of Chef Boyardee. Brian, who died on Thursday, will be resurrected in the flesh. Dave Glenn will deliver a sermon on top of a mountain of trash.  Luke will be beamed in from Chile.

Maybe.

But I can, absolutely, promise parables, stories, and laughs.

The event will be strange, weird, and a demonstration of humanity’s undeniable will to know itself, for better or worse.  Bring some extra food and drink.

You can find event details by checking the Our Thursday Facebook page or contacting one of the authors.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Our-Thursday/152897544751106

If you have been Raptured or are busy Rapturing, please don’t forget about those of us down here who chose not to leave anyone behind.  In the bizarre case that I am Raptured against my will, feel free to let yourself in and party in my absence.  My record collection is small but smart.

See you Saturday, you hopeless sinner.

“Geez! Just got carded for buying a lottery ticket! WTF! I know I look young for my age but this is ridiculous!”

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2. The insecure best friends who need to prove how close they are by constantly posting back and forth on each . . . → Read More: Facebook Stupidity]]> 1. The girl who disguises complimenting herself as anger.

“Geez! Just got carded for buying a lottery ticket! WTF! I know I look young for my age but this is ridiculous!”

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2. The insecure best friends who need to prove how close they are by constantly posting back and forth on each others pages.

“Omg! I can’t wait for the concert, hurry and pick me up so we can go! 143!”

“I’ll be there in 5 minutes so get ready gurl! LML!”

“The concert last night was Ah-Mazing!!! Remember that creepy guy? ROFL!!! I’m glad I got to see Katy Perry with you! Thanks for pickin me up bestie!”

“LOL I almost forgot about creepy guy! haha . . answer your phone so we can get lunch!”

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3. The Mathematician

“Cold Margaritas + Friends = Good Times! ! !”

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4. The boring girl who tries to hide this fact by making silly faces in all her pictures.

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5. The guy who needs to turn every mundane activity he does into a life lesson.

“Just finished a 4 mile hike. Life is too short to be stuck inside a stuffy office from 9 to 5. Live each day like it’s your last. Carpe Diem!”

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6. The girl who thinks we all know who and what the fuck she’s talking about.

“I can’t believe the nerve of some people! What goes around comes around. Payback is gunna be a bitch!”

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7. The girl who’s always fishing for comments.

“Thinking about going blonde. . .”

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8. The guy who adds too many friends so he can get more people to read his blogs.

“Hang out with me at my sister’s place in Silver Lake”, Katie insisted over the phone. I wanted to say no, but I really didn’t have anything else to do. Every time I go out with Katie, a major hottie, everyone assumes I’m her boyfriend; or I have to make small talk with . . . → Read More: The Time OurThursday Got Me Laid]]>  

“Hang out with me at my sister’s place in Silver Lake”, Katie insisted over the phone. I wanted to say no, but I really didn’t have anything else to do. Every time I go out with Katie, a major hottie, everyone assumes I’m her boyfriend; or I have to make small talk with some douchey guy trying to pick her up. “Sure” I said, deciding this was better than meeting my guy friends at T.G.I Friday’s and listening to them drone on about their fantasy football draft picks.

She took me to a blog party. Seriously, it was an L.A. party–with a DJ–for some chick named Alexi who gives out dating advice. Katie was a big fan. With just a few people hanging around the center of an outside mall at 9:30, the “party” was the equivalent to a bunch of ninth graders hanging outside a McDonald’s. Alexi was there, the writer. She was cute. I joked with Katie’s sister, telling her that I hoped one day OurThursday would surpass the success of this girl’s blog and she would be attending my party. “Then she’d be all over me.” I explained. Katie’s sister laughed and told me “Writing blogs is never gonna get you laid, Brian!”

We left after ten and went to a bar – a place called Sunset Terrace off the strip that had an indoor smoking section. I immediately eyed a pair of cute blondes standing next to a booth and asked them for a light (I had one in my pocket). “What the fuck do we look like? Girls you can just mooch from?” One reacted, flicking her wrist, indicating for me to “Shoo”. As I began to turn around she grabbed my arm, told me she was kidding, and held up a candle swiped from a nearby table.

The two girls, who I later found out were roommates, were in the middle of a heated debate about their friend Karen. “She’s dating this guy who never comes around, and the one time he did, he just kept to himself. He never made an effort to get to know any of us. . . isn’t that fucked up?“ the candle thief asked.

“Totally,” I agreed. I gestured to her shorter friend wearing shiny lip gloss. ”I mean, hypothetically, if you and I were dating, and this was the first time you introduced me to your friends, I’d spend all my time talking with them trying to make a good impression. You’d hardly see me.” I explained. She smiled, possibly considering the thought of us together. Then the taller one brought up her boyfriend, helping me decide which one to go for–Shiny Lips. Amidst our conversation, I noticed another girl sitting in a booth next to us listening intently. She turned around and chimed in with her opinion, restating the lameness of Karen’s boyfriend. Then her friends all turned around to share the exact same opinion. Now surrounded by a bunch of hot chicks, I suddenly had options.

Just as abruptly as the group conversation started, it ended. No one gave a shit about Karen’s boyfriend anymore, and the girls from the booth turned back around. Then some artsy hipster with sleeve tattoosswooped in on the two blondes. I stood alone, holding my empty drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. I flicked it on the ground (I mean, I found an ashtray and placed it in there), then went into the next room where the bar was. Unknowingly, I’d become somewhat of a celebrity. “Dude, who were all those girls you were talking to? They were hot!” Katie’s douchey guy asked. “Just some chicks” I casually replied. “I asked them for a lighter, even though I have one” I told him, pulling out the Zippo in my pocket, beaming with pride over my successful ruse. “I come here all the time but I can never pull any chicks, they all seem so stuck up,” another random douche groaned.

Not wanting to jinx any future chances of talking to more girls by talking about the girls I’d already talked to, I excused myself and went to the bar. I switched from the usual Stella to a Jack-and-Coke, symbolizing my recent transformation within. A new drink for a new man. When I turned around I was face to face with a tall, dark haired beauty wearing a short white dress and slutty eyeliner. She was stunningly gorgeous, at least a nine. I clinked my glass against her martini, smiled, said, “cheers”, then walked away taking a sip. Five minutes later she came up and asked me my name. I was on fire. Guys watched jealously as I chatted it up with this fashion model. Hopefully it inspired them, as it usually does me, seeing a dork with a girl way out of his league. I never get bitter, I always think, “If he can do it, I can do it.” And here I was, doing it. She leaned over, holding her glass next to her mouth as if it were a sound-proof forcefield, then whispered, ”I hate going out around here, it’s always the same boring scene every night.”  I quickly averted my gaze from her chest to the bar, nodding in confirmation. She scanned the room, complaining about the caliber of men in Hollywood. I took the opportunity to stare at her amazing rack.

After talking for five minutes she excused herself to go “find her friends”. I returned to the table where Katie and her friends sat, now a legend. I was better at picking up chicks than that “Mystery” fruitcake who hosted the VH-1 show The Pickup Artist. And I was doing it without the cheesy hat and goggles gimmick, just my lucky euro jacket. I downed the rest of my drink and sauntered back to the bar for another.

I took an empty seat next to the actor who played Bud Bundy on Married With Children. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” I asked, embarrassed when I figured it out. He ignored my question and looked around the room for someone who actually remembered him. His weathered face hidden behind his light brown fedora was hard to recognize. Since I’d already made an ass of myself, I motioned for Katie to come by and take a picture of us. He disappeared after this, leaving a vacant seat beside mine. A few minutes later, Shiny Lips sat down next to me.

“Where’s your friend?” I asked, turning slightly to face her.

“I dunno, that’s a good question. She might be back at our apartment. . . I think I got ditched,” she responded, swiveling herself closer. Our knees interlocked between the limited space. I knew this was it – a move had to be made. I grazed my hand against her leg, then went in 90% and waited. She went in the last 10. Thanks, Hitch. We made out like teenagers.

We left the bar to a more secluded location near the back and continued to suck face. Sometime after last call, things got hazy. I can’t remember how I proposed this, but I managed to talk her into getting a cab and taking me back to her apartment (mine was over 30 minutes away). Ignoring the bombardment of calls flooding in from Katie and her sister, we escaped.

We made out the entire ride, occasionally breaking for her to give directions. Turning down the final street, I got a terrible feeling in my stomach (fear, not too much alcohol consumption). “Do you have any cash?” I asked, knowing that if we had to search for an ATM it would kill the momentum.

“No, you don’t?” she shot back, sounding annoyed.

I looked through my wallet, only to find Euros I’d forgot to convert after my recent “holiday”. I knew I’d fuck this up, because well, I always fuck it up. The cab fare was $12 and I had a 50 Euro, equal to around $75. “Hey dude, I don’t have any dollar bills but I have this” I said anxiously, holding out my foreign currency. “It’s worth like 75 bucks, man.” He looked at it carefully. “That’s like five times the fare,” I added. He snatched the bill from my hand, and Shiny Lips and I got out, mood still in tact. Or so I thought.

She stopped in front of her building, strangely hesitant. She dug through her purse and pulled out her cell phone, avoiding eye contact. I watched the cab drive away, leaving me stranded on the quietest street in Los Angeles. I foolishlycommented on the nice weather, realizing we were strangers again. It never occurred to me until just now as I’m writing this, but maybe she was creeped out by the fact that I shelled out 75 bucks to get into her apartment sooner. I always thought it made me look cool paying with Euro’s, but now it sounds kinda, desperate. We sat on the curb and talked about feelings. She was reluctant to let me inside. We started making out again, which was as exciting as going on one of those crappy carnival rides when you’re at Six Flags. We stopped kissing and went back to talking. We’d been on the curb over twenty minutes. Something was wrong.

She told me about her night before Sunset Terrace, so I told her about the blog party. I hesitated for a second, then dove in. “Actually, I have my own blog. . . I mean, my friends and I have a blog we started called OurThursday. We’re having a party/ live reading for it next Saturday. My buddy Luke is building a makeshift stage in his backyard and getting his Dad to set up a professional PA system. All of the authors are going to read stories out loud. Should be pretty fun, you should come,” I suggested, pulling up the home page on my phone to show her.

She seemed genuinely intrigued. “What kind of stories are these? That’s really cool. Can you read me one now?” she asked.

Excited, and no longer thinking about sex, I scrolled through my archive trying to pick out a good one. I went with “An Uncomfortable Haircut” since I planned on reading it at the party and had been rehearsing it earlier. The practice failed me as soon as I began. I mixed sentences and slurred together words, sounding drunker than I thought I was. I stumbled through paragraphs I’d read hundreds of times before. Paragraphs I wrote. By the time I got half way through, I’d heard nothing but a few weak chuckles I assumed were fake. I read faster, trying to get the debacle over with. I moved quickly through the jokes so there wouldn’t be that awkward silence when she didn’t laugh. The words of Katie’s sister rang through my head, “You’ll never get laid writing blogs, Brian!” I knew I’d destroyed any chance of ever seeing the inside of that apartment. At last, when I finished, I put the phone down, a broken and defeated man.

“That was great! I really enjoyed it! Very well written!” she commended. I squinted curiously, trying to tell if she was serious.

“Really? I kinda felt like I fucked it up a bit” I replied, shocked at her emphatic response.

“No, I loved it! Do you have another one you can read?”

I scrolled through the rest of my blogs, still trying to figure out if this chick was putting me on. “You seriously wanna sit through another eight minutes of me reading?”I asked. ”Yep.” she confirmed. For the second story, I went with “My Night as a Mermaid”. By the soft glow of my cell phone screen, I shared with her the romantic tale of the time I dressed up as a chick for Halloween and unsuccessfully tried to fuck other chicks. When it was over, she stood up, grabbed my arm, and led me through the front door of her complex.

“I think my roommate is home,” she said, implying there might be a threesome. She pushed the “up” arrow for the elevator and we waited impatiently. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the door and saw a young Harrison Ford winking back at me, like that scene in 500 Days of Summer. “My room is a mess” she warned. I don’t know why girls always give this precaution. Unless your place has rats living inside month-old pizza boxes like the girl Ross dated on Friends, we don’t give a shit. Even then, we don’t give a shit. Ross is just a pussy.

We snuck through the silent apartment down the hallway to her “messy” bedroom. She shut me out to “clean things up real quick”. I pulled out the condom buried in my wallet, still a little bummed that it survived three weeks in Europe. I placed it in my front left pocket and stuffed my phone and wallet in my right, creating an unbelievable bulge. This ensured no wasted time rummaging through my jeans later. She cautiously opened the door, revealing her spotless room.

My editor (Dave Glenn) bitched at me for “leaving out all the juicy details” in the first draft of this story. Since I do not have the luxury of writing under an alias that my friends, family, and co-workers do not recognize, like the endearingly sleazy Dave Glenn, I will spare you these. I’m not going to say anything about her oddly small fake breasts that made me wonder if her boobs were reeeaally small before, or if she was just worried they might get saggy later. I’m not going to mention the sound of the bed post clanging against the wall, or that I tried to make it louder so her roommate would get jealous. I’m going to skip over the part where I fantasized about her roommate opening the door to complain about the noise, then spontaneously deciding to join in. Such details would be gratuitous.

The next morning wasn’t awkward. Actually, it’s never awkward. I can’t understand why people have such a problem with this. Stop whining and have more sex. Since we already used my one condom we did um, other stuff. Afterwards, we layed in bed and talked about dreams, hopes, goals, aspirations, and all the other pointless shit that fills guys heads when we’re not horny anymore. I enjoyed her company. This had potential. She got out her laptop and searched for “Brian Pratt” on facebook, but had a hard time finding me among the hundreds of others. Since I have a crappy generic name, we logged out of her page and into mine. I found her instantly and sent her the friend request. I also gave her my business card.

Katie finally called around noon. It took all the self-control I could muster not to answer the phone like the skinny guy from Road Trip and yell out “WOOOOOOOO!” or “Guess who got laid last night!” When I asked my soon-to-be facebook friend what her cross streets were, I stupidly realized she lived next door to my old apartment. I sat on my old street for 45 fucking minutes and never noticed. Before walking out of her immaculately clean room, I suggested she give me hernumber. “It’s 3–” she started. “Okay, that’s enough, I can just guess the rest,” I blurted out, thinking I was funny and knowing I could get it later via facebook. I left with no goodbye-kiss.

It’s been four months and I’m still waiting for her to approve my friend request. She’s never called, text, emailed, or attempted to contact me in any way. After days of constantly checking, I sent her a message. It was breezy, something like “It was nice meeting you, hope you’re having a good week, maybe you should approve my friend request?” Facebook has this really irritating feature of still giving you updates on your “pending” friends. Annoyingly, it shows me every time she adds someone new to her ever-growing list of over 800 people.

I later told my friend Deborah, an expert on female sexuality, about the denied friend request to get her take on it. She thought about it for a while, then saidmatter-of-factly,“Funky Spunk.”

“What?” I asked.

“Your spunk,” she answered, surprised, as if explaining the obvious. “Maybe it’s funky. You said she gave you a blowjob in the morning, so maybe she didn’t like the taste of your spunk . . . Funky Spunk.”

“Impossible.”

Describe how you willingly and voluntarily put yourself into a great deal of pain. The kind of pain that no one would be willing to accept under ordinary circumstances. You may use any medium you see fit. There is no word minimum or maximum.

In another OurThursday first, we . . . → Read More: Challenge Blog: We All Have a Little Masochist in Us]]>

The Challenge

Describe how you willingly and voluntarily put yourself into a great deal of pain. The kind of pain that no one would be willing to accept under ordinary circumstances. You may use any medium you see fit. There is no word minimum or maximum.

The Challengers

In another OurThursday first, we are opening up this challenge not just to the authors, but to anyone who is willing to jot something down. That means you!

Please send your submission to luke@ourthursday.com. I will be posting the submissions on Friday Morning so you will have something to do while you avoid work before the weekend. To get the ball rolling, here is my submission…

====================

Luke’s Response

“Holy Shit! Did you see that?” I panted to the guy next to me as a knee in front of us exploded from the center splattering the two nearest cyclists with long gooey threads of lactic acid.

“One …. less,” was all he could manage in reply to my rhetorical question…

Three kilometers to go

Elbows come easily when every inch of distance between you and the bike in front is worth more than the balls you have squashed deep inside your groin. The trick to a good bike race elbow is to hit low on the forearm causing the most bike wiggle and put your adversary back a few irrecoverable bike lengths.

At 50 km/h, exposing even a third of your body to the surrounding wind pocket you have found yourself in, will instantly cause acute pulmonary explosion. Not a pleasant sight, I’ve seen it. Guys popping off the sides and getting blasted out of memory like that first blind date you should have never taken. The edges of the group cling on for dear life, grasping and clawing at any resemblance of space. As the pace picks up to 53km/h, there are no friends, their are no hiding spots. There is only the sweet smell of exploded lung as you flail your final elbow at the douche bag who clipped your tire as you tumble into obscurity.

Two kilometers to go

Three guys bounce to the opposite side of the road and sprint away.

You learn a lot about a person in this random situation of life. A man could go now and work his clogged artery clear to catch the breakaway, only to be out of all energy for the final sprint. He is considered a good, hard worker, and the whole world appreciates and needs what he does. But only the few guys around him at the time will ever see this, and will likely forget about it after the next two kilometers as their bodies direct all blood to their oxygen depleted, and partially functioning, brains.

Or you could just stare blankly at everybody and do nothing. You defer the decision to someone else, hoping that your chances will be better in the next fifty seconds. Maybe you have a retarded stare naturally, or maybe you play it dumb, it doesn’t matter… you will be receiving the next available elbow and your chances for a safe arrival have dropped 25% because no one likes you.

Or ideally, you organize the men around you and coordinate a ten second rotation that uses up the equivalent amount of energy in each of these human bags of protein and enertia. People love you and then they hate you when they realize the pace is now 58km/h.

1,000 meters to go

The final turn. The mysterious reason that has compelled me to spend 20 hours a week converting my gonch into a leather knife sharpener shows itself. I presume it is the finish line because the onlookers have pushed and shoved their way so densely around and in front of it, that only a herculian leap could actually get you there. Or maybe slamming head first, ass up, into them at 65km/h will get you through. One or the other.

500 meters to go

The most anxious of the group bursts out of his saddle and the sprint begins. Our once efficient air dagger that we maintained for two hours is thrown to the wayside stabbing a baby cow.

300 meters to go

The narrow country lane is filled edge to edge with cyclists who’s only emotion is maniacal lust for an imaginary line. This lust tastes good … real good, and for this reason the tongues hang out to lap up any maniacal lust that might have fallen off the guy in front.

100 meters to go

65km/h and my heart rate is bubbling past 210 beats per second. I invite you to my Zen world of body over mind. In these conditions, the brain is no match for an inflamed mound of muscle incestualy invigorated by a mix of eight liters of adrenaline and a british pint of lactic acid. Thinking with your muscles is an outrageous experience. You can’t see. The only thing you feel is the sense that you’re about to explode. And your thoughts are binary. On. Off. On. Off.

5 meters to go

The fact that the onlookers have still not moved does not concern me. It will all be over soon. All I can see are two wheels. Mine and the guy’s next to me. Fuck this guy. Who does he think he is?

3 meters to go

He pulls ahead with a lurch of his bike and suddenly the world is awash with failure and heartache. I travelled so far. I trained for so long. I worked so hard. And like a rabid bat, my hopes for redemption flutter away beyond my grasp. I consider taking him out in a spectacular climax to what would otherwise be a boring story.

1 meter to go

I often visualize what life would be like if we lived every minute of every day in the final passionate throws of a bike race sprint. Once you got over the fact that we would all be walking around with our tounges hanging out and wearing spandex, we would realize that our world suddenly became conquerable and was no longer a mystery. It is at this time that life finds new ways to exist. Like the infinitely split atom that will forever keep getting smaller, life can find new existence when pushed hard enough. Like the cold fusion power plant that I am, I chuck, hurl, roll, and muster even more energy and strength to frantically launch my body into an epileptic frenzy. I am moving so fast I appear to be a blur to the wall of onlookers I am about to eradicate. I look to my right and see myself. An exhausted vessel of emerging life, finally climaxing after many an hour of fore play

Epilogue

Standing on a podium, thats pretty cool. Having some fat guy drape a medal around your neck while you lift the flowers and shake your fists to the crowd in anger and love, oh that’s nice. But pushing yourself past a limit of pain that you thought never existed, and likely doesn’t exist anymore, is a gift and pleasure that can not be equalled by most anything on this planet. Bring on the pain.

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Brian’s Response

Lying alone in bed the morning after a one-night-stand. . .

“I got something this time. I know it. Syphilis, Chlamydia, Gonorrhea. I just hope it’s not one of the permanent ones like Herpes or  . . . no, it’s not that one. It’s definitely not that one. Although, she had a little bit of a “junky” look to her. Fuck me, she’s a heroin addict who has AIDS – and now I have it. I’m stuck with her for the rest of my life.

“Relax. Chill. It’s just sex. People have it all the time. Look at Joey from Friends – he fucked tons of chicks. You’re 27, this is what you’re supposed to be doing. You got laid last night! Be happy!”

“You’re right . . . you’re totally right . . . fuck yea, I got laid. What am I trippin for? I love my life.  She’d tell me if she had something.”

“Exactly.”

“But . . . what if she didn’t know?

“Don’t start, dude.”

“I’m not “starting”. Im just saying – sometimes people can have it without even knowing. Remember the article we read last time? About how some people experience no symptoms at all? Or the symptoms are so minor they go undetected. What if she’s one of those? . . . I’m just gonna check something real quick.”

“I swear to God, if you go on Google – I’m out. Seriously. Kiss the voice of reason good-bye. Remember the article we read on STRESS? And how it can lead to more serious health issues than the ones you’re worried about? How you can manifest very real illnesses from stressing over nonexistent ones?” Is that what you want? I don’t think you’re liver and lungs can handle another six months of paranoia.”

“I’m not going on Google. . . ”

“Good. Go grab some lunch or something.”

“Dear God, I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but if  . . ”

“Ohhhh Myyy Goddd!! Are you serious dude? You’re a fucking Atheist! Really? You’re soo scared about it that you’re gonna pray to a God you don’t even believe in? You’re a fucking idiot.”

” . . if you can hear me, I’d like to make a promise. If you get me out of this, I swear I won’t go past 2nd base anymore – until marriage. I’ll get married, be faithful, and raise a big happy family that goes to church every Sunday. . . and I’ll give 10 . .  20 . . . 30 percent of my paycheck to the Church . . . or to the AIDS foundation? Whichever you prefer. We can work that out. Maybe a split.”

“I knew you couldn’t fucking handle this. I warned you last night that you’d regret it in the morning. It takes six months for a conclusive HIV test. It’s been about 14 hours. Have fun waiting.”

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Random Dude’s Response

My body fills with pain every time you ask one of these retarded Challenge Blogs and I want to yank out my own scrotum and serve it to you just to show that the pain I endure from that procedure pails in comparison to the pain of Challenge Blogs.