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The Girlfriend Weekend

I ended a recent blog with “It may be time to cut the bullshit and get a girlfriend. Being single is getting old.” This past month I decided to take the plunge and become an unofficial member of the couple’s world–for a day or two.

I met Kenzie–engaged at the time–three years ago at a bar in Hollywood. After sporadic episodes Facebooking and texting, we finally started dating last month. I was stoked on her. She had a feisty energy, and though blonde and ditzy, she wasn’t one of those mindless bimbos with a mind the size of an almond, whose sole aspiration in life was being as sexy as Halle Berry by age forty. Kenzie worked hard, communicated well, and had long-term goals. She’d made over 70K last summer from sales alone.

We’d fooled around some, but after two dates I still hadn’t pressure-washed the quiver bone in the squish mitten, which meant I was still interested. Some friends had planned a fifteen-person ski trip to Park City, Utah, for New Year’s Eve. Since Kenzie’s family was from Salt Lake City, she was there for the holidays and down to party with us for her final two nights in Utah. Her family was Mormon, but since Kenzie had boozed it up with me on both dates and done some serious pre-marital kissing, she was obviously a bad Mormon, and normal.

I had tingles as our van pulled up to her mom’s pad on the outskirts of Salt Lake City. Kenzie was attractive, fun, down to party, and I’ll be honest–I was looking forward to having a couple girlfriendy nights with her. She was wearing a black and white top with black leggings to outline her toned body. She introduced me to her mom as we stood in the doorway to say her goodbyes. To strategically evade any unnecessary small talk, after shaking hands with mom, I quickly asked to help Kenzie with her bags, which were already outside. A breakdown of Kenzie’s “things.”:

-Journey’s bag containing one pair of leather boots

-Giant Macy’s bag containing what appeared to be laundry

-Giant white canvas bag with more clothes

-Snowboard boots (unpacked)


Apparently Kenzie had never heard of a suitcase. Not to mention she’d brought enough clothes to last her a month. As it was, I tossed all her crap in the backseat as everyone in the van gloated at me in hilarity.

Kenzie had revealed to me on our second date that she had A.D.H.D. and didn’t like taking Adderall despite the protests of her mom. Having worked as a camp counselor in my high school and college years, I’d always had my doubts about “A.D.D.” and “A.D.H.D.” and any medicine that went with it. The diagnosed campers required pills everyday at the same time, yet their volatile behavior never changed in the hours following pill poppage. Since then, I’ve been convinced that all those “conditions” were the parents’ fault for spoiling their kids and treating them like puppies. A.D.D. was simply created by doctors so the parents wouldn’t feel like failures. If my kids ever whine about not buying them that toy at the supermarket, I’m sending them to their room to make them think for an hour.

Since Kenzie had contributed an acceptable 60% to our conversations, I figured she was fine, with maybe a mild chatting disorder. The forty-minute van ride, however, was a different story. Other than a five-minute texting period, Kenzie blabbered on like the Facebook founder on speed, while the rest of the van sat quietly, occasionally nodding and saying, “Yeah.” She’s just excited, I thought–way too early to freak out.

Situated on a bluff overlooking a lake, the three-story cabin was epic. We got greedy on the first-come-first serve room situation and ended up settling for the TV room with its rickety foldout couch after all the good rooms were snagged.

After a few games of flip-cup and a failed rager in the spa (the house manager threatened to kick us out for disturbing the peace), Kenzie and I returned to our room and fucked. Since I’d built up a monstrous amount of horniness from rubbing up on her ass all night, I only lasted about five minutes. Her butt was so bootylicious that I made her do the work while fucking her doggie. Overall however, Kenzie was average in bed. She blew me, but I could tell she was one of those girls who hated giving head, but only did it because it was expected. Girls wonder all the time about what men want in bed. It’s quite simple really: WORSHIP OUR PENISES. Or at least act like it. Tell us things like “I want your cock in my mouth…NOW” or “I love your schlong. OH YES!” or “Mmmm Yummy!” And this isn’t a fetish; it’s Male Sexuality 101. I’ll take the dick-worshipping 6 over the starfish 8 any day.

Sadly, after sex I thought back on the happenings on the last few hours and realized I was already growing sick of Kenzie. Over the course of dinner, flip-cup, and jacuzzi time, her conversation hogging had risen to an unprecedented 90%. I had simply hallucinated myself into tolerating it because I wanted to get laid. Often I just phased her out and answered each blathering pause with a robotic “Uh huh.” In addition, Kenzie was super clingy, insisting on holding hands and spooning at every damn opportunity. While I’m a fan of hand-holding, there’s a time, place, and mood for it. If I’m taking a dump, I do not want to be holding anyone’s hand (long story).

She wanted me to spoon her to sleep, but it’s impossible for me to ever fall asleep spoon-sleeping; I need my freedom. I tactically evaded her demands by insisting that I could only sleep facing the other direction, which was partly true. By the way, I was joking about the dump thing, but I bet she would have been down for a blumpkin. As it was, I eventually drifted off to sleep, untouched.

I awoke in the middle of the night because I had to pee. Before I was able to realize I was completely awake, I felt it. My right ass check and most of my leg was resting in cold wetness. The bed was soaked. I didn’t want to turn on the lights because Kenzie might have woken up and started talking. So I went to the bathroom, placed my palm on my damp ass, and sniffed my hand. It was urine.

Had it not been our first time fucking, I would have ditched the bed and crashed on the couch. But I had to spend the entire next day with Kenzie–and night–and I didn’t want to make her feel insecure, which would have surely amplified her jabbering another six percent. Plus, I’ve slept in worse human waste than urine, so this was nothing for me. I found a dry spot on the bed and passed out.

Kenzie didn’t wake up with a whimper like most chicks. She awoke in a flurry, tossing sheets boisterously aside. Then her sense of touch must have registered as she began to shriek. “What the fuck! Why is everything soaking?”

As I lay on my sliver of dryness, I looked at her. “You tell me.”

She got up and lowered her head to sniff our raft of a bed. “I can’t smell anything. Is it pee?”


She laughed nervously. “Well it’s not mine! I’ve never wet the bed.”

“Uh. I’m pretty sure it’s yours. You slept in it.”

“Oh my God! I never do that! I promise.” She hesitated a moment, then scurried over to her pile of shit and threw on some clothes. As she retreated past me to make her way to the bathroom, she said again, “I swear this has never happened before.”

We didn’t talk about the incident the rest of the morning. After a quick breakfast, our whole crew got dressed and took the van to the ski resort. Kenzie held my hand for the entire hour-long journey, but I think her bed-wetting had shut her up some; her yappage simmered.

As expected, all my friends ditched us before we even got on the first ski lift. It took us nearly an hour to get on the mountain because I had to take a mammoth-sized shit, and during that time Kenzie had run into an old high school buddy working the resort quickie mart. I was polite at first and lingered around the two acting entertained by their Ohmigod-saturated conversation, but after about three minutes, I ended my act and retreated to a nearby bench to play Angry Birds on my phone.

At this point, Kenzie had lost any mystique she’d ever had. She was more clingy than an eighth grader at the movies, couldn’t shut up, had wet the bed, and was already trying to make plans with me for her trip to Big Bear at the end of February. I’d already started the mental countdown until my freedom–twenty more hours. Boarding with her was fun, except for when we took the lifts up because I had to sit next to her and do more listening. I’d provide examples of her mindless chatter, but I wasn’t paying attention half the time, so it all blends together into one giant blob of “I know, right.”

We left the mountain around four and returned to the cabin. I demanded alone time in the room, so I could nap in peace. Though before doing so, I swindled a twenty-minute back massage out of Kenzie. At first I though it was her thing considering how touchy-feely she was, but ten minutes in she deflated my tranquility by saying, “My turn next.” Crap. Back in Elementary School, every year for Valentine’s Day I was one of those kids who got angry when an envelope wasn’t bulging with heart candies, even though I never gave my classmates anything. Same goes for massages–I’m a huge moocher.

After my massage was over, I wanted nothing but to sleep in peace, so I promised to return the favor “later” (which she predictably forgot about). Kenzie left the room to shower and throw the yellowed sheets in the washer. I slept.

An hour later, everyone decided to bombard our room to utilize the movie theatre. Some of the other girls were curious as to why we were already washing the sheets after one measly night, but Kenzie laughed it off and made up some fib about them smelling.

I was starving at this point, and I whined to Kenzie about my hunger. If she was willing to give me a massage, surely she’d make me food. I was right. There was next to nothing left in the pantry after our carnage from the previous night, but Kenzie was still able to whip me up a quesadilla.

Movie night was a major bust. Us eight men couldn’t even get the system to work, so we tried to watch it in the main living room, but the DVD froze after twenty minutes. To make matters worse, Kenzie had serious gas, unleashing three or four bombs. After each one she’d whiff the air away with her arm and say, “Woo!” At least she owned up to it. One of my peeves is when chicks clearly were the peef culprits but try and pin it on the guys. At least Kenzie had proper fart etiquette.

As I trudged through the stink, I realized the eight Utah beers I’d consumed hadn’t given me even the slightest buzz (Beer in Utah is a pathetic 3.2% because it supposedly helps suppress drunken orgies.). It was approaching midnight, and I was trying to desperately work up some horniness so I could bone again. But I was doomed. After the DVD/farting debacle, we retreated to the room and got ready for bed. When we lay down Kenzie tried to spoon me, and because I’m such a nice guy, I permitted it for a couple minutes. Then I used my sleep-the-other-way lifeline and passed out.

We dropped off Kenzie the next morning on the way to another ski resort. As I sat next to her on that final ride, I was seriously baffled at how in the hell this girl still had any attraction for me. I hadn’t cracked a single joke; I was boring, emitting no energy whatsoever; and I’d acted more needy than Ochocinco at a press conference. Come to think of it, in the last twenty hours I’d barely even said a full sentence to her. I was almost trying to repel Kenzie. Yet there she sat, still holding my hand, busting out her cell phone calendar to discuss future ski trips.

Her uncle lived nearby, so we dropped her off at a 7-11. Her uncle was running late, but Kenzie was cool with us taking off anyway. We left her at the 7-11 curb with her five bags piled up in a titanic heap. I noticed all my friends laughing at us in our picturesque farewell. I gave her a kiss goodbye, made fake plans for kicking it next week, and I drove off.

The rest of the trip was a blast. I took the ski lifts in freedom, partied with my friends, and embraced my last few days of winter break. Maybe Kenzie was a freakish outlier or something, but I’ve decided to retract any statement I made about “needing a girlfriend.”

I really think I’m cursed or something. There’s no other way to explain how every time I get even the slightest aspiration to date a girl, she mutates into a blabbering bed-wetter. Or a psycho cokehead who chases me through streets. Or a needy texter with a fishy past. Or a Vegas girl who puts on fifty pounds in eight months. And on. And on.

Yet the scary part is that in all this mess, there’s always been one common denominator: me. Clearly I’m doing something wrong. Bars, clubs, online dating. I’ve put in hours upon hours into this, and though fun and educational, nothing ever pans out. It might be time to head to the Mojave for a meditation course. Anything to rattle my funk. Back to the drawing board.

Published inDave Glenn