I had a bit of a rough weekend with no time to write so I'm sharing a post from my old blog with you today.
Many years ago I went on a date with this guy. The date was so unspectacular that I literally cannot remember anything about it – nothing at all except that I parked my car in a green P lot near Yonge & College. Actually – that’s one thing I remember – he didn’t drive. And y’all know how I feel about that right??
He was a singer and male singers tend to annoy me. They just think they’re so NICE. Even when they look like the bottom of my shoe. This guy wasn’t that horrid but he definitely thought he was destined for superstardom and that I should count myself lucky that I was given an audience with him.
Anyway. Like I said, I wasn’t feeling this guy. So I thought I'd try a theory I read about that was supposed to guarantee you'd never hear from a guy again: just f*ck him. Literally, not figuratively. If you go on one date with a guy and you never want to see him again, sleep with him and chances are he’ll disappear from the face of the earth.
So I brought him home with me. The foreplay must have been weak because I don’t remember it at all. What I do remember is the histrionics that ensued. Once I ascertained that he was inside me (and trust me I had to do an extremity-count because I couldn’t feel much) I was absolutely astounded by the caterwauling that went on. He was bucking and weaving, moaning and panting and sweating. And sweating. There was so much sweat I have to say it twice. This dude sweated out alllllll my edges. It was about 10,000,000 kilowatts of energy to light a 40-watt bulb. You know what I'm saying? I was completely flabbergasted. And thank G-d for that because if not I would have fallen asleep, it was that bad. I just laid there, watching this bead of sweat collecting at the tip of his chin and thinking “yes work that little d*ck boy”. And if you know me at all you know I don’t talk like that so trust me when I tell you it was so crazy it gave me multiple personalities. Anyway, to add insult to injury the shit didn’t go on very long either. No length, no girth, no stamina. Poor child. I feel sorry for his future wife.
It was over, he was wack, I was sleepy (and obviously needed a shower). He left, promising to call me the next day. And I guess the theory was correct because then…and THEN… and then he never called me!
p.s. I saw him a few months later and some party or another. He made the mistake of trying to speak to me. I gazed at him coolly over the tip of my cigarette and said “anything you have to say to me you should have said when you called me the day after you fucked me. Oh – wait, you didn’t. So please don’t speak to me.” Was that rude??
