Yep, you’re still there.
It’s 9:00. I’m late for work. You know, work? What normal people do? Folk like me who aren’t about to close their big record deal. Who don’t wear, oh my God, are those pink flip flop slippers? People who aren’t connected to everybody who’s anybody in LA and yet don’t want to get out of bed and go back to the ex-boyfriend’s house to sleep it off.
(I know, I know, CL readers. Listen to your bartender. I got the Hi sign and the wave off when she came over and started chatting, but let’s face it, it’s rare I get any woman into a convo at a bar and she seemed cute and bright. Conversation was a little weird, but that I chalked up to the screwdrivers she was knocking back. When I left and she wanted to follow me home, I actually felt like somebody liked me. When she told me on the doorstep about how she just wanted to stay a little while and sleep and how could she trust me?, my inner gentleman jumped up (bastard) and did the chivalrous thing.)
Yep, still there.
Thought you might want to sleep alone, but when you peeled off your clothes and slid into my bed, and beckoned me to come over, I thought different. Actually, I thought, “Well, this situation is quite probably fucked, so I might as well be, if that’s the way she wants it.” After all, you’ve got a pretty smokin’ little body there, Miss Five-Foot-Two. Nice little ass, great 38Ds, I thought, maybe heaven is smiling down and rewarding me.
Or punishing me.
First it was the limits. “Hold me. Don’t touch me!” See how that’s a conundrum, babe? “Don’t kiss me. Can you rub my back?” Sorry about using that trial-size shampoo to do it, by the way, but it was dark and I was a little tired. Has anyone ever told you to shut the hell up? I sure wanted to. Remember when I rolled over and seemed to go to sleep? I’m fairly sure the FBI and the Bush administration are not trying to have you killed. Not sure about the Mexican Mafia, though. Do they have a branch here?
Then there was the hacking.
Attractive, really. Hocking a loogie every few minutes and jumping out of bed to hurl it into the sink. I guess I should be grateful they didn’t end up on my floor. At least I got to check you out each time you got up. Then again, that just compounded my frustration a bit. Then just as I was sure you were finally going to shut up and sleep, you had to steer my hands to your ass and say What The Fuck Does A Girl Have To Do To Get Spanked Around Here?
Get the hell out of my bed. I am not a hotel. An hotel. Fuck, whatever.
So I gave up and spanked, only to have even my spanks criticized. Too high, harder, too low, my GOD don’t you ever shut up? Then you grabbed my wrist and showed me exactly where, and I had to regroup. Let me get this straight, I thought. Don’t kiss me, spank me, don’t touch me, rub me, oh and by the way, finger me. M’Kayyyyyy.
How am I gonna get this crazy bipolar schizo woman out of my goddamn house?
You seemed to like the handjob and guided me nicely to get the two fingers up your back Whazzinga. Of the eight tortuous hours we spent together, this was actually nice. See, women think that for men, it’s all about the sex, and the whole night is a mission to get to this moment, and we don’t care about you as a person. I never thought I would categorize myself among that type of man, but last night, at 4:00am, with you finally squirming and making a noise other than your incessant babble, smelling like casino shampoo and bucking your ass back against my fingers, I realized this might actually be worth it. You might actually be a firecracker in bed, and save this whole fucked up sitch. Shame on me for being that kind of man, but I paid my dues for Chrissakes.
But then you ruined even that moment.
Yes, take a shower, here’s a towel. No, you can’t sleep another hour. Fuck.
Suddenly you sat straight up, mid-orgasm (or so I thought, guess not), and quizzed me about my penis. Specifically, had I just had it inside you? Okay, now listen. It may not be the fucking Chrysler Building of Cocks, but believe me (since you didn’t touch it all night) it’s a bit bigger than two fingers and you would definitely know if it had been poking around someplace. Back into Don’t Touch Me mode, and then, blissfully, a roll over with no talking. Now, gentle readers, I just want to point out that at this point, a lesser man, a diabolical man, faced with a nice round ass would have thrown caution to the wind and headed off to glory in either of those warm squishy spots I’m sure you can imagine. But no, our hero, with some scrap of honor left and gratified for the silence at last, figures on at least two hours of sleep and sticks to his side.
Hack, cough, spit. How did I take home Bill the Cat? Jesus! Coming back from the bathroom spouting more paranoid gibberish, and No, for the fifth time, I don’t have any pot, you actually have the gall to say you Can’t Believe I Didn’t Fuck You Just Now.
Snore. You snore. When you don’t talk, you snore.
No, I don’t know where you’re going to sleep the rest of the morning. No, I don’t care. No, I won’t call you.
Will you please get the hell out of my house and not remember the address?