So two years after the end of a really bad relationship, really bad, I mean really really bad. Two years of not dating in my mid twenties. Two wonderful years of solitude and learning and growing and being thin, traveling alone, getting a huge tattoo (in 1997 it was huge and different to have a lower back tat, the term Tramp Stamp didn’t even exist.)
I finally decided that it was time to start dating again. (*Sigh* so happy to be happily married now and not having ,to go through that crap any more)
People are seldom what they seem. This guy, seemed good looking, fairly successful and
well balanced.
Hmmm, not so much. We go to a Four Brothers Pizza Inn (totally classy joint which you can tell because it’s an Inn not just a restaurant) for our first *date*. When the bill came he asked to split the tab. I was raised very traditionally and if I ask you out I pay, not ‘hey lets split this’. I was appalled but apparently lacking that certain *FUCK YOU* kind of self esteem…I went for my wallet and graciously obliged. The second date was at a hunting preserve where he was a guide, that one went okay, so we’re at 50%. No hunting took place but I should have Cheneyed him right then and there, if I had known what that was way back then.
And then there was the THIRD date. Oh. My. Fucking. God. What a disaster. It was take out and movie rentals at his house his parents house.
‘Mom, where’s my sweatshirt? what? YOU MEAN YOU DIDN’T DO MY LAUNDRY?’
Take out was no big deal (I don’t think I had to pay this time, at least) and it was no big deal that he lived with his parents after all I was at the time happily living in my parents house, but to act like a *spoiled little bitch about to get your period for the fist time* because MOMMY hadn’t washed your god fucking awful sweatshirt, please I am a chick and I never and I MEAN NEVER get angry that my fucking SWEATSHIRT isn’t *READY* especially if someone else is doing my laundry. (which by the way hasn’t happened since I was 13) But then I don’t really wear sweatshirts either, just a personal choice. So maybe I am missing something like when a guy puts one on how totally hot they become or something. I really hate men is Sweat’s especially sweat pants.
This night was quickly going down the shitter.
As we are watching the movie I was lying on my side and had taken my earrings off because they were poking holes in my skull. Great, movie done, *yawn* time to go. But apparently he had other ideas. He started pawing at me trying to kiss me, I tried to oblige but really just wanted to leave, but he basically ingnored the fact that I was trying to leave, as if there was no possible way that I could resist being in his totally hot presence, being the catch that he was and all, even with out the awsome pheromone inducing sweatshirt.
So I kind of tried to play kissy face for a while and then it happened the thing all women can’t stand.
If my hand is not on your dick I am sure I am quite aware of it and probably mean it to be that way. I don’t think there has ever been a moment for any woman, when they think to themselves, ‘Oh Thank god you remembered because I totally forgot to put my hand on your willy!’ Yes he put my hand on it. I should have just punched him in the balls for that cute little maneuver, but nooooooo, I was being stupid nice. By this time my skin is crawling and all I want to do is run screaming at first possible break in this stomach turning episode.
Then, something really disturbing happened. Apparently my denim clad thigh
has the sexual magnetism of a cat in heat. He proceded to dry hump my thigh until he let loose with all of his manly sex goo all over my thigh,
the jeans not longer dry, fiending for a cigarette, I bolted and never ever intended to see him again.
I then had the pleasure of shamefully skulking into my parent’s house with my now stiffening stained jeans covered by my jacket.
I was at the time bartending at my brothers bar and also dating the next loser in my life (and last! Whoo hoo!) The problem with working in a place like that is anyone can come in, even Thigh Rapists. There he was the next night, sauntering in like the disgusting prick he is king of the jungle just having marked his territory, that territory being my thigh I guess. So he walks right up to me interrupts the conversation and then proudly presents my earrings to me in front of all of my co-workers and says ‘You left THESE at my house last night’, all proud and pathetic.
And then the crazy came out. He started calling me 3-4 times during my shift, where I was always too busy to talk, and usually that wasn’t a lie. Saying how he wanted an explanation, that he deserved that at least. My feeling was that after you defile some ones favorite pair of (not just jeans) LEVIS, you deserve absolutely nothing short of a bitch slap.
The last time we spoke he called me at 8 am Sunday morning, I think I probably got to bed at about 6 am after working all night. ‘Hey I’m just down the road and thought I would stop by with some bagels’ ghhhhgeeefhgjgh
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, HOW DID HE FIND OUT WHERE I LIVE.
Me: ‘Don’t come by I am in bed and just went to sleep at 6 am’
He: ‘I deserve an explanation as to why you won’t see me any more’
Me: ‘After three dates, I don’t feel you really deserve any thing, its not like we’ve been seeing each other for months now. I am tired and want to sleep and just not ready for another thigh raping a relationship.’
CLICK
Why, why why WHY, Did I not tell him what a huge turn off it is to be dry humped into humiliation by some one you hardly know, not to mention its just plain RUDE.
And as my second to last act of revenge, I can’t even remember his name.
My last act of revenge, telling people about it.
