Let me tell you a story about guy who thought he was going to get laid.
To preface, I should warn all young gents that if a girl comes over to your house to talk, you’re not going to have sex. A lot of times girls come over to guy’s house to “talk” when she really does everything else, but that’s not what I’m referring to. I’m talking about when a girl is next to tears because she has no one to talk to so she picked the guy who a) she could easily resist their advances because the guy just does not do it for her, or the more archaic b) she knew the guy would keep it in pants because he is nice. When a girl comes over to talk, she will talk and leave. No, I sorry, she isn’t coming back just because you decided to use her arm to show off your size. I know, you tried to say all the right things but she just wasn’t feeling it. She must be a gay nun to able to resist the “charm.” I won’t tell any one you were crying. What? But I thought that’s what the tissues were… oh.
I fair recently had a situation where I had no one to talk to. I was about to scream into my pillow, hoping for the return of prowling roommates, when John came to mind. I knew that John was someone that I could so easily resist that I might as well have been a gay nun. After all, this is a guy who swore up and down that he knew a piece of female anatomy that was more sensitive than the g-spot. In my defense, I let him state his case out the sheer smidgeon of a doubt that I might not be right. Then he went on to describe the g-spot with out ever calling it by its right name (Dr. Gräfenberg and Dr. Skeene are not amused). I’m guessing he failed anatomy a few times, but that’s just a guess.
Poor kid, a girl who fits his little fetish dreams was about to arrive on his doorstep just to talk about his friend.
Now, hold on Roxy. That’s just cruel. Why in the world would you go over to some guy’s place just to talk about his friend? Isn’t that just a little bit meaner than usual?
Yes, it is very mean. I had only been in Louisville for a few weeks and knew practically no one. My roommates (old and new) were (are some of) the closest people to me, and I got really mad when Mister I-think-I-know-everything-so-I’m-going-ignore-facts decided that the best way for Whitney, one of the nicest roommates you could ever have, to get over her exe was to belittle her in a crowded public place. I was not amused by the lack of empathy, so I may have been meaner than usual.
Getting back on track, I had just arrived on his doorstep after some how convincing myself that I would rather talk to an asshole who wouldn’t care than a guy who would care too much. (Oh Female Logic, will you ever cease to amaze me?) When he opened the door, I believe the first words to escape my mouth were “I need someone who doesn’t give a shit to talk to, so you’re going have to some pants on,” as I looked towards the ceiling to prevent the nightmarish images from being burned into my retinas.
After talking for few hours, I decided that it was time to go home and that John dominates the conversation way too much for real debate. Unfortunately for me, John was busy trying to figure out how to make me stay. Imagine my surprise when John decided to steal my slippers. Yes, I went there in slippers. (Remember? I wasn't trying to sex him up.) In order to get my damn slippers back I had to fight! Fight for my right to go home! Fight for my right to choose who I sleep with! Fight for my right to wear wonderful slippers with a cow on them! I know that the whole fight set up was so he could pin me down and change my mind, but I was not going anywhere without the comfiest slippers to ever walk the planet. He may have been a wrestler in high school, but I have learned nothing beats the power of a well-timed, blood-curdling scream, especially late at night when people are sleeping.
I will admit, up until this point, I had been playful. He hadn’t done anything so far that hadn’t stopped as soon as I said “no.” I am flirt. Sometimes I’m such a flirt that it becomes second nature. I personally blame a certain young choir boy for teaching me to flirt, but you could argue that someone would have taught me the art eventually.
Before I go on to the key turning point of “Okay this guy isn’t half bad” to “Go rot in Hell,” I have to explain several differences between the girl who doesn’t want anything to do with you and the girl that you could so hate fuck.
The girl that you could so hate fuck, probably drew a line in the sand within five minutes of meeting you. The girl, who doesn’t want anything to do with you, usually acts nice and sweet until she spends more time with you and realizes that it is not worth it. The girl that you could so hate fuck, will not admit nor deny that she wants to hate fuck you too. The girl that would rather jump off a cliff into a pit of rape than have sex with you, will let you know that if you come too close, she’ll have to make like a monk and burn herself.
Steering back from another tangent, (and I’m really sorry if this too ranty) some how John, the wrestler who can kiss his mom’s ass, had managed to pin me down and bite me on the fucking rib cage in one, fluid motion. This is the point where animalistic instinct takes over and it’s not the sexy kind. Imagine, a female hulk, except sexier, shorter, and with a smaller waistline. Teeth bared, claws out, and a low, growling noise served enough warning for John to not go for a second bite and to let angry woman go. After several apologies and a 911 threat later, we came to a mutual understanding.
The moral of this story (and the mutual understanding) is “Unless there’s a safety word involved, No means No, Bitch.”
Sincerely,
“Apparently I’m a gay nun” Roxy