Thursday, March 29, 2012

the great penis avenger.

OH MAN, this shit right here. at one-thirty sunday morning i was up doing laundry and obviously winning at life when i got a text message from an asshole. the laundry room in my building is fucking terrifying. there's a scary storage room attached to it and it's right off the alley and that shit is NOT BRIGHT ENOUGH, plus it's right next to the apartment of a dude who just happens to be having loud animal sex every motherfucking time i run out of clean underwear that actually fit. seriously, every time i'm unknowingly loading my clothes into a machine that one of the frat boys in my building has either pissed or vomited in (TRUE STORY), it's always to the soundtrack of loud-ass grunts and vaginal histrionics. whoever that dude is fucking straight up yodels at the top of her lungs to overcompensate for what i can only assume is weak sex. because if it was that goddamned amazing she'd be in a corner shuddering and crying or some shit, not reciting lines from what can only be the worst porn script ever written. "ooh baby, oh yeah, OH YEAH, give it to me, daddy. fuck me harder!" like she's reading them off cue cards, which is a hilarious visual. also, he shouts "say you like it!" a lot. i obviously need to start dragging my shit to the laundromat.

so this is what that text message said: "hey girl, i want to fuck that juicy ass of yours again. i need to redeem myself from my failure the last time." followed almost immediately by: GIVE ME ANOTHER SHOT AT THAT ASS, GIRL. I COULDN'T KEEP IT UP. I CAN'T LIVE WITH THAT. today, at this exact moment in the history of my life, there is not a single person on earth who should be sending me a message like that. i swear on my diaphragm that i haven't been withholding some lurid sexcapades from the internet, i promise. no craigslist dirtbags, no drunken hookups, no regrettable sleeping with an ex who has already moved on while i, sadly have not. even when i peeled apart the layers of my brain and fine tooth combed them for someone from whom this message would be appropriate i just came up with NADA. the last dude i was banging was three months ago, and he dumped me for some broad on twitter. aside from sexting your dad pictures of my nice tits in a hot bra, i'm not carrying on any relationships that are even remotely sexual at the moment. so who in the fuck sent this shit?!

i have a three-day text and/or call rule that you kids really ought to consider adopting: if i meet a dude who has expressed an interest (real or imagined) in hollering at my snatch (or ass) and phone numbers are exchanged, if at any point there is a lapse in contact for three consecutive days I DELETE HIS FUCKING NUMBER AND PUT MY AD BACK ON CRAIGSLIST. i already know: that shit is (dramatic sigh) so hard. and i've made every excuse you're about to come at me with: he's busy, he's playing "the game," he's waiting to see if you get in touch with him, et al. he totally likes you, it's just that his grandmother is sick and his babymama is stressing him out and as soon as he gets his tax return he's going to make it up to you and take you to a fancy dinner and boring yawn asleep snore. i've also heard that bullshit about hanging on to his number just in case he ever calls again because even though you've decided he's unworthy of your attention after the past two weeks of sloppy, sad unanswered voicemails you left for a person you SLEPT WITH ONLY ONE TIME, you need to know it's him so you make sure not to answer the phone.

get the fuck out with that. let's be honest with each other, okay? we keep those numbers because one day we will be drunk or stoned and lonely as fuck and saddened by all of the happy couples surrounding us at mia francesca sharing their spaghetti like lady and the goddamned tramp while we eat an entire entree by our goddamned selves, and we will take our sad asses home and get out our phones and find that fucking number and text something stupid in the middle of the night like, "dude, are you awake?" to which he will respond "ON MY WAY" while clenching his car keys between his teeth and putting on sweatpants with one hand and rifling through his condom drawer with the other. not that i would know anything about that. no, i have NEVER IN MY LIFE frantically run around my apartment at three in the morning hiding soiled clothes in the bathtub and books and dishes in the oven after saying some dumb shit like "just thinking about you!" to a dude who didn't fucking care about me enough to legally park his car on my block. that's right, folks, "i left my hazards on" has been said to me in the midst of foreplay.

the three-day rule eliminates the humiliation that is a result of the damage we cause ourselves at the hands of someone who is just looking for thirty minutes (twenty, let's be serious) with our naked babymakers. besides, you don't answer any numbers you don't recognize anyfuckingway. I LOVE THAT SHIT, a bitch who won't answer when i call her from my office because she hasn't programmed it in her fucking phone is all of a sudden worried about misplacing the number of a dude who fell asleep while going down on her?! stop that. also, when they inevitably do reach out again, you can be all "i'm sorry, who is this from?" without lying. which is exactly what i typed while standing under the buzzing fluorescent lights while leaning against the sloshing of the wash cycle in my house sweater and inside pants. nothing like thinking about getting your juicy booty fucked (barf) while in your cat hair covered sleep clothes. "FUCK ME LIKE A LITTLE SLUT!" yelled the woman in apartment 102. indeed.
remember that dude i went out with last january? no, not this past january, the one before. JANUARY TWO THOUSAND ELEVEN. the one who declared he was in possession of an "amazing penis?" well, he couldn't keep that penis erect, and all that time i'd spent worrying that ordering a catfish sandwich that came with coleslaw on top would result in projectile diarrhea drenching his amazing testicles was in vain. i'm never sad to unzip some baggy jeans to find a sadly deflated balloon animal in place of a massively engorged erection. especially if my jeggings are still on. that image of the pouting woman rolled over to the still-made side of the bed while her manfriend hangs his head in shame on the rumpled side makes me fucking laugh. is it really that tragic? man, bitches is tired. and the sooner i can kick you and your bruised ego out i can retrieve my garbage bags filled with unread magazines from where i hid them on the back porch so you wouldn't think i was on the verge of being buried alive by my own trash. i never hold a fucking grudge, i'm just happy enough to know that there was a naked dude in my room and i don't have to worry about pissing razor blades in a few days or stripping off my dirtbag bedsheets. then i holler at la taqueria.

do you get sex do-overs in real life? here's the thing: I AM PRETTY TERRIBLE AT SEX. i bore easily, my fetishes are gross and awkward to talk about, this surgically-enhanced butthole means i'd probably shit on any penis that crossed its threshold, i laugh inappropriately, the list goes on. i'll do pretty much anything asked, but for no more than twenty minutes. i'm not kidding, son. i set a motherfucking timer. "listen, bro. you have until 9:26 to pour battery acid in my eye while i fellate an eggplant or whatever it is you said you wanted, and then i'm putting my clothes back on so we can eat some nachos and watch the end of this mavericks game." i would much rather have phone sex twice a week and maybe mutually masturbate every once in a while if i'm in a good mood. if there have been disappointed customers i don't know about it, but that's mostly because i'm an insensitive jerk. seriously, though, i don't know that i've ever been sitting in bed scoffing at how much funnier saturday night live would be if i got a chance to write that shit and thought to myself, "hey girl, remember that one guy who got up and left right in the middle of that godawful handjob we gave him? omg, i wonder if he's awake right now?!"

how would that bullshit even work? do i bring a scorecard from the last attempt and see if dude gets better marks this time? does he just have to maintain an erection to pass the test, or does he have to, ahem, cross the proverbial finish line? do i take the average of the first and second scores? did i really have almost-sex with a dude who says "juicy ass?" if i say yes, how clean does my floor have to be? WHY AM I EVEN DEBATING THIS?! my default setting is raging piece of shit asshole, so after several painfully uncomfortable text exchanges (eg, sam: "who is this from?" sad balloon animal: "you know who this is! the one from match.com!" sam: "i deleted my profile a year ago." sad balloon: "we met in january." sam: "OF LAST YEAR?" sad animal: "yeah, uhh, sorry. i guess it's been awhile?") we continued back and forth like that until "the hills have thighs" came on cinemax and ii wrote a pro and con list on the back of one of those magazines i would have to hide in the hall closet if i decided to let him come over. the only pro was "i'm bored." my vagina decided against his invitation.

because even if there were a #fuckfail haunting me EVERY SINGLE NIGHT FOR A YEAR AND A FUCKING HALF, i would never have the unbridled audacity to 1 think that the person whose boner i'd killed would still have my stupid number programmed into his goddamned phone or 2 think that he might be interested in GIVING ME ANOTHER SHOT AT THAT DICK. (it broke my heart to just write that, gross.) even if it crossed my mind for a split second the next mental image would be one of him getting married to a nice girl who bakes regularly. a year and a goddamned half ago. i'd never assume that asshole was just sitting around waiting for his delicates to dry and listening to his neighbor's hooker scream, "fill me with your big, hard cock, big boy!" at the top of her lungs just waiting for me to give him another chance to wish i was a big plate of nachos instead of a wilted latex giraffe. he finally got the picture that i wasn't going to collapse in a fit of giggles and ask if he still remembered my doorbell code at the slightest provocation and sent a picture of his semi-flaccid penis. unimpressed, i told him that i was going to bed and maybe he could text me in another year if he felt like smooshing a mostly-empty condom against the inside of thigh again. and then i told him to "keep his (dick)head up." and deleted his fucking number. AGAIN.