“I’m asking, would you bunk with me tonight.” –Lurleen Lumpkin
When I said I'm not used to getting hit on, I wasn't kidding. At least once a month, I'll be telling my wife Becky a story that happened at work or 10 years ago, and she'll say "You idiot. She (or he) was hitting on you." "What?" I'll say "Impossible."
So now I’ll actually ask her if she thinks a girl was hitting on me. She must really love that. If it’s a story that just happened at work, she must think I’m asking if I had (or maybe still have) a chance to cheat on her. If I’m asking about something from before we met, then I'm thinking how much better my life could have been if I’d gone with that girl.
She’s only half-right. If I’m asking about something that happened recently, I’m not thinking about cheating on her. I’m just trying to decide if I have to start avoiding that girl. Because I can’t handle that temptation.
But if I’m asking about something from the past, especially college, I am thinking about missed opportunities. Not really in an “Oh man, my life would be so much better with her “ kind of way, though there are a couple of those, but more of a "Damn, I could have had sex with her?" Like Catherine.
Freshman year of college. Not my first time away from home—I’d been to sleepaway camp and spent a year in
Catherine lived a few doors down and she was on the track team, so she was extremely fit. Abs of steel, buns of steel, everything of steel, even breasts unfortunately. Short bob haircut, pretty face, fun girl. But her roommate Sam, now she was a tall drink of water. Do people use that description for women? Anyway, Sam was a tall brunette, skinny but curvy in the right places, and she was the one I was really in "love" with. Love of course being the blinding lust of an 18-year old boy, the kind of lust that blinds you to all flaws until it’s too late. So while Catherine was cute, I never really thought about her because I had my mind on Sam.
One day my friends and I are coming back from a Black Sabbath concert and manage to get stranded at a train station 6 miles from school. At 1 in the morning. With no cabs around. And it was freaking freezing.
This was before smartphones were a thing. Maybe even before cellphones were big. So we start working the payphones, trying to find someone awake to give us a ride. And without cellphones, we actually had to remember people's numbers. Catherine was the one who came through and drove us back to school.
So now it's around 2 in the morning and Catherine and I are the only ones awake. I'm still a little amped from the concert and Catherine wants to show me something. The only reason she was up to get my call was because she had to study, so of course she's procrastinating. She's figured out a way to print directly onto pictures. Yes, this was before meme generators, instagram, or digital cameras. So she's going through her photos and trying to come up with song lyrics or poetry to fit the pictures and she wants some help. I remember suggesting something from "Sister" by the Nixons and maybe something from “The Fairy Queene.” Hey, I was an English major.
We're having a blast and it's getting late and she's worried she hasn't studied or slept but isn't about to do either. So she tells me to tell her to do it. Every 10 minutes or so, I say "Cath, time to study" or "go to bed" or "I'm getting out of here" but she doesn't listen. And she doesn’t let me listen. Almost like we were married.
So finally, I say "damn girl, am I going to have to sleep with you to get you to go to sleep?"
Now remember, this is really the first year that I've had serious interactions with girls. Yeah, there were girls in high school and camp but they were in separate classes or campuses. And I was just the fat kid in the corner. If we hung out, there were other guys around, there was a conversation that I could contribute to, not lead. There was seemingly no possibility of anything happening and so nothing to worry about.
But now, it was 1-on-1 or even 1-on-2 with these girls. In their bedrooms. In their pajamas. Or towels. On their beds. Or mine. Even with other people around, even in the middle of a party, there were possibilities. Anything could happen. All she had to do was shut the door. And that terrified me.
I didn't know how to handle it. How do you have a real conversation when there's just a thin board of corrugated wood between you and everything you ever wanted? When the act of closing a door could make all your dreams come true?
So I didn't. I hid behind dumb jokes. Made fake orgasm faces. Sang dirty songs about my red hot chocolate salty balls (I'm not black). I didn't realize it at the time, but I was doing everything possible to seem harmless, as if I wasn't interested in sex at all. Totally worked. Until this time.
That night, with Catherine, when I said "damn girl, do I have to sleep with you to get you into bed?" it wasn’t some smooth pickup line—Obviously, right? I was expecting a laugh. I was expecting her to go to bed. I was not expecting her to say...
"Yes."
What? That couldn't be right?
"Um...what?"
"Yeah. I'll go to bed if you sleep with me."
"Sleep? With you?"
"Yeah."
"I should sleep here?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"What do you mean where?"
"Well, Sam probably doesn't want me sleeping in her bed."
And that was that. Whatever had been going through her mind, whatever spell I'd somehow cast was gone. She told me to sleep in her bed and she'd take Sam's and she'd wake up early to study.
Believe it or not, it took me years to realize something might have been happening. I think she may have been giving me another chance in the morning when she told me to cover my eyes while she changed. I actually did. Argh, stupid oblivious 19-year old me. I was so sure in that moment that no girl wanted to sleep with me that I thought she couldn’t be serious, that she must just be playing around. That conversation and the whole night actually made sense to me. I didn't even think about it. I didn’t spend the next few days kicking myself for screwing up. It was just a good time. Like a coed one-on-one slumber party.
I hope Catherine took it that way, I hope she just thought I was a moron. Could she have been insulted? Thought I didn't want to have sex with her?
Because I did. So bad. So so bad. I wanted her and the sticky, sweaty, frantic, athletic 30 seconds of fun we would have had. But even if I’d known what she was saying, I don’t know what I would have done. Probably panicked. But maybe I could have got it together and had some fun. What then? She was catholic so there was no future there. A one-night stand, maybe a seven-night stand at best? With maybe a few more one-night stands scattered around over the next few months. Then just awkward moments at parties, uncomfortable meetings in the hallway, eyes anywhere but forward as we pass. And that's if things went well. What if it really was only 30 seconds?
These are the kinds of things that go through your mind when you're fat, poorly hung, and watch too much TV. You never think things will go well with a one-night stand. You think there's got to be drama because no way can a girl be happy with one night of fun. Either she'll be disappointed and word will get around or she'll fall in love and cling to you desperately as your awesomeness slowly drives her insane. I know it's ridiculous. I wish I'd fucked her. Yeah, it's nice I ended up saving it for my wife, but I think I would have been better off with some more experiences. Would make it easier to resist temptation.
Because now I'm working and I've got tons of female coworkers. Lots of young ones. Lots of hot ones. Becky's convinced most of them want to suck my dick, but she's not worried about it. And she doesn't need to be. For one thing, I'm sure she's wrong. For another, I'm terrified that she's right.
Like I said, if I know a girl is hitting on me, I freak out and start avoiding her. Can't be around her anymore. Definitely not alone with her. Because I don’t trust myself. Me, turn down a real opportunity? Me, who's only slept with one girl, and not very often anymore, pass on a chance to find out what I’ve been missing? I can’t even stop myself when I find out there’s a new type of Snickers bar. Or a new Crumbs cupcake. Mmmmm, Crumbs.
One day my friends and I are coming back from a Black Sabbath concert and manage to get stranded at a train station 6 miles from school. At 1 in the morning. With no cabs around. And it was freaking freezing.
This was before smartphones were a thing. Maybe even before cellphones were big. So we start working the payphones, trying to find someone awake to give us a ride. And without cellphones, we actually had to remember people's numbers. Catherine was the one who came through and drove us back to school.
So now it's around 2 in the morning and Catherine and I are the only ones awake. I'm still a little amped from the concert and Catherine wants to show me something. The only reason she was up to get my call was because she had to study, so of course she's procrastinating. She's figured out a way to print directly onto pictures. Yes, this was before meme generators, instagram, or digital cameras. So she's going through her photos and trying to come up with song lyrics or poetry to fit the pictures and she wants some help. I remember suggesting something from "Sister" by the Nixons and maybe something from “The Fairy Queene.” Hey, I was an English major.
We're having a blast and it's getting late and she's worried she hasn't studied or slept but isn't about to do either. So she tells me to tell her to do it. Every 10 minutes or so, I say "Cath, time to study" or "go to bed" or "I'm getting out of here" but she doesn't listen. And she doesn’t let me listen. Almost like we were married.
So finally, I say "damn girl, am I going to have to sleep with you to get you to go to sleep?"
Now remember, this is really the first year that I've had serious interactions with girls. Yeah, there were girls in high school and camp but they were in separate classes or campuses. And I was just the fat kid in the corner. If we hung out, there were other guys around, there was a conversation that I could contribute to, not lead. There was seemingly no possibility of anything happening and so nothing to worry about.
But now, it was 1-on-1 or even 1-on-2 with these girls. In their bedrooms. In their pajamas. Or towels. On their beds. Or mine. Even with other people around, even in the middle of a party, there were possibilities. Anything could happen. All she had to do was shut the door. And that terrified me.
I didn't know how to handle it. How do you have a real conversation when there's just a thin board of corrugated wood between you and everything you ever wanted? When the act of closing a door could make all your dreams come true?
So I didn't. I hid behind dumb jokes. Made fake orgasm faces. Sang dirty songs about my red hot chocolate salty balls (I'm not black). I didn't realize it at the time, but I was doing everything possible to seem harmless, as if I wasn't interested in sex at all. Totally worked. Until this time.
That night, with Catherine, when I said "damn girl, do I have to sleep with you to get you into bed?" it wasn’t some smooth pickup line—Obviously, right? I was expecting a laugh. I was expecting her to go to bed. I was not expecting her to say...
"Yes."
What? That couldn't be right?
"Um...what?"
"Yeah. I'll go to bed if you sleep with me."
"Sleep? With you?"
"Yeah."
"I should sleep here?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"What do you mean where?"
"Well, Sam probably doesn't want me sleeping in her bed."
And that was that. Whatever had been going through her mind, whatever spell I'd somehow cast was gone. She told me to sleep in her bed and she'd take Sam's and she'd wake up early to study.
Believe it or not, it took me years to realize something might have been happening. I think she may have been giving me another chance in the morning when she told me to cover my eyes while she changed. I actually did. Argh, stupid oblivious 19-year old me. I was so sure in that moment that no girl wanted to sleep with me that I thought she couldn’t be serious, that she must just be playing around. That conversation and the whole night actually made sense to me. I didn't even think about it. I didn’t spend the next few days kicking myself for screwing up. It was just a good time. Like a coed one-on-one slumber party.
I hope Catherine took it that way, I hope she just thought I was a moron. Could she have been insulted? Thought I didn't want to have sex with her?
Because I did. So bad. So so bad. I wanted her and the sticky, sweaty, frantic, athletic 30 seconds of fun we would have had. But even if I’d known what she was saying, I don’t know what I would have done. Probably panicked. But maybe I could have got it together and had some fun. What then? She was catholic so there was no future there. A one-night stand, maybe a seven-night stand at best? With maybe a few more one-night stands scattered around over the next few months. Then just awkward moments at parties, uncomfortable meetings in the hallway, eyes anywhere but forward as we pass. And that's if things went well. What if it really was only 30 seconds?
These are the kinds of things that go through your mind when you're fat, poorly hung, and watch too much TV. You never think things will go well with a one-night stand. You think there's got to be drama because no way can a girl be happy with one night of fun. Either she'll be disappointed and word will get around or she'll fall in love and cling to you desperately as your awesomeness slowly drives her insane. I know it's ridiculous. I wish I'd fucked her. Yeah, it's nice I ended up saving it for my wife, but I think I would have been better off with some more experiences. Would make it easier to resist temptation.
Because now I'm working and I've got tons of female coworkers. Lots of young ones. Lots of hot ones. Becky's convinced most of them want to suck my dick, but she's not worried about it. And she doesn't need to be. For one thing, I'm sure she's wrong. For another, I'm terrified that she's right.
Like I said, if I know a girl is hitting on me, I freak out and start avoiding her. Can't be around her anymore. Definitely not alone with her. Because I don’t trust myself. Me, turn down a real opportunity? Me, who's only slept with one girl, and not very often anymore, pass on a chance to find out what I’ve been missing? I can’t even stop myself when I find out there’s a new type of Snickers bar. Or a new Crumbs cupcake. Mmmmm, Crumbs.
So could I resist some nubile young thing? Or some older, experienced sexpot? Or just any random, decent-looking girl who wants to have sex with me? I don't know. And I don't want to know. Because, deep down, I kind of know. I know I couldn't. I know what I am. A man, a frustrated man, with a wife getting fatter and less interested—and interesting—by the day. A weak man. An inexperienced man. Who'll always wonder what might have been. It's easier to run.
Fortunately, I don’t get hit on very often. Not by girls anyway. And I don't notice anyway unless she’s completely obvious. For some reason, that never happened until I was married.
Fortunately, I don’t get hit on very often. Not by girls anyway. And I don't notice anyway unless she’s completely obvious. For some reason, that never happened until I was married.
Well ok, there was one time at my first job—telemarketing for internet advertising—right after we got engaged. Melissa—blonde and bubbly and possibly the hottest girl I’ve ever met—and Jessica—totally stacked Asian—decided to have a backrubbing contest and made me the judge. I’m on the floor of my office getting backrubs from two gorgeous girls, but I thought they were just screwing around because they’d been driven insane by boredom. Actually, I still think they were just screwing around. They were, right? ... Shit!
And then there was the time a gay guy hit on me. I was coming out a of cab, he was getting in, and he said something to me. I missed it and said "what?", he got out of the cab, got nose to nose with me, and said "you're a very handsome man." So I just pointed out my ring and got out of there. I didn't slap him for offending me, just thanked him for the compliment and ran to tell somebody—take notes ladies. But it was
But, the only girl that ever really obviously hit on me—obviously enough for me to notice anyway—was Suzanne. Long blonde hair, a little thick, but with just magnificent boobs. So magnificent that you barely notice the horse face. You know how stylists are always telling fat chicks to slop on makeup and draw the eyes up to their face? Suzanne had to do the exact opposite. Well, technically she didn't have to do anything. Your eyes would be drawn down even if she was wearing a potato sack. Her breasts were so big and beautiful that they had their own gravitational pull. The bulkiest sweater in the world was powerless over that rack. Didn’t I say all girls named Suzanne had awesome tits?
We worked together at an advertising agency. I was the writer and she was the art director. She was fun, but seemed emotionally fragile. Not unusual in advertising. Or women. She'd cry because projects weren't going well, or because someone said something that might have been insulting, or because her cat was sick. Blink and she’d be overly cheerful, zipping from moping to hopping around the office in minutes, like a big breasted yoyo. Heh, that'd be pretty sweet.
We'd go out for coffee every morning with another fat, bald writer. I don't drink coffee, but don't mind walking. Better than working. Neither of us were interested in Suzanne—both married—but I wondered if she kind of liked the attention, having 2 guys trailing her around. Maybe she thought we were interested. Then I started thinking she was getting too close to me. She'd make a lot of physical contact, touching my arm and stuff, no big deal really. But she'd get really excited when she saw me sometimes. Like "Yay, there you are." Weird since we rarely went more than a few hours without seeing each other. I didn't think much of it. Put it down to her being a little crazy. After all, she couldn’t be hitting on me.
Then came the office party. First we had an award ceremony. Typical office schlock, bad jokes, meaningless awards, lots of alcohol, few inhibitions. I've never understood the logic in these office parties. Sure, you want to reward your employees and build camaraderie, but a night of boozing seems like the wrong way to go. I'm no uptight teetotaler, but this is sexual harassment roulette. You're taking middle-aged people with one of their few chances to get away from their family and cut loose, getting them drunk and putting them in close proximity with the people that they think of when they fuck their spouses. Mixing nitro and glycerine has better results. I was at one party where a girl started giving some guy "straight brain" in front of everyone. When she got fired, she sued for discrimination because he wasn't fired. And why should he be? He’s not Zeuss. No one’s going to turn down "straight brain." Well, maybe Stephen Hawking.
So besides sitting with Suzanne and making fun of everyone else, I spent most of this party trying to keep my supervisor Fred from getting himself fired or sued. He walked up to some hot blonde with her hair teased into curls and her shirt open enough to reveal the tops of her perky tits and gave her a hug. A long hug. And judging by her face, a surprising hug. Then she came to me, putting me in the uncomfortable position of having to look down to talk to her while ignoring the fact that if I looked slightly away from her face I would have a nice view down her shirt. A great view actually. A very smooth view.
"You know what Fred just did to me?" she asked, "That!"
And she grabbed my ass. Hard. Not sure what she wanted me to do about it. Why didn't she just slap him? Or grab his ass. No need to harass me about it. Was I supposed to hit him? Was I supposed to retaliate by grabbing her sweet ass? Hey, was she hitting on me? Shit. No wonder Suzanne looked a little pissy. Maybe I would have noticed but Fred caught sight of his dragonlady boss and yelled "I'm going to bang her!" I grabbed his collar to keep him from humping his way to the unemployment line and the blonde wandered away.
Then the afterparty. We left the hall and stumbled to another bar. On the way, Suzanne opened up about the many coworkers she had slept with—some still on the team—explaining why there was so much drama which of course I hadn’t noticed. Mostly the drama seemed to be around them not thinking it meant what she thought it did. Somewhere, far away, I may have heard some warning signs going off.
So we're on the second floor of the bar, wasted, chatting and watching our coworkers on the first floor.
"Hey, are those two dating?" I said, pointing at a couple of coworkers.
"Who?"
"Them. The guy with the shaved head and what's her name." I don't pay much attention to the names of people who aren't on my team.
"I don't think so."
"Good for him then. He's totally gonna nail her."
"What? You don't know that."
"Yeah, come on. Look at that. She's got her hand in his back pocket. She is down to fuck!"
"Hmmm. Maybe he's not interested?"
"No way, he knows where her hand is. And he’s not doing anything about. That means that he’s down to fuck and he knows she is too. You think he’s going to turn that down?"
"I think I want to put my hand in your back pocket."
It took me a second to realize what she said and another to realize what she meant. I was drunk. That meant what I thought it meant, right? Down to fuck, right? I'm drunk in a bar with a huge-breasted blonde throwing herself at me. Finally. But I'm fucking married.
So I’ve got to turn her down. But have to be subtle because she was slightly subtle, could pretend she was joking. Plus, not like I have any experience in the rejecting. Always the rejectee, never the rejector.
So I just said nothing. Pretended I didn't hear. Waited a minute and changed the subject. Smooooooth. And of course, when I got home to my wife, the only person I’m allowed to fuck, she wasn’t interested. I say no to the big-breasted blonde and my wife says no to me. Awesome.
But anyway, bullet dodged. I convinced myself that it was a drunken slip and moved on. I had to. It was the only way to stay sane. Otherwise, I’d have had to spend every day knowing I just had to say the word. Just say it and the shirt comes off, the tits bust loose and I bust something else. I'd have to spend every day wanting, needing, dying to say the word, but somehow not saying it
Things were fine I thought. She had her dignity, I had my head in the sand. All good here. But not good enough for her.
Sometime later, maybe a month or two, we're sitting at her desk, brainstorming, trying to come up with an ad. Just spitballing, throwing ideas out, shooting them down, tweaking them. And getting distracted, looking at videos on the internet, playing tic tac toe, following random threads down the conversational rabbit hole, the usual creative process.
Then she turns to me and says, "Hey, if you were going to have sex in one of the bathrooms here, which one would it be?"
Whoa. Lucky for me, I didn't notice her real question. This is just a normal creative conversation, right?
"Interesting question," I said, "I guess it would probably be one of the bathrooms I use to take a dump, you know?” Like I said, I completely missed her point. But even so, great way to throw her off the scent, as it were.
Then the afterparty. We left the hall and stumbled to another bar. On the way, Suzanne opened up about the many coworkers she had slept with—some still on the team—explaining why there was so much drama which of course I hadn’t noticed. Mostly the drama seemed to be around them not thinking it meant what she thought it did. Somewhere, far away, I may have heard some warning signs going off.
So we're on the second floor of the bar, wasted, chatting and watching our coworkers on the first floor.
"Hey, are those two dating?" I said, pointing at a couple of coworkers.
"Who?"
"Them. The guy with the shaved head and what's her name." I don't pay much attention to the names of people who aren't on my team.
"I don't think so."
"Good for him then. He's totally gonna nail her."
"What? You don't know that."
"Yeah, come on. Look at that. She's got her hand in his back pocket. She is down to fuck!"
"Hmmm. Maybe he's not interested?"
"No way, he knows where her hand is. And he’s not doing anything about. That means that he’s down to fuck and he knows she is too. You think he’s going to turn that down?"
"I think I want to put my hand in your back pocket."
It took me a second to realize what she said and another to realize what she meant. I was drunk. That meant what I thought it meant, right? Down to fuck, right? I'm drunk in a bar with a huge-breasted blonde throwing herself at me. Finally. But I'm fucking married.
So I’ve got to turn her down. But have to be subtle because she was slightly subtle, could pretend she was joking. Plus, not like I have any experience in the rejecting. Always the rejectee, never the rejector.
So I just said nothing. Pretended I didn't hear. Waited a minute and changed the subject. Smooooooth. And of course, when I got home to my wife, the only person I’m allowed to fuck, she wasn’t interested. I say no to the big-breasted blonde and my wife says no to me. Awesome.
But anyway, bullet dodged. I convinced myself that it was a drunken slip and moved on. I had to. It was the only way to stay sane. Otherwise, I’d have had to spend every day knowing I just had to say the word. Just say it and the shirt comes off, the tits bust loose and I bust something else. I'd have to spend every day wanting, needing, dying to say the word, but somehow not saying it
Things were fine I thought. She had her dignity, I had my head in the sand. All good here. But not good enough for her.
Sometime later, maybe a month or two, we're sitting at her desk, brainstorming, trying to come up with an ad. Just spitballing, throwing ideas out, shooting them down, tweaking them. And getting distracted, looking at videos on the internet, playing tic tac toe, following random threads down the conversational rabbit hole, the usual creative process.
Then she turns to me and says, "Hey, if you were going to have sex in one of the bathrooms here, which one would it be?"
Whoa. Lucky for me, I didn't notice her real question. This is just a normal creative conversation, right?
"Interesting question," I said, "I guess it would probably be one of the bathrooms I use to take a dump, you know?” Like I said, I completely missed her point. But even so, great way to throw her off the scent, as it were.
“Because you need the same thing, right? Low traffic, isolated, good doors on the stalls, not likely to pass anyone you know on the way out. I really like the 10th floor bathrooms. No one goes up there, the doors are real big, and there's even a lock on the bathroom door. So yeah, definitely the 10th floor bathrooms."
Then it dawned on me, right in the middle of my dump dissertation.
"Hey, you know that's a weird question to ask everyone."
She tilted her head, smiled and looked me right in the eye.
"Not everyone. Just. You."
WHAT!?!? Even I noticed that. She was down to fuck and not even my poop pontifications could stop her fornification fantasies.
I froze. Could have been a second. Maybe a minute. My mouth may have dropped open. I'd dreamed of moments like this. Hell, I'd jerked off to moments like this.
Then it dawned on me, right in the middle of my dump dissertation.
"Hey, you know that's a weird question to ask everyone."
She tilted her head, smiled and looked me right in the eye.
"Not everyone. Just. You."
WHAT!?!? Even I noticed that. She was down to fuck and not even my poop pontifications could stop her fornification fantasies.
I froze. Could have been a second. Maybe a minute. My mouth may have dropped open. I'd dreamed of moments like this. Hell, I'd jerked off to moments like this.
Five minutes. That’s all it would take to get to the 10th floor. To lift her skirt, push her panties to the side, drop my pants, lift her shirt, pull her bra down, free those breasts I’d been dreaming of. And it wouldn’t have to be just once. It could be every day.
It wouldn’t have to get weird. It would just be sex. Hot, frantic, daily. Daily! Maybe twice daily if I could handle it. She couldn’t be getting attached if she knew I was married. She just wanted to fuck, right. Ok, ok. it would totally get weird. And I’m married...boobs! Huge boobs! And sex!
.
And no one would ever know. Becky would never know. Only I would know.
So I looked at her, right in the eye for probably longer than I ever had before. I swallowed, I coughed, my eyes flicked to the hallway that led to the nearest bathroom, and I said “Uh, let’s get back to work.”
And we did. And we never spoke of it again. And I didn’t get laid that night when I got home.
When I left that job, I told Suzanne I’d try to get her a job at my new place. But I never did. I don’t want her around. Because I don’t know what I’d say next time.
Maybe this story proves I’m stronger than I think. But why take that chance?
One day I might be weak. I might be angry. And I don’t want to take that chance. Because I know, deep down, beneath all fantasies and frustrations, deep down I know that I love my wife. And I don’t want to lose her.
Sorry ladies.
No comments:
Post a Comment