Skids and I were in this quasi, fuckbuddy, relationship
orbit around each other for a couple of months.
I wasn’t exactly sure what it was, really. I mean, I wanted to like the guy. He was
genuine, adoring, and into a good number of the same things I was in the
bedroom. Still, I never felt that tug of
“this could be more”. Perhaps, given
time, I would have. However, there’s a
reason he’s called Skids.
There was a night I was feeling a little alone, a little
bored, and a little frisky. I called
Skids. He’d been doing some heavy
lifting earlier in the day, but had pretty much called it quits earlier in the
afternoon. I asked him If he’d like to get
dinner, hang out, or lock the doors and curl up with a good flail. He said he’d love to, but he needed to clean
up a bit beforehand. He’d see me in
about an hour and a half.
We ended up getting take out and watching B movies at home, entwined
on the bed. (My flat screen was in
there. My ex had taken the bigger one we’d
bought with our tax return since I was keeping all the furniture.) He’d kicked off his shoes, but it wasn’t till
later that I got a whiff of his feet.
Whooo boy. They were ripe, and that’s coming from someone who loves bleu
cheese.
It has been said that I accept as eccentricities flaws other people would label red flags. As I
get a little older, and a little further removed from the relevant situations,
I’m starting to agree with this assessment.
At the time, my thinking wasn’t “Does this guy not know what it means to
clean up? Last I knew, it included soap!”, it was more “Well, he was doing some
work earlier, maybe his feet sweat and stunk up his shoes. The odor is probably from putting his feet
back into stinky shoes.”. I know, I
know. It should have ended there. It didn’t.
Eventually, the
clothes came off and we’re rolling around in a kinky tickle fight. You know, where one of us has the flail and
the other the crop, and you try and smack the other on the ass while protecting
your own. He's got the flail and taking aim on my backside. I've got the crop, and am giggling and returning fire. (I landed some good ones too,
I might add. That smack is satisfying!) All the while, his asshole must have been
pleased with itself since it was doing some talking. He let a few farts go. I get it, we’re not 20 somethings anymore and
the body gets weird. And there was some
cabbage with dinner. Maybe it just works
faster on him? Regardless, I should have taken that as a sign. One that read: "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here." It should
have ended in that moment. It didn’t.
In the end, we did have actual sex. The smack and tickle was foreplay. When the rolling around and post-fuck cuddling was over, it was time for
us to part ways. I walked him to the
door, bid him goodnight, and headed back up to my bedroom for a good night’s
sleep.
As soon as I open the door to my boudoir, my nasal passages are held up at gunpoint by
a stench asking nothing less than my sanity and the remains of my dinner in my
stomach as ransom. Oh. My. God. What IS
that?! I pull my shirt up over my nose
and hope that the tears from my watering eyes don’t blur my vision to the point
where I can’t see. I beat a hasty and
nauseated retreat to the hall. I rip
open the linen closet door to look for my weapon – the giant, Sam’s Club sized
bottle of Febreze. I held that fucker
out in front of me like a mini gun, firing into the air like a B52 trying to
flush out Charlie with napalm. When the
mist cleared, and I could remove my shirt from my face, I surveyed the
damage. In the time I was downstairs,
none of the dogs had time to sneak in, deposit a present, and leave without my
seeing them. Where was that smell coming
from?
The roar that followed came from some other-worldly place within my body. Beginning in my lungs and hurtled into the mattress at the speed of repulsion, I bellowed at the revelation that there was a shit stain on my bed!
Now, let me clarify. This was not, as the Porn industry calls it, santorum. There was no anal play involved in the making of this laundry emergency. Did I mention the farts? Let’s amend that. The defcon rating of those has been raised to sharts. How do you not know you’ve left crumbs in your ass crack after you rip one? Ug.
Right then and there, whatever that whole interaction we had was over. As I pulled on my elbow-length industrial rubber gloves to change the sheets with, I decided that would be the last time I’d see Skids on purpose. However, on the other hand, I can now say that I am one of only a small number of straight women who can lay claim to literally fucking the shit out of somebody. That alone is worth all the bleach I had to use to make sure I wasn't going to get hepatitis in my sleep. I also got a blog post out of it, and you sick fucks, a good laugh.
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