October 5, 2011

Wrong Way to Leave Your Mark

This is a story that I've kinda held on to for a while.  I've told it a few times, most recently on my last appearance on the Scurvycast.  It's one of those that, well, it sounds even more like a lie than most of mine, and probably deserves to be on a bad case of the dates.  The following is an account of an email I sent to Dave, of Scurvy Media fame, not long after it happened.  Mostly because, well, he's not afraid to talk about shit, and if I didn't tell someone, I was going to explode.  You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll vurp, and most certainly ask "Girl, what the FUCK were you thinking?!"

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?

I turned on the overhead light, smoothed the comforter, and kept spraying.  That's when I see it. There's a streak on the comforter.  It’s faint, and I can’t really tell what it is, but I know what it isn’t.  Aunt Flo packed up her duffel and vacated a few days prior. The waters run clear in this underbrush. It shouldn't be dirt because the dogs haven't been up here since I changed the duvet. Curiosity got the better of me and I took a sniff.  That was exceedingly dumb.

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. 

No comments:

Post a Comment

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.