"You told me I had herpes."
This was a less than auspicious start to the morning. In my defense, I did NOT tell the extremely hot cowboy I brought back from the bar with me the night before after several hours of semi-intoxicated Halloween giddiness that he had herpes.
I simply said he COULD have herpes.
The only reason I said anything like this at all was because despite me making it very clear to him before we even got in a taxi together that he would not be hitting a home-run that evening, he kept swinging the bat.
He was persistent, but thankfully the only real danger I faced was coming close to being annoyed to death. Even though this really shouldn't come as a surprise at this point, men and women really are two separate species.
He assumed that if enough time had passed and it was late enough or early enough in the morning depending on whether one had gone to bed yet at all, I would just agree to have sex with him because, "we've come this far."
Baffling logic.
It was only after this and at least an hour laughing at him for just how hard he was trying, that I tried being practical and told him the real reason he wouldn't be getting any.
I'm extremely paranoid about STIs (and by extremely paranoid read: obsessive compulsive with an anxiety disorder mixed in for flavor) and that we really, really didn't know one another and for all I knew he could have herpes. It wasn't an accusation - just a hypothesis.
Naturally he assured me at this time that he's clean, and just as paranoid as I am. He tried telling me the Army wouldn't have let him in if he had anything. He even gave me a run-down of all the ways he worries about catching something to the point where even I started to believe him.
I wanted to believe him. More than that I wanted just one more excuse to justify throwing caution to the wind to do something that would likely give me panic attacks for the next two months.
On the one hand, I knew I would be spending weeks terrified he gave me something every time I so much as experienced an itch anywhere below my belly button, but on the other I could possibly have some really hot memories if I managed to come through the aftermath unscathed.
(Yes, I know. I have another appointment to see my shrink booked already. It's an ongoing process.)
We were both laughing at ourselves at this point and he was so funny, and so good-looking and I had had such a good time that I really only needed one more reason to put the durability of bed frames purchased at IKEA to the test.
I told him I didn't know his last name, and that's kind of a prerequisite for me. The middle name is negotiable - the last name not so much.
He laughed like I said something hilarious and then said I was probably one of those crazy girls who insists a guy gets tested before he even touches her.
For one, you have no idea how crazy. For two, that sound you hear like one person quietly clapping...? That's the sound of every single one of my orifices slamming shut. Ears, nostrils, and everything on downward now so closed off I'm impervious to air.
He was so close! All he had to do was give me his last name and still he fucked it up. Despite his mind-blowing cluelessness, I felt I could afford to be somewhat magnanimous, mostly because I wanted to go to sleep.
Interesting aside: there is one aspect of getting older that's thrilling. As I advance in age, I am much more likely to get exactly what I want out of every sexual encounter. It's not that my partners have become somehow more skilled (with the exception of the firefighter who should be given some kind of medal), but because I'm no longer afraid to ask for it.
There have been many, many times where I might have said to a guy that it was perfectly OK that he finished first, or got to finish at all while I didn't because I still had a good time. All of these times occurred before I turned 30 and all were complete horseshit.
(Should my parents ever read this there was only ever one guy before I turned 30, and only one encounter. It came about after a session of heavy hand-holding and didn't look at male genitalia again until only very recently.)
Now I'm much smarter and so much more selfish.
Oh, I'm sorry. Did I just do something to you that felt so good you think you may have actually crossed over and into the light for just a moment before coming back with a deeper understanding of humanity and possibly the power to move objects with your mind and now you just want to go to sleep? That's fantastic - but you're not done yet.
Luckily I didn't think Cowboy Wonderful would need to be told, and sure enough he didn't. I was a very happy woman, he was a very happy man and finally I thought we can get some sleep, maybe fool around in the morning and if we still like each other, get some breakfast.
I hadn't counted on Cowboy Wonderful not only looking like a god but functioning like one too. He woke me up every ten minutes, ready to go again. I humoured him about five or six times before becoming frightened. A guy should not be able to do that. At some point it had go down or dry up and it was doing neither.
As is the only reasonable course of action in a situation like this, I asked if there was something wrong with him. We all now know from watching Viagra commercials that in the event of an erection lasting four or more hours the patient should seek immediate attention.
He said he was fine and that it's always like this and then I became frightened for me. I had decided on one single sexual act I was willing to perform on a guy who I didn't know and who wouldn't tell me his last name because I was afraid of developing a sexually transmitted disease and now I was at high risk for developing tennis elbow instead.
Luckily as he got sleepier the intervals extended to an entire half hour before I'd be pestered. Granted the pestering was pretty awesome but still...goddammit.
Besides tennis elbow I had another pressing problem. Despite losing the ability weeks ago to go number two as a side-effect of medication, my innards decided to pick the most inconvenient and possibly mortifying of nights to suddenly start working again - and working with a vengeance.
Let me just explain something right now. If I like a guy, I will succumb to kidney failure before I let him hear me so much as pee. I once ended a movie date with a guy very abruptly and refused to speak to him in order to concentrate on holding my bladder as he drove me home because his only bathroom was off of his living room and I didn't want him to hear me pee.
Number two is unthinkable. Un. Think. Able. It can not happen. Apparently my colon didn't get this memo and now I didn't know how I would make it to morning alive. All I could do was actually pray that I could sneak out of bed quietly enough, that Cowboy Wonderful was tired enough to not wake up, that my bedroom door, part of the hallway and the bathroom door would create enough of a barrier, and that the sound of the fan running at the same time as the bathroom sink and bathtub faucet would be enough.
(I think this may actually be why God hates me. All over the world there's war, starvation, disease, poverty and violence. All worthy causes and completely legitimate reasons to pray, and then comes my earthly request. Please, please, please don't let him hear me poo. And also world peace. Amen.)
Thanks be to God he was still sleeping by the time I crawled into bed again and we slept in half hour intervals until late morning, when he accused me of telling him he had herpes.
I had warned him he wouldn't be getting any. He even told me through out the night that he thought it was a good thing I resisted like I did, even though he shouldn't have had to tell me that more than once.
How could he be shocked when I told him flat out I wasn't going to fuck him? He said because it's what all the girls say right before they fuck him.
Oh. Wow.
I'm obviously not like all the other girls, and maybe he really did have a problem with it. He was being really quiet, but making no moves to go any where. Actually, he was hardly moving at all.
Apparently he was extremely hung-over, which was news to me. When I met him he was drinking water. He sounded sober, walked straight and actually made me feel a little silly for being slightly buzzed. Prior to meeting me he was drinking pitchers of vodka I had now learned, which actually explained quite a lot. Like how he came to be in my bed in the first place.
We stayed in bed until 2:00, cuddling, fooling around, napping and complaining about feeling so sick. Actually, that last part was just him. I got him water, got him Advil, offered him food before finally giving up and telling him a shower might do him wonders.
Normally I would have given him a lift to his car but my poor little Hawaiian Purple Grand-Am was out of commission in my parking stall, suffering from what would later be discovered as a broken sway bar. I called a cab.
Since I was going downtown too, I said we'd split the costs and then we sat there waiting rather desperately because apparently he was going to start puking. Really, really not the morning I had hoped for.
While I still had my phone out he told me to put his number into it and so I did. It's important to note I didn't ask for it. He offered.
Several days passed after we kissed good-bye in the cab, and despite knowing nothing would come out of it, I called him. I really only did it to shut my friends up who thought there was no way he wouldn't call me back just so I could prove I knew better. I wasn't bitter about it, but then I hadn't been hopeful either.
I had figured out over the course of our evening together that Cowboy Wonderful wasn't really totally wonderful. For one, he had some hair on his upper back and shoulders which while not a deal-breaker, was still alarming.
Secondly, his balls were weird. There really isn't a more elegant way to say it. It always seems like a crapshoot the first time a guy takes off his pants, but in his case I began as very pleasantly surprised. And then became unnerved.
It's just that they were so...well...low. Like, really low. We're talking it appeared he has three knees kind of low. Then on closer inspection it seemed he only had one. I realize that terrible things happen and nobody would ever accuse Lance Armstrong of of any impropriety but I was led to believe that two were standard issue.
After tilting my head hard left I realized that there were indeed two, only one was much higher. One was right where these things can normally be found and one had apparently been making a break for it for quite some time. Totally unnerving.
Alright, so I may be slightly bitter he didn't call back when I left my message. Bitter, but not surprised. Cowboy Wonderful was Cowboy Normal after all.
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