Dating Advice From . . . Gay Mexicans by Meghan Pleticha Q: My girlfriend laughs a lot during sex. What's her deal? A: Sex is like an Adam Sandler movie. Some people laugh and some people walk out of the theater and ask for their money back.
"You should've done it in high school — insensitive jerks, teenage boys, they don't care about it hurting," he says. We fall asleep. We try again in the morning. Christopher tries. He folds me over like a cheap suitcase and puts the full force of 240 pounds of muscle, bone and flesh into his thrusts. I'm torn. I'm bleeding. I hurt. It's over.
I stand in his shower a few minutes later, rubbing cheap shampoo into my scalp. I watch blood run down my leg and disappear into the drain at my feet. I reach between my legs and feel the wound. I'm open. I dry off and throw on last night's T-shirt, crawl under the covers and curl up against him.
"We have to get married, now that I've given you my special flower," I tell him. I'd planned on saying this long before coming to his apartment for the movie. I'm usually spot-on with timing and delivery, but not this morning. I can't pull it off. I sound too unsure. Christopher doesn't laugh. He smiles and kisses the top of my head.
The next night, I refuse to be designated driver. I want to see what Christopher is like sober. I arrive at his place around nine. We're going to see a rockabilly band at a local bar. I wear a black skirt, and a blue sweater that shows dramatic cleavage. When I step into the apartment, he looks me over. "Take your shoes off. You don't want to track snow on the carpet," he says. So much for compliments.
Christopher and I go to a bar where he eats an entire sausage pizza (minus my half-slice). I dance and he ignores me. I use the ladies' room and flirt with a guy playing with a pile of Legos. He offers to read my fortune if I cast a handful of Legos like you would jacks. One of the Legos I throw stands straight up, red and pointy.
"Something phallic in your future," he tells me. "I hope not," I say, "I'm still bleeding."
"Something phallic in your future," he tells me.
"I hope not," I say, "I'm still bleeding."
Christopher takes me home, and we head to the bedroom. I'm sexy in a lace bra and garters. He passes out, overcome by one hard cider and a gut full of carbs and tomato sauce. The cacophony of noises and sulfurous smells that escape him while he sleeps lead me to the sudden, horrifying realization that I'm in bed with Shrek.
He wakes. I take matters in hand. I perform a good (if not expert-level) blowjob. He tries to fuck me. He has a system failure and runs to the bathroom. He tumbles back into bed. When I curl against him and brush his cock with my hand, friendly-like, he rolls onto his stomach.
"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Yeah. Can you rub my back?" he asks, shyly, like a little boy. I knead the tense muscles in his shoulders and ten seconds later, he begins to snore. I lie awake all night wondering if he needs whiskey to want to fuck me. I know I'm probably the ultimate beer-goggles girl. I know we have no future. I met his friends, and they scared the living crap out of me. I don't want to raise his son. I don't want to have to beg him to use a condom, or to eat my pussy ("I'd like to come," I'd explained. "We all want that," he'd said, nonplussed). I want a man who's smarter and kinder. I drift into sleep and wake a couple of hours later, shivering violently.
In the morning, I put on the cleavage sweater and prepare to do the walk of shame. Christopher got up an hour before me, and I can hear him outside, loading the truck that now holds most of his possessions.
I go and hug him goodbye.
"You'll call me," he says, smiling. In the light of day, fully dressed and clean-shaven, Christopher is handsome and grown-up looking. I nod, but I'm pretty sure I don't mean it. n°
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Rebecca Golden lives in Toledo, OH, where she is hard at work on her second book, Bulletproof Cherry. Her memoir, Butterbabe, was first released in February by Random House UK.
