We got back to Gavin's place and I immediately ran to the bathroom. I washed myself with soap but didn't feel right about wiping with one of his towels, so opted for toilet paper instead. Big mistake. I had used way too much water to clean myself and the toilet paper basically fell apart in my butt and got stuck there.
The real mistake turned out to be Gavin. He had a flat ass. One of the biggest turn-offs ever. I prefer a little something to hold on to. Guys can be on the skinny side, but a rear is a special thing to me. Gavin's ass wasn't just flat, though. He had a pancake in the place of an ass. A shovel, if you will.
What a disaster. The sex was okay, but for some reason I lost interest… or consciousness. Whichever. I awoke to a blinding sunlight burning into the room at around seven A.M. This guy didn't even have blinds on his windows. This place was turning into some sort of torture chamber.
I climbed over him to get myself dressed so I could skedaddle, when there they were at the foot of the bed: my panties. Along with one giant skid mark straight down the center.
I immediately looked over to see if Gavin was awake, and when I saw he wasn't, I lunged toward the evidence. I grabbed my panties and did something I'm still not sure I understand. I threw them out his window into his backyard.
I scooped up the rest of my clothes and ran into the bathroom. As I got dressed, I tried to piece together the previous night's events, to get an idea if Gavin had seen my stain. I couldn't remember the exact moment my underwear came off. All I could recall were flashes of the two of us rolling around and, at one point, falling off the bed. I started going over different names I could adopt, other cities I could live in.
The door was cracked partway open and I heard footsteps coming toward me from the other bedroom. I peeked my head out.
Lydia was striding down the hallway into the bright, bright light, wearing nothing but black wool men's dress socks. Up to her knees. A series of thoughts ran through my head: Did Gavin and his friend live with their grandfather? Did Lydia have a threesome with their grandfather? Did she have an extra toe she was trying to hide?
There was dried mascara streaked down both sides of her cheeks and her hair was insane. She looked like a streetwalker. She explained the socks by saying she hadn't had a pedicure in two weeks and that her feet were starting to resemble something out of Jurassic Park. Then we heard a dog barking in the yard.
"Whose dog is that?" Lydia said.
Cujo's barking grew louder and louder. I heard a loud groan come from Gavin's room. That meant that contact was inevitable.
Lydia crept back to her bedroom, while I finished pulling on my outfit from the night before and raced to Lydia 's door, screaming about my aunt's baby shower.
" Lydia! Lydia! I totally forgot! My aunt's shower is this morning. I'm late."
My aunt's tubes were tied about five years prior to that night, but I've always been good in a pinch. That is, until I saw Cujo running toward me with my panties in his mouth.
Gavin grabbed me from behind and started to nuzzle my neck as I stood in frozen horror, watching the dog approach. I just kept hoping that at least the soiled part of the panty had been digested. Please, Jesus, please.
"Oh, shit, your underwear!" Gavin exclaimed. Here it was. I either had to come clean or completely turn the tables.
So I lied.
"Ah, I don't think so, asshole, I'm wearing mine." Before he could check, I mustered up some tears and ran back to the bedroom, plowing into some serious acting skills.
"Oh, I get it, Mr. Man," I sobbed. "You just bring girl after girl after girl after girl after girl back to your place whenever you feel like it, is that it? What, and then you collect their panties? Should I take mine off and leave them here for your collection too? Would you like that?"
I didn't want to lose momentum, so I didn't wait for his response.
"I confided in you! I was a virgin up until a month ago! And I thought we had a real connection. You really are some piece of work, mister!"
"Listen, I have no idea whose panties those are. I've never seen them before in my life. I honestly thought they were yours."
Then Cujo wandered into the room chewing on the remains of my panties. I thought I was home free. Then I saw a piece of the stained underwear hanging from his lower jaw.
The look of disgust on Gavin's face was mortifying. "Ew," was all I heard on my way out.
I got in the car and slammed the door. As I was pulling away, I saw Lydia running out the front door in only her shirt and the grandpa socks. I was hoping she would have retained a little of my dignity, but apparently not. Clutching her jeans and shoes she screamed, "Wait for me!"
I slowed the car in order for her to jump in but refused to stop completely. She hit her head on the door as it was closing. "What is your fucking problem?" she said.
I told her the story, and soon the mascara stuck to her face was no longer dry. We were both hungry and decided anywhere public was out of the question. So we opted for McDonald's and as we pulled up, saw a sign that read, "The McRib is back."
"Back from where}" I asked.
"I dunno, but you better not have one," Lydia said.
It took me many sleepless nights to get over the humiliation of what had taken place. Where did I go wrong in life? I thought to myself over and over again. I would lie awake wondering how many pairs of underwear a Mexican goes through in a year. Once the initial mortification wore off, I realized that like many things in life, this was a gift. I wouldn't have to learn twice about avoiding Mexican food on the weekends. Who knows how many girls I've helped by sharing my story?
THUNDER
ONE OF MY girlfriends was getting married. This was becoming an annoying pattern. Sarah was my third girlfriend to get engaged within six months, and it was becoming clear to me that more and more people were going to go through with it. It's not the concept of marriage I have a problem with. I'd like to get married too. A couple times. It's the actual wedding that pisses me off.
The problem is that everyone who gets married seems to think that they are the first person in the entire universe to do it, and that the year leading up to the event revolves entirely around them. You have to throw them showers, bachelor-ette weekends, buy a bridesmaid dress, and then buy a ticket to some godforsaken town wherever they decide to drag you. If you're really unlucky, they'll ask you to recite a poem at their wedding. That's just what I want to do-monitor my drinking until I'm done with my public service announcement. And what do we get out of it, you ask? A dry piece of chicken and a roll in the hay with their hillbilly cousin. I could get that at home, thanks.
Then they have the audacity to go shopping and pick out their own gifts. I want to know who the first person was who said this was okay. After spending all that money on a bachelorette weekend, a shower, and often a flight across the country, they expect you to go to Williams Sonoma or Pottery Barn and do research? Then they send you a thank-you note applauding you for such a thoughtful gift. They're the one who picked it out! I always want to remind the person that absolutely no thought went into typing in a name and having a salad bowl come up.
I prefer giving cash. When I get married, I'm gonna register at Bank of America. Both times. I'm a Jew. I don't mess around when it comes to money.
But it doesn't end after the wedding. Next they want you to come over and watch the wedding video. Like I really want to see footage of me passed out in a cake.