June 8, 2007

Mr. Dirty Talker, Your Friendly Neighborhood Stalker (Part 2)

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Continued from Mr. Dirty Talker, Your Friendly Neighborhood Stalker (Part 1).

He texts me several times throughout this next week and I respond with something along the lines of “way too busy” and sometimes even “ijm toi drunkj” to mix it up a little bit. He does not relent. To him, I am a perishable good, a limited-time-only offer expiring on the last day of finals. There are no emotions involved here, let me just make this clear. This is just a boy in pursuit of sex. But the sex wasn’t great, he sort of disrespected me in bed and forging a relationship with this person is not a viable option given the circumstances, so I really don’t see any reason to hang out with him. If I had any sort of chutzpah, I’d text him one of those lame Cosmo lines like “the other night was great, but let’s leave it at that.” But no. Let’s make it awkward, avoid it and then hope it goes away. Good strategy.

After weeks of knowing this neighbor and never seeing him out in the wild, Study Week begins. And wouldn’t you know it? Ithaca decides to beautify itself and porch barbecues and balcony beer pong games are everywhere. And so is Bryan. He and his housemates have a huge kickass porch and ever since the sun came out, they seem to have been playing the world’s longest beirut game… thus making the area around my house a discomfort zone of epic proportions. The texts continue, now featuring “yo come over and play a couple games with us” and “hey I think I saw you just now. Did you just come home?” And then come the phone calls every night around the time the bars close. We’re getting down to the wire here (one week left until I leave for NYC) and this guy really wants to get laid.


Text from Bryan: “Yo. We’re playing pong on the porch and I need a partner.” Well, I need something to do. I can’t remember why I’m avoiding him, really – so I go over there.

The second I look at his face, I am reminded of why I steered clear of doing so: all I can hear is this sleazy voice in my head saying “hop on, sweetheart.” I suddenly had to go meet a friend for dinner and the area around my house remained dangerous territory until the day I loaded all 600 pounds of my shit in my car to drive home for the summer. As I struggled by myself to lift and maneuver boxes and suitcases that were the approximate individual weights of small elephants, Bryan and buddies sat 30 feet away enjoying some nice cold beers on their porch. None of them offered to help.

What’s that phrase again? Oh yeah: don’t shag where you sleep.