June 6, 2007

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

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Let me just offer a small piece of advice to all of you Collegetown residents: in the same way hooking up with a guy on your freshman year floor was a no-no, hooking up with a guy that lives within 500 feet of your house is a poor, poor idea. It seems convenient at the time, doesn’t it? Quite lovely that you can walk home from the bars together, kick his ass out at 4 am without the guilt of subjecting him to rain, snow or even a particularly unpleasant walk, huh? If you ever have a hankering for some action on a school night, he’s right there.

And yet… no.

I learned this lesson the hard way with Bryan. I share this tale with you, dear readers, so that you can learn from my mistakes. I guess I should back up and explain the commotion and edge-of-your-seat drama that led to this torrid affair.

SCENE ONE: PARTY AT MY HOUSE (where five girls live).

“Hey, you live here right? I’m Bryan. I live across the street.” He’s fairly cute. That’s good. “I didn’t know girls lived here.” Yes you did. “You girls should come over and party sometime.” Oh, he’s original and tempting, too. [Bryan then proceeds to take a Jell-o shot with whipped cream on top, smearing said whipped cream all over his lips]. “Yo, uh, is there something on my face? Can you maybe get it off for me?” Impressive line. I’m floored. So I do what any normal person would do when delivered a heartstoppingly romantic line such as that: I kiss him.

Eh, what the hell— why not. The semester is drawing to a close and he’s attractive. Great arms, too. He asks for my number, I watch him put it into his phone as “Chick Across Street” and he leaves to go to the bars. Magical. I have butterflies in my tummy all night. Oh, wait, no. Just gassy from the Andre.


By now, we’re acquainted with one another to the point where my actual name has entered his cell phone, but we’ve still never had an encounter where 45 other people haven’t been in the room. We’ve been texting each other every time we’ve gone out, but one of us has either gone to sleep or ended up otherwise occupied by 2 or 3 a.m. Tonight, we’ve made plans to meet up outside my house (first hookups must always be on my territory, no exceptions) and I’ve even chosen to forgo the usual Victoria’s Secret PINK bikini briefs for some lacey thong shit, so this had better be good.

And oh, did he deliver. Did he ever.

Not in the sexual sense, though. In fact, the sack session was rather lackluster and the sexual chemistry (aka the degree to which I enjoyed myself, really) was not exactly noteworthy. But Bryan, on his back with his (condom covered!) erection pointing skyward, dished out what is decidedly the most absurd and memorable three words of dirty talk ever directed at me:

“Hop on, sweetheart.”

Yup. This was now officially going to be a one-night stand. Moments later, I gladly took advantage of the single benefit of the neighborcest and sent him on his merry way.

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