What Is The One Thing You Never Want To Happen On A First Date?
I had only three or four bites of the curry. The Red Bull vodkas coveted by those Brits were a disgusting hell and at least figuratively sickening, but since I had participated in raunchier alcohol adventures, I knew those questionable concoctions could not have taken me down.
On that first evening with my Englishman, had anyone in his Welsh flat known what was going on, they would have referred to my condition as “having a poo”—a delicate phrase which did not properly account for the violent nature of the events on that night. Nerves might have played a role. My heart was, just hours earlier, uncharacteristically emphatic that the practical stranger was my guy. And by the end of the night, with all of the drinks, and not to discount intense kissing fog, I was not in my right mind. (Assuming there ever was such a thing.) I considered that maybe my nervous system had finally taken the last train back to the English countryside while giving me the finger and screaming, “Screw you, Wales. Feck the fog.”
Whatever the reason, my reality over several non-coital hours involved three horrible trips down three narrow flights of stairs. Each time, I tore myself away from the Englishman’s warm cuddle to... regretfully violate his downstairs bathroom. I mentioned the three times? The three flights of stairs? And the horror at the transgressions involving the toilet?
Doubled over in excruciating pain, I sneaked my way down those cold stairs, barely clothed, at the risk of forced interaction with his flatmates. The dreadful, heroin sickness toilet scenes in Trainspotting played over and over as I shivered in that freezing bathroom. But luckily, I spied a can of citrus scent odor neutralizer above the sink. I stood up, bent over, and sprayed it right at my backside. Four times.
As you do.
I prayed that it was as effective as the advertising indicated. In fact, the Englishman didn’t notice any of the half-naked trips down his stairs, nor the evidence of excremental activity in his flat. If he smelled fruit, he kept it to himself. Every time I crawled back into bed with him, he woke up still thinking I was pin-up sexy, and thus, I was also obliged to believe the delusion. No matter how much my ass hurt.
Self-consciousness is to be avoided at all costs in a circumstance that calls for the woman who is not going to have sex on a first date but has agreed to spend the night. Don't forget that passion may indeed be blind. And despite all of the talk of pheromones, it can’t smell worth a shit either.
Perverse Wonderland
On that first evening with my Englishman, had anyone in his Welsh flat known what was going on, they would have referred to my condition as “having a poo”—a delicate phrase which did not properly account for the violent nature of the events on that night. Nerves might have played a role. My heart was, just hours earlier, uncharacteristically emphatic that the practical stranger was my guy. And by the end of the night, with all of the drinks, and not to discount intense kissing fog, I was not in my right mind. (Assuming there ever was such a thing.) I considered that maybe my nervous system had finally taken the last train back to the English countryside while giving me the finger and screaming, “Screw you, Wales. Feck the fog.”
Whatever the reason, my reality over several non-coital hours involved three horrible trips down three narrow flights of stairs. Each time, I tore myself away from the Englishman’s warm cuddle to... regretfully violate his downstairs bathroom. I mentioned the three times? The three flights of stairs? And the horror at the transgressions involving the toilet?
Doubled over in excruciating pain, I sneaked my way down those cold stairs, barely clothed, at the risk of forced interaction with his flatmates. The dreadful, heroin sickness toilet scenes in Trainspotting played over and over as I shivered in that freezing bathroom. But luckily, I spied a can of citrus scent odor neutralizer above the sink. I stood up, bent over, and sprayed it right at my backside. Four times.
As you do.
I prayed that it was as effective as the advertising indicated. In fact, the Englishman didn’t notice any of the half-naked trips down his stairs, nor the evidence of excremental activity in his flat. If he smelled fruit, he kept it to himself. Every time I crawled back into bed with him, he woke up still thinking I was pin-up sexy, and thus, I was also obliged to believe the delusion. No matter how much my ass hurt.
Self-consciousness is to be avoided at all costs in a circumstance that calls for the woman who is not going to have sex on a first date but has agreed to spend the night. Don't forget that passion may indeed be blind. And despite all of the talk of pheromones, it can’t smell worth a shit either.
Perverse Wonderland
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