Friday, April 4, 2008

That's Gross.

When asked, I couldn't tell you why I seem to write so extensively about my roommate's social/sex life. Maybe it's because I like to live vicariously through him, or probably it's because I don't think my social/sex life is all that interesting.

Or maybe I just think that its none of your fucking business. Not to mention my stalker tends to read my posts (on that, thanks for sending me that kitten's head in the mail the other day, appriciate it.).

Anyway, the roommate was scoring some trim the other night. How do I know this? Because I could hear him achieve orgasm through the bedroom walls. The only downside to all of this is that the young lady in question moonlighted as a stunt whale at SeaWorld.

But it's whatever. Every guy's had at least one nasty lay that they're not proud of. I know I have, shit, I have a few. Actually, I have a whole stable of unsavory sexual encounters that I would love to forget if it weren't for the warts.

..Joke....

Anyway, so this story starts off where again, innocent me is padding his way out to the rest of the apartment, in my robe and slippers to fashion some sort of chinese food-left over-breakfast. I enter the kitchen, make myself something to eat and then go into the living room to watch the news or the Weather Channel, or whatever it is that white people watch with their morning meal, when before me lays this little crumple of black on the floor in front of the tv.

I set down my bowl of food and take a long stare at this bit of black fabric and curiously wonder, slightly under my breath as to what it is. I walk towards it, bend, and with two fingers pluck it up from the rug. What unfolds before me was as horrific as the events that took place on the morning of 9/11.

It was my roommate's date's lacey little black panties. However, there was nothing 'little' about them.

I gagged and dropped them back to the floor. They were likely size 11 or greater and smelled like sweatsocks. I chuckled a little and then picked them back up, daintily, and flung them on to my roommate's still sleeping head (teaches him a lesson about A-not picking up after himself, and B- not closing his door.).

What irks me so much about this whole situation is that it's just plain disrespectful for this she-beast to leave her things literally laying around our apartment. She left early in the morning, but after the sun was up and shining through our picture window. You don't think she would've remembered that 'oh yeah, hey, those are my underwear,' and retrieved them?

I mean, not to mention she ... probably wasn't wearing a set?

Obviously she meant to leave them there, and I would suspect that she probably even went so far as to plant them there on purpose. I mean, in front ... center front at that... of the big LCD display television?

She wanted them to be found, and she was - in a round about way - ensuring that my roommate would have to see her again to return said property. Bitch, there's other ways of getting a second date; leaving your filthy, used under-things behind as a souvenier does no one a favor.

And it's very disrespectful, in case I haven't already mentioned that.

Regardless, upon waking an hour or so later and discovering what was placed on his head, the roommate quickly put the evidence into the rubbish, exclaiming "that's gross!"

"So... how did it go?" I ask from over my cup of coffee. He grins like an adolescent: childishly, yet endearingly shy.

"It went ok... did you hear me through the walls?" He references his ... and my... homage to a by-gone wrestling star that he and I both have been shouting at the top of our lungs for the past two days.

"The 'Rick Flair-Woo?'" I ask.

"Yeah, did you hear it? I did it twice!"

"No, I had my ears in," I lie. I heard it, twice, and the thought of his ... exclaimitory orgasm embarrassed and grossed me out at the same time. I mean, I share bowls of Cap'n Crunch with his kid, I don't want to have to think of him jettisoning his spunk across the stretch-marked back of a female moose.

"But I did it for you!" And not only does the conversation become so awkward that I can no longer look him in the eyes, it becomes kinda gay as well. I clear my throat,

"Well, I'm glad you had a good time, are you going to see her again?"

"No way bro, she was gross!" He says. I concur, she was in fact gross. Now he starts to get sorry for himself.

"I want to find a hot chick, one that I can like, take out to places," He says.

"You took out this chick, you took her to Sam Diegos."

"Yeah, well, I want to be able to take out a chick that doesn't eat like the T-Rex from 'Jurassic Park',"

I hate the game where people leave their shit behind on purpose only to get you to see them again. It's such a weak and desperate and sad manuever. If you find yourself resorting to those kind of tactics, it's probably because your gut's telling you that the other person really wants nothing to do with you. And you know, 90% of the time, it's painfully obvious. People tend, through body language or even verbally, telegraph that they are no longer interested or in some sort of phyiscal pain just being around you. Fucking.. take heed, man. Suck it up, move on, lick your wounds, yeah it hurts, but do you really need to leave a momento behind so you can call a day later and be like "oh hey, yeah, um, I think I left my laptop in your car...." Dude! No one "leaves a laptop" in someone's car. That's like me saying "Oh hey, you know that $800 dollar gun I just bought, yeah, oops, left it in your car. Can I maybe have you swing by and drop it off for me? The door will be unlocked so just let yourself in... if you hear the shower running, feel free to stick your head in the door and say hello...."

Fucking sad man, fucking sad.

1 comment:

angry ballerina said...

Thank you sofaking much for the mental image.