The following details the most
horrific and scarring weekend of my entire life. The cause of this trauma? A boy I will simply call “The Tongue”.
It all started harmless
enough. I met this boy online (I know,
save your lectures). He was a fellow English major and creative writer. We lived a few hours apart, so when we got
together, we met at big festively sorts of things where we would have an excuse
to just wander around for hours sampling wine and weird food. Both dates were utterly sexless, and by that
I mean there was no kissing, hand holding, or burning glances. I even paid for myself wherever we went. It was like being out with your brother or
cousin. Mostly we just talked about
writing and traveling and other sorts of polite chit chat. He was funny, smart and we had interests in
common, but as I told my mom afterward, we could be friends but I didn’t want
to “do him”.
So knowing how much he liked to
mock humanity at large, and realizing that none of my other friends would
indulge me, I decided (with my mother’s urging) to invite The Tongue with us to
the Renaissance Fair. I pictured a long
day of hilarity, sniggering, and stealth photography. These events are what I imagine to be the one
time of the year that all the nerds emerge from their basements and try to
absorb their annual levels of Vitamin D.
The women all apparently absorb sunlight through their cleavage because
I have never seen so many endless yards of exposed bosom (with a fair
smattering of nipple slips). It is as
terrifying as it is absolutely entertaining.
There are men wearing steel codpieces in odd shapes, overweight bellydancers,
sword swallowers, women dressed as fairies who haven’t been fairies for at
least 300 lbs., slutty wenches, people wandering around with meade and giant
turkey legs, jousting knights, and so on.
It really is amazingly fun, even if I reveal my nerd tendencies in
confessing as much.
SO!
Since The Tongue lived equally far from me as the Renaissance Fair, I
let him decide if he wanted to just meet us at the festival or come up the
night before to my house and ride with my family. I have since been informed that such an
invitation was an open invitation to sex.
Go figure. I thought I was
providing a friendly alternative to riding alone, but it seems I was actually
offering my body on a silver platter. I
do not understand straight men.
The night before the festival,
The Tongue arriveed and my mother set about feeding and fussing over him. He brought me wine, plastic flowers, and a
chocolate bar which was pretty sweet, but it still did not make me think he was
being anything more than friendly (because I am an idiot). Since he had arrived kind of late and we were
all leaving early in the morning, the family went to bed en mass. My room was near the guest room, and as I was
heading to bed, I poked my head in to make sure he had everything he
needed. Just being good hostess-y, you
know? All very polite and platonic. After chatting for a minute or so, he shocked
me by lunging forward in the middle of a sentence and grabbing me by the
shoulders. I had a brief vision of this big wet tongue lolling and undulating
out at me before he put his mouth on my mouth.
I just sort of stood there, shocked and stunned and super uncomfortable. Also his nasty hippie beard was really
stabby. When I got my brain back, I
started giggling because it was all so impossibly awkward. He pulled back and I said something like, “Sorry,
I guess I never kissed anyone with a beard before”. Then his voice went all husky and he said “Ohhhh,
so you like that? Yeahhh.” and started rubbing his jaw over my cheek in what I assume
he thought was a sexy gesture, but really just made me want to run from the
room. I was trying to think of a polite
way to leave without hurting his feelings when he made a sort of icky moaning
sound and shoved me on the bed and jumped on me. The kissing got absolutely no better. He kept running his hands everywhere like he
was frantically checking me for an injury.
It felt like a terrible joke and I was doing my best trying not to gag
or giggle while trying to protect
my teeth from his teeth.
After a minute or two of this, he
stood up and whipped off his shirt which was bad for two reasons. One, he
should never be shirtless- he has the body of a nine year old, and second- the
hell? I don't go from zero to naked. OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod…. It seemed to take forever
to extricate myself with him all the while making old people soup noises and
poking me in the eye and asking me where I like "it" best. Nowhere,
mister. He jumped up off me and I thought he had finally taken my total lack of
response as a hint that he should stop.
On the contrary! He just whipped off
his pants in a triumphant “Tah Dah!” gesture to reveal ancient and voluminous boxers. It was at that point that I found my backbone and said,
"Yeah, I don't think this is going to go as far as you are hoping it
will". I stood up and mumbled something about needing sleep so we weren’t
tired the next day and ran away, shutting and locking my door.
About 2 minutes later, he knocked
on my door and I answered reluctantly.
He was still mostly naked, so I only let the door open a tiny crack. He said, "I haven’t been with a girl in a
while, so would you mind maybe ranking my performance just now? Like on a scale
of 1-10 where 10 is the best you’ve had ever and 1 is the worst?"
Okay seriously?? OMG!!!!!!! You are so in negative points just for this. I kept my face under control and made some excuse like
"Actually, girls don’t really rank these things" (LIE) and then I practically had to shut
the door in his face. I got zero sleep
that night, just dreading the next day and knowing I would have to spend the
ENTIRE day with him.
Fortunately, in the light of day he
seemed to have turned off his Lustful Octopus Mode. I did my very best to avoid being alone with
him, but my damned family is so very considerate and obliging that they kept
shooing us off so we could be “alone”. He
kept his hands to himself, but unexpectedly kept saying things that were so
pretentious, I just wanted to hit him in the face with a brick. Like his 20 minute lecture on how wonderful
it would be to live in the middle of the woods without electricity or corporate
America. Or his endless recitations of
things he’s heard on NPR. It sucked all
the joy out of trying to make fun of jesters and pirates, but there really weren’t
any moments that were too awful. Until
the drive home that is, when my family all loudly insisted that he should stay
that night too, rather than driving home.
Since I had not had a chance to de-brief my mother on the previous night’s
incident, she had no idea why I would not want this. All I could do was sit in silence while my
soul died inside me.
It had been a very long day, and
everyone went to bed, with my mother dragging me into a corner for a moment to
tell me with shining eyes that The Tongue was her absolute favorite of all my
previous dates. Wonderful. I sort of waved goodnight at him and made a
dash for my room, but I neglected to lock the door. He just strolled right on in without
knocking. Fortunately, I happened to be
on my computer at that moment checking messages and with some soothing music
playing. He started to reach for me,
then heard the song and recognized it.
Seizing the opportunity, we talked about music and shared stupid Youtube
videos until he was too exhausted to want to do anything else. When I finally pushed him out around 4a.m. he
reached out his tentacles again, but tripped on my rug and staggered. I made a joke about him being so very sleepy
and literally shoved him out the door.
The next day the family all had to
run some sort of errand and with winks and nudges, left the two of us alone
until The Tongue had to leave to be in time for work. I went to my mother with pleading in my eyes
and mouthed “Don’t leave me alone!” but she just looked confused and amused, as
if I were making a joke she didn’t quite get but wanted to be supportive
anyway. The Tongue, in an effort to woo
my family, declared that his years of working at a restaurant would help him
make me the most amazing breakfast ever, and he took to the kitchen to make me
an omelet. I stopped watching his
preparations after he measured literally ¼ cup of oil into the frying pan. My omelet looked as though it was covered in
plastic laminate. Tasted much that way
too. Fortunately, the cooking of my
nasty-ass breakfast took up a great deal of time and when at last we were done,
it left only a few minutes before he would have to leave for work. I nearly had to shove him in his truck, while
he kept gazing into my eyes and declaring that he wanted to call work and quit
so he could stay with me in the mountains, basking in nature’s and my (*eye
roll*) beauty forever.
No thanks, creeper. Off you go.
