For my birthday, I went out with some girls from work. A birthday only comes once a year, so I started with some strawberry daquiris. Then some wine at a neighbor’s house, then some wine at the winery, a few beers and a few shots, yada, yada, yada and so forth. I hesitated about one last jager bomb, but a friend’s son assured me he would take care of me and that he would make sure I got home okay. So to hell with it, it was my *birthday*! I went wild!
The next morning, I woke up safe in my bed, still in my birthday dress with only a vague recollection of how I’d gotten there. Fun night, I thought as I made coffee and found a single red rose in my mailbox. What a sweet kid! He did make sure I got home safe. I smiled and made a mental note to give him a big hug the next time I saw him!
The next time I saw him was at a Memorial Day party his mom was giving, she’d texted me that she needed “help.” I went, seriously hoping she didn’t mean she needed help *cooking*, but when she went to the store to pick up beans, I realized right away why she’d needed help.
There I was, all alone in a house with about ten guys in their mid twenties. Now I’m a tough chick and I can take care of myself, but it was still uncomfortable, so I excused myself to the kitchen to wait for my friend. Too much testosterone. The son followed me with his friends though; he wanted to *talk* about what had happened when he’d taken me home on my birthday.
“Oh, you were so wasted when I took you home! You were drunk and horny and you wanted *ME* bad. You were so grateful that I’d taken care of you that there was nothing in the world you wanted more than to f**k my brains out . . . you could hardly control yourself! But you fought your desperate urge to jump my bones . . . cause my mom was waiting in the car.”
Now between you, me and the keyboard, there is no way in the world this happened. Not on any planet, not in any universe, not in a million years will you ever hear me say anything even remotely similar to: “Oh, god! You’re so hot and I’m so horny! I want to f**k you so bad, but I can’t! Because your mom is in the car!”
Boys. I am not Linda Lovelace. I don’t talk like that. No woman in the world talks like that, unless she’s a porn star and it was in the script.
I bust out laughing, but as I looked at him, I could tell he was totally, totally serious. I could argue til I was blue in the face, but he honestly wasn’t lying! In the two weeks since I’d seen him last, he’d somehow managed to convince himself (and probably half the state) that there had been this leggy blonde chick in his car who was so grateful to him that she couldn’t control herself! That all she wanted was to PLEASE him with a night of mind numbing, acrobatic sex!
“Listen,” he said solemnly, without a even a hint of humor. “Ask my mom . . . She heard everything. She’ll tell you how bad you wanted me.”
I giggled. I did not need to ask to ask his mom; his claims were ludicrous. Some 24 year old kid who lives with Mom and doesn’t work and all *I* want in the world is to bang the crap out of him?
He seemed so sure of it though and curious as to what happened to convince of this, I did bring it up to his mom. Laughing, I said: “So your son is convinced I wanted to nail him, but couldn’t because you were in the car. Did I say this?”
“Yes,” she started, then she thought for a second and backed up. “Well, no . . . he wanted to walk you into the house and you’d never met him before, so you were just saying that he shouldn’t get the wrong idea because he’d been taking care of you all night. You said he could walk you in, but you were letting him know he couldn’t stay. That’s all.”
We laughed for a long time over the differences in the stories and she went and had a “little talk” with him. I’m not sure what was said, but he didn’t talk to me the rest of the night and he had his friend take me home.
In the morning, I woke up, made coffee and sat down to watch City Slickers with the dog. I laughed at the events of the night before and jokingly I sent *this* text message to the kid’s mom:
“Now make sure you let your son know that he missed out by not driving me home! The Dallas Cowboys showed up and there was nothing in the world that I wanted more than to have sex with *each and every* one of them! I won’t stand up for days, too bad he missed that!”
It was a joke of course, but as I sent it, there was a knock on my door. I didn’t know a soul who would come over at seven am, but I paused the movie and answered the door, not thinking about the fact that I was wearing only a lacey red teddy. It was an older gentleman, a grey haired delivery boy holding a long cardboard tube- MY CASABLANCA POSTER! FINALLY!
Now I love getting packages more than about anything in the world and I broke out in a huge smile! The man handed me that and everything in my mailbox, some rolled up paper that had been at the end of the driveway, whatever other “package” he could find. Then I shut the door and dismissed him, went back to my movie.
About an hour later, the movie had ended and a lively, animated cactus was dancing across the screen; there was another knock on my door. It was the postman again, he’d forgotten my signature. I hadn’t changed yet and as I signed, I said “Excuse me, I’m not feeling well. I have a headache.” He was eyeing my thong and then he looked down at his pants, winked and said, “Well, I got a cure for that!”
No lie. At eight in the morning. While a darn *cactus* danced on my tv!
After I slammed the door in his face, I sat down with my cactus and my poster to think things over. As I thought about everything, it occurred to me that it hadn’t even been *strange.* Post men are always forgetting my signature, asking me for “lemonade” and maybe this may *seem* like it has nothing to do with my friend’s son, but it’s all the same:
Boys. You’re watching too much freaking porn.