I Had Coitus With A Communist, and Look Where It Got Me

Disclaimer: B, while reading this, I would just like you to remember that I am a virgin and your delicate little flower and no man has ever, ever touched my naughty bits except you. Swear. I learned everything I know from Cosmo…

Also, the only reason I even remember this (entirely fictional!) episode is because of how terrible this was. If it had happened, I mean. Which it didn’t. (Also, his fictional penis was tiny. No really, it actually was. If there had been a penis. Which there wasn’t.) Love you B!

I would like to share with you lovely folks one of the most horrifically embarrassing and traumatizing moments of my life. Because I love y’all like that.

Before I moved to DC a year ago, I was rocking out in Durham, North Carolina. And by “rocking out” I mean wasting my life away in the hellhole that is Dirty Durham, bartending a few nights a week and not doing much else (productive, anyway). I was in a slump; it was that year after college when I wasn’t yet ready to get a Big Kid Job, and couldn’t quite find the inspiration to get up off my ass and move away. I was paying $300 a month in rent, making close to a grand a week with three shifts, and dating a complete and total jackass (we’ll call him The Cuban) that none of my friends liked. Of course, none of them TOLD me this until after we’d broken up. But only because they know I wouldn’t have listened.

It’s not that I liked The Cuban that much, I actually don’t think either of us were big fans of each other overall. It was sort of fun in the beginning, I guess; I’d been through a relatively rough breakup earlier that summer, so when he came into the bar one afternoon, I promptly sat down next to him when my shift ended, got drunk, and took him home with me. (For tea and scones, B. Of course.) The next morning when he left, I didn’t expect to hear from him again, and honestly didn’t care.

But he kept calling. And we kept hanging out. And finally, when he introduced me as his girlfriend one day, I sort of shrugged and said, “Why not?” (A little different from a couple weeks ago when the same question evoked tears of joy. Because I’m a loser like that.) And there we were, a… couple?

The Cuban was, I’m sorry to say, a Colts fan. This should have created a bigger problem for us, since I’m a Masshole and all, but truthfully, I’m a baseball girl. I can sit and watch the Pats play, but I just don’t care about it like I do the Sox. So, I let him have his Colts; I even offered to root for them occasionally. And when he bought tickets to a game in Jacksonville to see them play the Jaguars, and suggested that we drive down to see it, I was all, “Road trip! Squeee!!!” and agreed.

Down we went, and even though it was the only game that year where the Colts totally got their proverbial asses handed to them, we had a great time. We tailgated and partied hard with a bunch of die-hard fans, both Indy and Floridian. It was the first (and still only) pro-football game I’d been to, which was pretty cool (especially because I didn’t really care that the Colts were losing. In fact, I was texting my father secret happy messages about it. He hates the Colts). When it was clear Indianapolis had absolutely no chance at all, not of even losing by a respectable amount, he said he couldn’t watch anymore and we took off for the Jacksonville Landing. This is a super cool stretch of bars and restaurants on the water with really lax booze laws- it’s like Key West or New Orleans, where you can walk from one place to another with your drink. We got smashed in honor of the Colts’ horrific performance, and eventually, made it back to the hotel for Business Time. (I mean, to sleep. We were very tired. I’m a virgin. Really.)

Okay, okay, maybe we had coitus. That’s right, “had coitus.” (Check with Lemmonex, it’s legit. We decided.) And maybe I had been drinking allllllllllll day. And maybe, just MAYBE, I was so completely out of it that instead of The Cuban’s… I called out my ex-boyfriend’s name.

Yeah, I know. Take a minute. Yuk it up. If you can’t laugh at my expense, who can?

Better? Okay.

The worst part is, I had absolutely NO IDEA I had even done it until I realized that in a split second, he was on the opposite side of the 20-foot room, looking at me with an expression of asphyxiated horror (see: any scary movie, the moment when the serial killer or monster from the deep or repulsive alien reveals itself to the victim). He looked like a 7 year old boy who’d just watched his dog get run over… I literally had to go back in my head and replay those 7 seconds of auditory memory you keep stored in your brain to realize what had happened.

The next few hours were some of the worst of my life, mostly because I had totally and completely DESTROYED a man’s essence. Want to see what a completely emasculated grown man looks like? Try it out.

And I knew how bad it really was, because he was the absolute LEAST emotionally expressive guy I’d ever met in my life. We’d been in fights about it before, it was so bad. For a half-Cuban, half-Italian, you would have thought there’d be a little more passion, but no. In hindsight, I truly believe he wasn’t even holding them in; I swear the guy was emotionally vapid.

I should also mention that he was the worst boyfriend ever and overall, he treated me pretty poorly. Never once in our year together did he tell me that I was pretty or beautiful (when I finally realized this and brought it up, he told me I was insecure. And still never told me I was pretty). This… ahem, “event” should have been the perfect excuse to finally call it off, but nooooo, we decided to “work through it,” which meant another six months or so of purgatory hell in which he brought it up constantly and forever held it over me.

Ah, well. I suppose I got the last laugh when I told him, two weeks before moving to D.C., that we were over. And, oh yeah, in two weeks I’m moving to D.C. Have a nice life, you Commie bastard.