Tag Archives: confessions

Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 14

I am kind of dating eight different boys right now.  This wasn’t intentional.  It’s not as if I go out on hunts, it just happens when you’re subconsciously open to it.  My rule proved to be true.

Caitlin Rule: Tread softly with your words because once something is said out loud, it becomes real.

I received a really retarded text from a boy who kicked my ass recently, and it was kind of the last straw.  My friend Rachel was with me and in a burst of frustration I shouted, “I’m just going to go back to being a man-eater!”

Sure enough, that very night, suddenly two new boys whom I have zero possibility of a future with were in my life.  Two weeks later, and now my number is up to eight.  Yes, it is taking some bravery to write this entry because it will absolutely piss some people off, but I figure it’s a way to wean out the faint of heart.  Maybe one day I’ll find someone who understands the humor behind my exploits.  I tell all of these guys that I see other people, but most boys seem to have selective hearing, so if this comes as a shock… their bad.

Caitlin Rule: Never date a writer because they will write about you.

Right up until my outburst with Rachel, boys had kicked my ass over the past year or so.  I suppose I had it coming because for a good chunk of my twenties, I was mostly just using boys as a form of entertainment.  Of course there were some who I truly cared about, but looking back on the flings between the ages of 24-27, they mostly just provided immediate gratification and held little integrity.

There were times back then when I would be dating a handful of people at once.  To maintain some level of self-respect, I’m never sleeping with more than one person at a time.  Mostly these guys I was “dating” I would maybe see once a week and we’d go somewhere like a gallery opening or a comedy show, then have a couple of drinks.  Generally this would lead to a profound conversation and then making-out on their couch.  Then I’d smile sweetly and say, “I have to go,” and they wouldn’t hear from me again until next week… after I had done the same thing with the other four guys.

Obviously, that got tiring and meaningless.  It wasn’t a conscious decision, but somewhere along the way I did just start naturally looking for something with a little more stability.  Something to be respected.  Well, I found a few, and they just ended up kicking my ass!  I tend to not write about the ones that hurt the most, so all I’m going to say about the one who beat me up the worst (metaphorically speaking), is that I did truly try.  For the first time in a long time, and possibly only the second time in my life, I truly tried in that relationship.  He still left me though, so look where that got me.

After that, there was another guy I started seeing (again).  It wasn’t serious, but I began to believe that we could be great together if we gave it a real shot.  Now he’s a baby daddy.  Well, the chick is still pregnant, so he is a soon-to-be baby daddy, and that obviously brought on far too many complications for our mild “relationship” to stay afloat, let alone blossom.  What I’m getting at is, after all of those years of acting like an asshole and not getting emotionally invested, the second I give people some real respect, and the second I try to build relationships with solid ground, they fucking pummeled me.  So, inconsequential flings with some people who make me laugh and definitely don’t make me cry, sounds like a beautiful counteraction.  You may be thinking that “rebound” would be a more appropriate description to which I can see your point, but I don’t fully agree because rebounds insinuate that sex is taking place (which it is mostly not in my case) and rebounds also seem to be associated with a kind of darkness; an inner turmoil that one is trying to drown out with false love.  I am not in a dark place right now, I’m just having a lot of fun and not taking myself or anyone else too seriously.  I have completely eradicated hope from my life.  That may sound depressing, but I find it sincerely liberating and I’ll explain more about that some other time.

Since I have been attempting to juggle eight different boys, my personal life has been like an episode of Gossip Girl on steroids.  A few days ago, I decided to get organized.  I sat down at my desk to get to work.  I had just received my schedule for the week, so it was time to begin adjusting these boys’ lives to mine.  I began texting them, all at the same time which was a terrible idea, and quite literally had to pencil them into my calendar.  Okay, I used a pen, but still, I actually had to bust out my calendar at my desk to write in for Saturday: “Lunch with boring boy, dinner with thug boy and late drinks with baseball boy.”  Wednesday looked something like, “Coffee with boxing boy, show with skater boy? or possibly baby daddy?”  The fact that the baby daddy is still in my life is ridiculous, I know, but he’s only like 3% (a minority that doesn’t even count) in my life and I’m sure I’ll explain that story soon enough.

With this type of schedule, of course I have to prepare for the unexpected.  I mean, what if dinner with thug boyfriend (I call him this because he looks like a straight up drug dealer) goes way better than anticipated and I want to continue having him as company?  Well, that means I would have to cancel on baseball boy.  Here is why it is slightly okay… I don’t lie.  In the off-chance that thug boyfriend holds my attention for more than a couple of hours, then I will text baseball boy and tell him, “I’m so sorry, I can’t make it tonight for drinks!  I got held up at dinner.”

If baseball boy straight up asked me, “is that because you are with someone else?” I would absolutely say, yes.  But they never straight up ask.  And neither do I.  That’s not my business nor my style.  As long as things are light, I honestly could not fucking care less if I was also penciled into a guy’s calendar.  One very important thing that I learned from the boy with the white hair is that it’s crucial to understand what your role is in someone’s life.  I understand that my role in most of these guys lives are just like what their role is in mine.  They’re using me as much as I am using them and I find nothing wrong with that.  We enjoy the time and then continue.

I just got off of the phone with Cody (who is a great old friend of mine that I talk about in This Is Now), and he suspected for a moment that I was meeting these guys online.  He knows better, so I don’t think that he actually thought that, he just has a terrible case of not being able to stop his mouth from moving.  Quite literally, I don’t think he can refrain from words coming from his mouth at all times.  So he says shit that he doesn’t even mean or believe.  It’s almost like having Tourettes but with whole sentences.  I love him for it though.  Anyway, the point being that I would like to make it perfectly fucking clear that I am in no way online dating.

The point of all of this is to kind of bring you, the reader, up to speed because I think I will start chronicling this absolutely absurd dating life.  This is the first part, and I’m sure that it won’t last long because these kinds of romances never do.  For example, I thought that I’ve already crossed one guy off of the list because I accidentally sent him the wrong text, which was absolutely bound to happen.

Like I said, I have at least a little bit of self-respect, so I am only sleeping with one of these boys.  I meant to send him the text that said, “Did you throw me up against a wall or something last night?  The center of my back has a bruise on it.”  Well, I sent that text to boring boy instead.  I realized it immediately and just started laughing out loud.  I mean, what else can you do in that situation?  Then I texted it to the right guy, to which he responded, “Unfortunately we weren’t in a place to be doing that.”  Which was true… we were very much around other people for the whole night, but there was a couple of times that we stole a passionate kiss, so I thought that maybe one of those times he banged me up against a wall and I just didn’t notice because whiskey and hormones were involved.

I was busy daydreaming about him throwing me against a wall when I got the text from boring boy that said, “wrong text.”  Yeah, thanks, champ.  “Sorry about that” is all I could say back.  The truly amazing part is that I still heard from the boring boy two days later.  It’s stunning how much people are willing to put up with during the chase.

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The Boy I Never Kissed

I was a make-out whore for a good portion of my life.  When I was younger, I had it in my head that if you wanted to kiss someone, then you should.  That simple.  It didn’t matter if they had a girlfriend or if it would complicate our friendship or if it was pointless because it was just some random person and I knew that it wouldn’t amount to anything.  Those factors didn’t matter to me back then because I was very much living in the moment and kind of a free spirit (as fucking lame as that sounds, good lord).  If right then, it felt right, then it was right.  Due to this naive thought process, I’ve kissed a lot of boys in my past, but unfortunately, Frankie is not one of them.  I’ve calmed down on my love affair with the world since those days by the way.

Before I get to my main point, I’d like to note that one of my favorite things about being an adult is that I no longer want other peoples boyfriends and have also found that it is completely possible to have good guy friends who are just friends.  That was hard during high school and college when I didn’t give a shit if the boy I had a crush on had a girlfriend, and didn’t give a shit if kissing him now would lead to complications tomorrow.  I would still pursue him.  That’s called being an asshole.  Now, if I know that a guy is in a relationship, I don’t even a little bit think of him as an option; I immediately lose romantic interest.  It feels great.  It basically eliminates most of my male peers, so I’ve got less to try to juggle and manage.

I have very few regrets in life.  My main regret is that I stopped dancing, and another one is that I never kissed Frankie.  I’m morbid and weird and don’t have as much sympathy for the dead as most people do.  So what I am about to say, I’m not saying because he is dead and we tend to over romanticize the dead, I am saying it because it is true…  Frankie felt innocent.

There is a brilliant one act play by Tennessee Williams called “Mister Paradise.”  A young, enthusiastic girl finds an old, washed up writer that no one ever cared about, and wants to show him to the world.  At the end, she is leaving after their first and last meeting and says, “Won’t you kiss me goodbye?”  Mister Paradise says no, and when she asks why he says, “For the same reason I wouldn’t touch a clean white table cloth with mud all over my fingers.”

It’s brilliant.  I think that’s why I never kissed Frankie.  There were times when I wanted to, but I refrained because he was the clean white table cloth and I was the one with mud all over my fingers.  I still really miss him and I wish that he was around so that we could make giant bowls of macaroni and cheese with hotdogs and then listen to punk rock music on the floor of my bedroom together.

There were so many completely forgettable guys that I wasted kisses on, and I wish that I could turn all of those in like the tickets at an arcade, and exchange them for just one kiss with Frankie.  Why is it that we often end up NOT kissing or sleeping with the people that actually matter, and instead, end up on top of Joe Shmoe?

I went to high school with Frankie.  He was a grade below me and died a couple of years after he had graduated high school.  I should remember the exact date, but I don’t.  It was sometime around Thanksgiving of what I am guessing was 2007, but I could be wrong.  Sometimes I feel like a jerk for not remembering the exact date, but then the cold wind blows and I remember that the date doesn’t matter.

Cody was the one who told me.  I was away at college and got a phone call from Cody just as I was about to walk into my Lighting and Field class in Savannah, Georgia; 400 miles away from him and Frankie.  Ironically, I’ll never forget when Cody said, “Do you remember Frankie?”  I kind of laughed and was insulted and said, “Frankie Bentley?  Yeah, of course I do.”  I drove him home from school everyday and he was my date to one of my senior high school dances and we got together almost every time that I was in town, so of course I know Frankie, you dick.  As I stood in the hallway, Cody went on to tell me that Frankie had been killed.  He was hit by a car while on his bicycle, riding to the beach.

That night, I had work.  I always rode my bike to work, and on this particular night, it was cold and I didn’t bring a jacket.  Being a Floridian, I had been a pussy about cold weather my whole life.  Frankie is what changed me.  I rode home that night, and I was freezing but I remember thinking something like, Frankie went through death, so you can at least get through the cold.  And I did.  That has always stuck with me.  I have worked a lot during winter tours up in Canada, so I know what it is like to be in REAL cold, not Florida cold.  Anytime I am about to think, shit, I am cold, I just think about Frankie.  It’s a weird association, I know.  But whatever fucked up psychological reason it is, it helps me.  It reminds me that being cold is nothing.  All it does is make you cold and other people are taking on a lot worse.  At least you’re alive to feel it.

I’m currently up North, and sitting outside right now and the cold wind is starting to penetrate my jacket.  The wind is what kills me.  But tonight, I’m embracing the wind.  It kind of feels like Frankie is in my bones.  I think if souls turned into elements, Frankie would be wind.

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The Adventures of Touring – Special Edition: Noisey Made Me Sound like a Groupie, but I Feel Cool Anyway

This is how much I love VICE… I have the app. I barely understand what phone applications are, so if I have an app, it’s because I really use it. Along with VICE, I have BBC News, the dictionary, USPS, google translate, atVenu and fucking Solitaire. Dorky apps. On the bus during long drives while a lot of the guys are on some game application that gives me a headache just by looking at it over their shoulder, I am the annoying one announcing things like, “the word of the day is solipsistic,” or “VICE found a guy who claims that he only has 100 boners left.”

For those of you who need some VICE in your life, Noisey is basically the music section of the magazine, and I got mentioned in one of the articles. Well…. kind of. Indirectly. Very indirectly. I was misquoted, and made to sound like someone’s one night stand, but you know what, I’ll take it. He was nice enough to keep me nameless, but I am here to take full credit because like we all know, I am perfectly comfortable with exploiting myself.

This particular tour holds a very special place in my heart, so I didn’t think that I’d be able to write about it for a while. I fell in love with this band and crew, and the band and crew of the entire three band tour package. When that happens, it’s sometimes difficult to take a step back and explain it all in a way that the non-touring world will understand. However, due to being mentioned in a Noisey article… I will tell this single tale for now. I’m sure there will be more later.

On the last day of the tour, a Noisey columnist came onto the bus to interview the lead singer of the band that I was working for. They discovered a note that I had taped to the television so that everyone would see it which read, “Hi boys- I lost my jeans somewhere on this bus. Please let me know if you find them amongst all of your stuff. Thanks! -Caitlin”

I suppose to someone who has never lived on a tour bus, that may sound strange. However, when there are twelve people living on one bus, shit gets misplaced. If you’re a good busmate and understand bus etiquette, you only bring the necessities onto the bus and leave your fucking carry-on in the bay (the storage space underneath the bus). Regardless, with twelve people, that still means at least 36 pairs of socks and underwear, 24 shoes, five million chargers and approximately three trailer keys. When you add the consumption of three bottles of liquor, two cases of beer and copious amounts of drugs every night, shit disappears. T-dog, my favorite bus driver, would regularly find my underwear in the bus vents and I have found men’s pj pants in my bunk who belong to boy’s who had definitely never been in my bunk.

My note was interpreted by Noisey in the article as saying something more like, “I left my jeans on the bus last night. Let me know if you find them.” I appreciate the artistic license he took because that makes it sound a lot more rock n’ roll, like a hot little metal chick with last night’s make-up smeared around her eyes wearing sexy fish-nets and I-just-got-laid-hair put the friendly letter up, instead of the boring merch girl.

Before you start thinking that this is going to be a fun mystery thriller which ends full circle with the jeans providing some profound moral to the story… it’s not. It’s just a story that is characterized with a shit load of bums and the jeans really have nothing to do with what went down. Lost pants is just a hilarious representation of the drunken debauchery that took place.

The night before, one of the guys, who I will call the Trojan, and I stayed up until sunrise drinking gallons of vodka while he educated me on Metallica. We sat there and listened to a whole album from beginning to end, which is something I appreciated because so few people do that anymore, and his enthusiasm was kind of a turn on.

The following day was a day off. When we all woke looking like a crew of utter death, the Trojan turned to me, still in his boxers and said, “Caitlin! Are we drinking?” You can’t say no to a Trojan…

Jack Daniels for breakfast in my Niagra Falls mug. It’s going to be a fucked up day.

The guys went to a bar early afternoon, but I had to break from the pack and do something normal to kind of recenter my life for a moment. After multiple days of staying up all night and drinking, you start to lose your sense of time and space. So, I went to a museum, looked at fossils and learned some shit.

Later, we all went to a steakhouse that had at least 500 taxidermy animals on the wall (not exaggerating) and we ate some of their insides. It was delicious. We were rolling 12 people deep, so we needed two van taxi cabs everywhere we went, which was a pain in the ass. I enjoy minimal responsibility, which is why I will never TM, but somehow I became in charge of calling the cabs, so when they didn’t arrive for a while, for some asinine reason, I got held responsible. To fend off the harassment, I started doing a tap dance on the sidewalk to lighten my mood, and when that didn’t work, I resorted to throwing a can of soda into the street. Rebel.

While waiting outside of the restaurant for my whole life, a happy bum approached us and OF COURSE, the Trojan started chatting him up while most of us attempted to not make eye contact. In the Trojan’s defense, I think he was the only one who was drunk. The exchange between a black metal Trojan and a skinny homeless man who looked like he could have been Sammy Davis Jr. became such a spectacle, that it was like watching a theatrical improv show on crack. At one point, the Trojan and the bum started dancing together on the sidewalk. At another point, the bum said something to me, to which I responded in perfect English, “I don’t speak English.”

Later, the bum said something about Jesus, to which the Trojan said, “I deep throat Jesus everyday, that little bitch.” At least we know how to keep things controversial.

We were in Denver, and if you have never been to Denver, it’s essentially where people go to do nothing. In other words, weed is legal there, so that’s where all of the hardcore stoners migrate. I can only tolerate so much Grateful Dead. Speaking of the Grateful Dead, I saw this on the wall of the bar that we ended up going to, and I couldn’t believe the perfection.


That is possibly the most god awful published photograph that has ever existed. The guys in the back… holy fuck.

The boys were playing pool, and I was drinking my weight in whiskey while people watching and deciding that the girl who was dancing with the teal fringed mid-drift had escaped from a Mormon family and was currently experimenting in lesbianism. I often play that game where you look at a stranger and make up a full back-story for them. It can be a fun bar game.

After losing numerous pool matches to a guy wearing cargo shorts and a fishing cap, the Trojan was over it and we decided to head back to the bus and just… see what happened. And oh, shit happened.

We crossed paths with a girl at a bus stop. She asked us for money, providing some story about how she needed to get to the next town over because of her dying mother. I could be completely off, but it was something absurd like that. She was good, so if you have never lived in a city, you might have believed her, but because I know that anyone panhandling is fucking lying, I knew better. Still, we spoke with her for a moment, encouraged her and I gave her my knife that I keep in my shoe (because she was whining about not feeling safe) and we went on our way. Regardless of our awareness that this girl was completely full of shit, after denying her and walking five meters, the Trojan and I turned and looked at each other and both said simultaneously, “I like her.” Damnit.

It felt like the idiotic thing to do, so naturally, we went back. We’re so vain; we liked her because she was pretty and articulate and just not your average beggar. At all. She did not look like she was on the streets. Put her in some heels and a skin-tight dress, and she could have gotten by as a high class escort. Come to think of it, I should have suggested that to her. Anyway, we went back and told her that we can’t help her with her child who has been kidnapped (or whatever the story was that kept changing), but we can buy her a drink. So the three of us went into the place that was immediately next to us, which of course ended up being a gay bar. Long story short, she’s out of her god damn mind, and kept trying to hit on flamboyant gay men and complaining that the bar didn’t have olives in the cocktail tray that she was using like a buffet counter. The Trojan and I thrive on this type of awkwardness, so we were eating this girl up. This got us all kicked out however.

At the time, it seemed ridiculous that we were being expelled from the place, because I have seen much much much more obnoxious behavior at a bar, but I got the feeling that she is probably a regular there and she is probably not welcomed at the establishment anymore for past reasons. We said our goodbyes, she cried because she’s mental, and the Trojan and I went on our way.

About 100 paces later, we run into Michael Mud. Another bum panhandling, and despite the Trojan claiming to hate people, he is incredibly friendly. I like people (…in the grand scheme of things… unless you chew with your mouth open), and the Trojan and I were kind of partners in crime during this tour, but had he not been there, none of the events of the night would have taken place. So due to his nature, we of course start chatting it up with the three toothed beggar who we would later learn to be, Michael Mud.

The Trojan and Michael got deep. They were having a serious moment and I know my place, so I kind of stepped back and just observed this take place. They were bonding on a musicians’ level. Michael had an acoustic guitar on his back, so we asked him to play something. He kept declining because the guitar only had three strings, and I think he felt embarrassed playing in front of the Trojan, who is a guitarist. The Trojan almost literally kicked Michael Mud in the ass, demanding him to play and like I said… you can’t say no to a Trojan.

So Michael started playing, and it was really something. I wish I could remember details. Damn alcohol. But I can remember the feeling, and it just had so much heart. I could have sat there at that dirty bench all night listening to him play. He kind of started playing the blues. True blues. When you strum some minor chords and fill in measures with improved, lyricals of misery. We learned a lot about his outlook on life in about thirty seconds because of a song sang on the side of the street at 1:30am with a $30 acoustic guitar that was missing half of its’ strings.

Some more words were exchanged, and later Michael Mud started giving us his sob story. Something I really like about the Trojan is that he doesn’t give a fuck. He does and says what he wants and he doesn’t have sympathy for people because he can see that we are all the same. When Michael Mud responded to something that he said with, “well that’s easy to say when you’re in a successful band….”

This sparked a fire in the Trojan. To which, I don’t blame him. He has worked fucking hard to get to where he is and he still has to work bullshit jobs that he doesn’t like in order to maintain his status. So what I remember the Trojan saying back was basically, “Fuck that. Life is shit for all of us. The world is a cunt, but you have this guitar, so just keep doing what you want to do with it.” Michael Mud started to tear up a little bit, and that’s when I knew we had made a slight difference. Even if it was just in that night. And he made a slight mark in our path too. I’ll never forget that man, or watching him and the Trojan smash each others hearts with cold iron stakes.

We told him to come to the show the next day and we’d put him on the list. He didn’t have a phone or anything to take down information with, so I wrote the address of the venue in sharpie on his guitar, and also my phone number in case he had any trouble. We both walked away knowing that there was a slim chance that this man on the streets would actually arrive. Despite this, the next day I arranged to have Michael Mud on the list. To my surprise, he called me the following morning. He basically wanted to make sure that we weren’t just being drunk retards last night, and that we still wanted him to come. Of course! I was so happy!

He never showed though. I still wonder what happened.

Somewhere in Denver there is a really special bum named Michael Mud, with the address to Summit Music Hall written in sharpie on his now, six string guitar. The Trojan gave him some of his guitar strings before we parted ways so that he would have a complete instrument. I gave up my sick knife to the first beggar, and the Trojan gave up his guitar strings to the second. In a weird way, that’s everything we had to offer.

The Trojan and I made our way back to the bus, and who the hell knows what happened after that. But somewhere between the walk back and the truck stop the next morning, I lost my jeans. I have no idea how because I was wearing them! That’s it. That’s the story of how I came to be indirectly mentioned in a Noisey article. I never found those damn jeans. I’m sure that they just ended up on the floor of the bus, tossed out of my bunk, and then haphazardly shoved into another bunk but… whatever. I’ll trade a pair of Levi’s for a night like that any time.

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Part 1 of 2: Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 12

I hate anonymity, but I’ve been participating in it recently, occasionally giving the boys that I write about pseudonyms so that their ex’s or girl that they flirted with one night over a pitcher of beer and a soccer game, don’t get offended.  I guess me giving them bullshit names, is my way of not cock-blocking my friends.  But come on girls, stop getting pissed at guys just because they have a story that doesn’t include you.  It’s embarrassing.  So because I’m annoyed right now that I have to practice restraint, I am going to give my friend the pseudonym “fat face” for this entry.  Generally, I would call him “My Love,” a name we’ve been calling each other since 2003, but he pissed me off, so he’s not getting the nice nickname today.

I’d like to note that Fat Face is not at all fat.  He’s actually quite good-looking and I like picking out ties for him because he has a good fashion sense and when he’s feeling especially sweet, he’ll even let me pick out his outfit.

Him and I always have a lot of fun together.  Whether I’m making him play Monopoly with me, or we’re hoping fences and jumping into high school pools at 3:00 in the morning, we always have a great time.  We have been hanging out a lot because at the moment we’re both single(ish), we live in the same city, have a self-destructive personal life and put up with each other’s obnoxious tendencies, so I’d say he’s my partner in crime.  He’s also one of my best friends.

When we were teenagers, we had a whole group of friends who would rally together and participate in these slightly illegal, yet harmless activities such as spray painting city light bulbs, climbing on roofs and planning underground Beta fish fight clubs.  The rest of the “crew” have gone on to have fully functioning adult lives, and Fat Face and I are the two who still blow bubbles and giggle at the word vagina.  I’m sure our inability to settle down is due to our deep inner discontent, but this is something we choose to ignore for the most part when we’re together.  We just have too much damn fun to bother with gross discussions of the true reasons of why we push everyone away.

This screenshot perfectly sums up our friendship:

IMG_0130That is a very brief explanation of our most recent history, maybe I’ll get into our more advanced history some other time, but for now, we’re talking about what he did to piss me off, and the sinful events that took place after.  While on the phone with him the other night, he said something that was probably true, but I was not trying to hear it right then.  It was something along the lines of me always getting myself into ridiculous situations because I “welcome” them.  He went on to just dig himself into a hole, including statements such as, “I’m entertained by them though!”  I basically took it to mean that he doesn’t take me, or my life seriously.

“Fat Face.  Fat Face.  Stop talking.  I’m hanging up on you.”

“No!  No!  Don’t hang up.  Please!”

“Yes, I’m going.  You’re making me mad.”

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“Whatever.  Bye.”

Of course, we were kind of laughing, even as we were yelling at each other.  He knows me well enough to know that I just needed a night to settle down and that by tomorrow I’d only be 60% mad at him, so he let me go.  I was planning on a low-key night, it was 10:00pm and I was sitting at a Starbucks instead of a bar.  After Fat Face ambushed me with that however, I felt I deserved a cocktail to unwind from the mental uneasiness he so graciously offered.  I brought my book to a nearby bar, sat in my spot and ordered a Beefeater martini with two olives.

20 pages and 20 ounces of gin later, and I was humoring this guy next to me, pretending to listen as he discussed something relating to baseball I think, and something relating to his dog, which I definitely didn’t give a shit about.  This went on for about a half hour, but once he busted out the iPhone to show me pictures of his damn dog that I didn’t ask about, I gave myself a Caitlin pep talk.  It went something like this:

Why the fuck are you talking to this guy?  You know you’re just humoring him because you’re bored and pissed at Fat Face.

After my pep talk, I decided to actually look at the guy whose time I was currently wasting.  He was a child.  This kid must have been freshly 21.  Okay, now things were getting interesting, I thought.  Fat Face is always getting himself involved with little girls who still take bathroom mirror selfies, and the kid I was talking to was their male counterpart.

Once I discovered the irony, I was eating it up.  I began to actually make eye-contact, asked him what his dumb dog’s name is and even went as far as to inquire about what it feels like to have been born in the ’90s.  In hindsight, it was obviously my way of lashing out at Fat Face’s statement.  You think I “welcome” my ridiculous situations?  Well watch this!

Just call me Ms. Maturity.

The child and I got up to go outside, and he was carrying a fucking duffel bag.  Immediately after that hilarious discovery, which I of course called him out on, I found out that he doesn’t have a car.  Even better.  Here I am, a 27-year-old professional, (sort of) about to make a bad decision with a kid who carries around a duffel bag, has no car and wears pink button up shirts.  “So does that mean I’m taking you home?” I asked.

“Yes.”  Oh God.

To be continued…

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Love, Drugs and Infidelity – Chapter 2 of 3

…to be continued…

At our college we went by quarters, not semesters.  Each quarter was only ten weeks long.  Between quarters, there was a long break.  Winter break was a month and a half, summer was three months and spring, I believe, was three weeks.  As I have stated before, during this time of my life, I was very anti-relationships, and my behavior absolutely supported this declaration.  At least I was consistent!  We would all go home during breaks, and during my time at home, I might as well have lived in a burgundy robe, started a magazine and changed my last name to Hefner.  Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but there were definitely boys, and the plural in that statement is certainly appropriate.  I blame it on my self-diagnosis (see chapter 1).  One of the symptoms of my asshole syndrome, was the “out of sight, out of mind” rule.

Each time I would leave Savannah, I would be so in love with Chewonki, but each time I would return, for some inexplicable reason, I would sketch out (I’m bringing back that phrase) and not be into him anymore.  God I sucked.  It was like that movie 50 First Dates, where the girl has amnesia every day, and so every day, the guy has to remind her that she loves him.  I imagine that that’s kind of what it was like for Chewonki dating me.  The first two weeks of our return, he’d spend putting up with my coldness and essentially trying to remind me that I liked him.  It always worked though.  I always came around and for the following eight weeks of the quarter I’d be infatuated with him again, but then the cycle would continue.  While we were together, I never once called him my boyfriend.  For two and a half years Chewonki put up with this.  I have no idea why.  It’s like I had his whole heart but he didn’t have mine.

I know I joke about my “asshole syndrome,” but during this whole phase of my life, I was immensely crippled with remorse.  All of the guys that I was involved with, I really did respect and care about so deeply, so I hated myself.  For years, I could barely look at myself in the mirror.  With that being said, during one of the breaks in between quarters, I was home and Chewonki called me, and this was the first time he said, “I love you.”

I think it’s strange that I cannot remember the first time anyone else said I love you to me.  Actually, that’s not true.  I remember the very first time.  But that’s because it was the first time and my first “serious” boyfriend, and it was while I was in the process of losing my virginity.  Aw, how perfectly suburban of me.  Anyway, I think I remember with Chewonki because it was equally as traumatic as it was romantic.  Ironically, it was over the phone and I generally hate that… but not this time because it was so real.

At this point I’d say we’d been seeing each other for the better part of a year, and I assumed that he was doing the same thing as me; going home and seeing other people.  Duh!  Because that seems so perfectly reasonable and healthy.  Well, this was the conversation when I found out I was completely wrong in my assumption.  This whole time, he was being exclusive to me and I was off being a make-out whore.  It was an emotional conversation… I was crying… he was crying… and I said to him, “do you still like me?”  and without hesitation he said, “Of course I still like you.  I love you, with all of my heart.”

Just take that in for a moment.

I mean, Jesus Christ.  I just informed this guy that I’ve been seeing other dudes this entire time, and he responds with that!  I didn’t deserve him.  And talk about a rush of emotions.  We must have hit every emotion on the human spectrum during that single conversation.  I was like physically exhausted by the time we hung up.

I have never been into drugs.  Like I stated in Adventures of a Touring with a Rock Band, I just suck at them.  I didn’t even smoke weed for the first time until college.  Chewonki, and our whole circle of friends were total stoners though.  My freshman/sophomore year of college was by far the most often I have ever smoked.  I probably smoked with them once every four days or so, which to me was a lot, but to them, I might as well have been Sober Sally.  Like most people who smoke as much as they did, they got into mild dealing.  Just a bit of weed here and there to support their own obsession with being high.  After his sophomore year, and once we had all moved out of the dorms, Chewonki and our other good friend got into coke.  They developed a habit.

I’m not sure how this happened.  This is where my memory really starts to fade.  I remember him sometimes doing coke on the weekends or something, but not because I saw him do it, but because I could taste that he had done it.  It’s weird, if someone is on coke, when you kiss them, their mouth has this very distinct smell and taste.  Even hours after someone doing a line, you can still taste it on them.  So I do remember, sophomore year, tasting it on him sometimes.  Anyway, I think coke is fucking sketchy, and he knew this, so he never did it in front of me.  Thinking back, that must have been hard for him.  I mean, over the years, he went on to develop a full on coke addiction, but I don’t ever remember seeing him actually snort a line.  I must have at least a few times, but it was scarce enough that I have no clear image of him doing it at all.  All my other friends at the time, yes, I have vivid memories of them snorting away their soul while sitting on a dilapidated couch, stealing rolls of my toilet paper [to blow their nose] and talking all over one another.  Time went on, and to support their habit, Chewonki and our other friend began dealing cocaine together.

Our rocky path continued, and right around the time of their arrest, it had been the longest Chewonki and I had ever gone without being together.  Until the night before he was arrested.

Stay tuned for the conclusion of this story.

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Love, Drugs and Infidelity – Chapter 1 of 3

This is a story about a time, a place and a boy.  It’s not a special story, but it’s special to me, and it’s time to tell the tale.

The time was college, eight years ago.  The place was Savannah, Georgia and the boy is Chewonki.  His name is not actually Chewonki, but within the first week of knowing him, he made the mistake of singing his camp song in front of me so the nickname stuck.  The fact that I was attending a college where 99% of the students came from those families that sent their kids away to camp every summer was my first clue that I was displaced.  The fact that his family sent him to a place called fucking Camp Chewonki where they literally sang songs around a campfire (I thought that was just in the movies), it’s no wonder he had emotional problems.  At least his problems could be professionally diagnosed and medicated.  My self diagnosis is simply that I suffer from asshole syndrome, to which the only medication is alcohol; a self-medication used to forget that you’re an asshole.

The first time I met Chewonki I did not like him.  I can’t remember why exactly, and I just called him this second to ask him if he remembers, and this was the conversation:


“Hey, are you busy?”  I asked.

“No.  I just got out of some stupid meeting.”

“Sorry that I’m chewing really loud.”

“It’s okay.  Whatever it is, it sounds delicious.”

“It is.  It’s beef jerky, so you know… it requires work to eat it.”

He laughed, “I did notice that your jaw looked strong the last time I saw you.”

“Thanks!  Anyway, do you remember why I didn’t like you when we first met?”

“You judged the cover, asshole.”

“No, I feel like it was because you acted like a Republican,”

“Penny, (this is my nickname, and what most of my college friends call me) I am the most liberal person you know.”  EVERYONE at art school is liberal so he got me there…

“Then maybe it was because you had terrible taste in music.”  Silence.  “So yeah… I guess you’re right.  I did judge the cover.”

“You looked at me and saw a Jersey douche.  But then we went to that party and bonded and you liked me after that.”

“Yeah, I do remember that I liked you at least a little bit at some point in my life.”

Laughing, “I don’t remember that part, but hopefully you still do at least a little.”

“All right, that’s all.  Bye!”

“Bye.  Love you.”

Back to 2006, rewinding over the arrests, drug deals and first time I love you’s that will come later in the story.  At this party (which he referred to in the above), I somehow found myself deep in conversation with Chewonki, the only guy there who I was not attracted to.  Three arguments and maybe two hours later and we were kissing.  Three hang out sessions and maybe two days after that, and we were infatuated with one another.  Him and I in deep conversation at a social gathering was something that I remember to be a pretty consistent occurrence.  It was college, so there were a lot of parties.  It was art school, so there were a lot of interesting people.  Chewonki and I would frequent these events, and though I have the memory of a fucking gold fish, I vaguely remember us more often than not,  ignoring all the new exciting people, and just ending up on the couch together, talking.

The beginning of us took place at a time when I thought I was hardcore because I drank Jack Daniels.  I was nineteen, so I was probably drinking a half of an ounce of Jack for every twelve ounces of coke, but regardless, I became abhorrently drunk one night after Chewonki and I had just started seeing one another.  I was sick in the bathroom, and Marie, my good college friend and roommate called Chewonki.  Now that we’re older of course, if a friend becomes sick due to intoxication, we stay seated and just point to the direction of the bathroom and maybe check in a half hour later to make sure she didn’t drown in the toilet.  But at nineteen, when a friend was puking, there was a whole goddamn rescue squad and procedures that took place.  I was not thrilled on the idea of Chewonki seeing me this way, but I was too drunk to object.  I was on the floor of a friend’s dorm bathroom, that had a random chair in it that read in chalk, “To whom that may concern, I would like to inform you that I just took the biggest dump of my life, and there is no toilet paper.”  After a minute of Chewonki sitting on the floor of this bathroom that should have been condemned, I think I did manage to ask him to give me a minute so that I could vomit in privacy.

To kill the time, he must have picked up a magazine or something, because when he came back in, the first thing he said was not, “are you ok?” or “you doin’ all right?” or any of those conventional phrases.  He said, “So I just learned that Clearwater is the Scientology headquarter of the world.”  Clearwater is where I’m from.  In some small way, I think that might have been the moment that I fell in love with him, though I didn’t recognize it for that at the time.  But what more could I ask for?  A guy who holds your hair back while you’re puking, and manages to have a good sense of humor while doing it.

We went on to have some great times and some hard times too, of course.  I take responsibility for most of the hard, but with that being said, he is a little bit out of his mind.  To be serious, it was sometimes difficult because he had emotional problems that I didn’t understand.  Unstable would be an appropriate word.  Chewonki was unstable.  So we had our fights, and our fair share of “down” times during our rollercoaster of a relationship, but he was always so kind to me despite his insanity and my bitchiness.

Our up times were great.  They were nothing elaborate or lavish, just two college kids laughing and talking.  For example, Chewonki is 6’5″ and I’m 5’3″.  This didn’t really bother me, (though kissing occasionally presented itself to be problematic) but it bothered him.  While walking together, he’d push me away and say, “don’t walk next to me, it’s embarrassing.”  Of course I took full advantage of him being uncomfortable with the height difference, and would get super close to him and purposely call attention us.  He called me a midget, and Flinestone feet.   He was such a character.  He used to wear friggen sweat-bands around his head with his hair sticking a good four inches straight up in all directions, and walk around like that all day.  And he’d also take his shirt off and spray himself with tanning oil if we were going to be outside for more than three and a half minutes.  Granted, he did these things to make me laugh, but he was also at least 55% serious about them.  That’s what I liked about Chewonki; he was goofy, but he knew when to be serious and we could laugh, as well as have meaningful conversations.  And the way he looked at me… I remember that it sometimes quite literally took my breath away.  I could feel that he cared about me.  With others, I could hear it, I could hear them say it, but with Chewonki, I could feel it.

I get antsy if I’m cooped up inside for more than a couple of hours.  I am perfectly comfortable with admitting that I can absolutely be annoying when I’m antsy.  Chewonki would never act annoyed though, so this is another fond memory I have of him.  He would always humor me, stop whatever important task he was in the middle of, and go with me outside (though I’m sure he didn’t want to) and shoot hoops for fifteen minutes or however long it took for me to get the antsiness out of my system, before returning to his homework or whatever it is that he was doing pre Penny neediness.  So nice.  And he defended me.  In my opinion, that’s the most powerful way to express love.  You know you love someone when you can wholeheartedly defend them to anyone.  I was not there, but some night that he was at a party, this girl, who he was good friends with, called me some stupid name, and Chewonki slapped her drink out of her hand and yelled at her, which apparently led to this girl crying.  I got wind of it the next day and asked him about it.  I remember I said thank you to him as I was leaving and then he pulled me back, grabbed my face, looked me dead in the eye and said, “No, you don’t ever have to thank me.  I will always defend you, okay?  Always,” then he kissed me.  That is probably at the top of the most romantic moments of my life.

Here is where my syndrome starts to become relevant, so stay tuned for the next chapter of this story…

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 11

I have discussed what I like to call “uh-oh moments” in past entries.  I was chatting with a friend recently, and he made me realize that these moments have dictated my life way more than I have been giving them credit for.  If you’re not up to speed on my definition of an uh-oh moment, I will fill you in.  The “uh-oh moment” is that single second, after your boyfriend/girlfriend/fuck-buddy/romantic interest does or says something that you can pinpoint exactly, which causes an unexplainable switch in your brain, and from that moment on, you just know that you will never be attracted to that person again.  There is no going back. I will start with the very first uh-oh moment that I can remember.

Sixth grade.  I think back then we called it “going out.”  So I was “going out” with this boy, which basically meant that he met me in the halls in between classes and we sometimes held hands.  We had probably been together for what I’m guessing to be a week, and in my twelve-year-old mind, the thought of kissing was still light-years away.  At my locker, he kissed me on the cheek before leaving to go to his class.  EW!  This was a seriously big milestone in a sixth grade relationship, and I was so grossed out because I could feel his saliva on my cheek.  I wiped it off, but for the rest of the day, I could just sense where he had left his slobbery mark.  Uh-oh.  No more milestones for us!  At the end of the day, I made Allee-Jo break up with him for me because she would see him while walking back home from school.  Now that’s a good friend.

Fast forward to four years later, still very much a virgin and seeing this guy I met in drama.  I was new to the whole foreplay thing, so when he started fingering me and it was the most distressing thing I had yet to experience in my so far innocent life, I thought that might be a normal reaction.  But the uh-oh moment came when not ten seconds after he started this uncomfortable activity, he said, “are you going to come?”  EW!  That word grossed me out so much.  I had never heard someone use it seriously before.  My friends and I, whose activities at this time in our lives included melting action figures on Glenn’s stove, and coming up with inventive things to put into macaroni and cheese, would use that word only to be funny and purposely disgusting.  Hearing my “boyfriend” say it to me was a HUGE turn-off.  The next day I broke up with him in the hallway before French class.  I entered class a bit shaken, and received some good advice that I’ve lived by ever since.  “Next time Caitlin, you might want to wait until after school to break up with your boyfriend.”  Thanks Mrs. King!

Fast forward now to my twenties, and these moments are no longer in chronological order.  My twenties have just been one big jumbly mess of social conundrums.  This guy never closed his mouth, and he always reminded me of someone.  It would drive me crazy that I couldn’t pinpoint who it was that he resembled.  When I realized that it was Brainy, the mouth-breather from the cartoon, Hey Arnold… uh-oh!




This next one is bad because I was actually pretty into this guy.  He was the first relationship I even mildly took seriously in years, and I fucked it all up because I’m such a snob.  He put his hand in the back-pocket of my jeans while we were out.  Uh-oh.  I thought that move had been abandoned in the 90’s, gone forever, as it should be.  It’s just such a gaudy behavior, and I’m the opposite of gaudy when it comes to relationships.  Due to that moment, what I had been stewing on for a few days became blindingly clear, we were just not going to work out.

This move.  No thanks!

This move. No thanks!


Another guy bit my nipple.  Hard!  While attempting to be hot.  Done.

I was lightly seeing this kid in college, who was much more fashionable than me, which was already a problem.  I suppose he was just a hipster, but that term hadn’t become popular yet.  My roommate could never remember his name, which is mostly my fault because at the time, I was seeing a few boys, so he had trouble keeping them straight, and would just come up with clever nicknames for all of them.  Corey’s nickname was “the train conductor,” because there were a couple of occasions when Corey would wear this hat and vest situation… and he really did look like a train conductor.  The next time I saw Corey, after hearing my roommate call him the train conductor for the first time, I thought, uh-oh.  All day, all I saw was a goddamn train conductor.  He was no longer Corey.  It didn’t matter anymore what he was actually wearing, I just always saw a fucking train conductor from that moment on.  Michael and I still laugh about Corey on occasion.  At least I got a good inside joke out of it.

Another guy killed me when he used the phrase, “dummy dumb dumb dumb.”  He was telling some story and said, “I felt like such a dummy dumb dumb dumb.”  WHAT?!  Everyone else I associate with would just say, I felt like an asshole, or I was being an idiot.  This kid busts out with dummy dumb dumb dumb.  Each syllable of that ridiculous phrase felt like a gunshot to our relationship.  So I maybe could have survived “dummy dumb,” but he had to take it all the way, and just murder me with the five syllable onslaught.  I’m a jerk, I know.

Some irrelevant guy I was seeing for a second, started touching himself while kissing me.  We had never done anything but kiss, and one night we were doing exactly that, FULLY clothed I’d like to add, and barely “into it,” when I realized he had his hand down his own pants and was jerking off.  That’s fucking foul.  Done.

At a bar and I let this guy use up my last credit on the jukebox.  He chose a Creed song and was 100% serious about it.  Uh-oh.  I don’t know which is worse, Creed fans or Nickelback fans.

One of the funniest uh-oh moments I’ve ever heard of, didn’t happen to me, but to my friend Cody.  Back when we were teenagers, if I remember correctly, he went out only a couple of times with this girl because she was really hot.  She told him that she doesn’t like guys who like corn.  WHAT?!  So that was Cody’s uh-oh moment.  It’s not that he loves corn, he just couldn’t like a girl who doesn’t like guys for such an absurd reason.  It makes me laugh every time I think about it.


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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 7

Why do guys say, “you’re so wet” when you’re clearly not.  Ummm what vagina are you finger fucking because mine can definitely not be described as “so wet,” right now.

First of all, I’m not into any type of even mild dirty talk.   Or any sexual spoken communication at all for that matter, while hooking up.  The very occasional oh my god is fine, and the you’re beautiful’s are sometimes necessary, and I dig the heavy breathing, but aside from that… please shut the fuck up.

Was making-out with this boy, and though I knew I wasn’t going to take it all the way, I let things go into second base.  I think I was just bored.  He’s hot, but I’m not that into him.  Anyway, he starts fingering me and I started with the manual stimulation as well, and he says, “you’re so wet.”

What?  No, I’m really not.  Trust me, I wish I was my friend, but sadly, your awkward dry humping is not completely doing it for me.

While I was absolutely lubricated (it’s not as if it was sandpaper down there), I could not be described as so wet.  This is not the first time I’ve had a boy say this to me when it was clearly not true.  I’m guessing they say it to try to convince themselves?  Maybe?  Or maybe it’s just a go-to phrase that they think will turn us on and in turn, make us more wet?  I don’t know.  All I know, is it drives me crazy and makes me begin to not fantasize about ripping his clothes off, but fantasize about how I’m going to gracefully end this hormonal exchange.

A better question is, why do I continue to make-out with guys that I’m not that into?

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 3

I am the Queen of emotional cheating.  I’ve participated in such sins while I was the one in the relationship, and I’ve done it with people who were/are in a relationship.  I will use my friend Kyle as an example.  Him and I met our freshman year of college, and about two hours after being introduced, he asked me to marry him.  Of course, he was kidding, it was part of some lighthearted flirting.  I mentioned that I like hockey and some band, and he responded with, “Can we get married?”

The point is, we had an immediate connection.  At the time, I didn’t realize how precious that was.  When we’re young, and constantly meeting so many people, I think most of us believe that there will be many people with whom to share that connection with.  The older I get the more I believe it only truly happens a few times.  I digress.  Kyle had a girlfriend and they were doing the whole long distance relationship disaster thing.  We were in Savannah, Georgia where we went to art school, and she was in Connecticut.  Lighthearted flirting between Kyle and I led to serious flirting, which led to physical flirting, which led to… this situation fucking blows.

We were very open about our feelings for one another, and discussed our predicament frequently.  To make matters worse, we could not keep our hands off of each other.  While he never “technically” cheated on her because we did not kiss, we laid on the same bed together, he would occasionally spend the night, we watched movies together, we kissed each other’s foreheads, we played with each other’s hands, which I like to call “hand sex,” and we friggen talked about how badly we wanted one another.  This brings me to the question of, is emotional cheating worse than actual cheating, and where is the line drawn?

I believe that cheating is defined by anything that one would not do with a platonic friend.  I would not have hand sex and cuddle with a platonic friend, so in my mind, Kyle cheated on his girlfriend.  I don’t care if we didn’t kiss.  If I saw my boyfriend doing those same acts with another girl, I would absolutely accuse him of cheating.  I suppose Kyle does deserve credit for holding back and not jumping on me.  I was for sure not the one trying to stop it.  I would have slept with him in a heartbeat, and he knew it.  So in all fairness, that does say something about his character.

For hypothetical purposes, lets take-away all of the physical elements from the equation.  This leaves us with two people who are falling in love with each other while one of them is in a relationship.  This is emotional cheating, and I believe that in most cases, it is worse than physical cheating.  To be perfectly honest, if I were in a relationship with someone who was falling for someone else, even if they never touched, I would be much more heartbroken over that, than if my significant other got drunk one night and hooked up with a random person.

Three relationships and five years later, Kyle and I are still doing the same bullshit.  Since that first girlfriend, he has been in two other long-term relationships, including the one he is in presently.  There was a small, sliver of time when we were both single and both in the same city, so we were able to finally release some of that built-up sexual tension, which I will say, was one of the hottest nights of my life, but it was only one night and I won’t get into why it couldn’t last.  I live in Los Angeles now, and he lives in Connecticut, so there is no more physical cheating happening, but the emotional cheating is still running rampant.  We’ve had “down times” in the past five years, but this is not one of those times.  No matter how hard we try to keep the conversation appropriate, it almost always ends with confessions of how much we miss/want one another.  I know, I’m going to hell.

What do you consider cheating, and which is worse, emotional cheating or physical?

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 1

All I wanted to do that night was drink massive amounts of alcohol that would put even Bukowski to shame, and hook up with Luke Taylor.  Earlier that week I had fended off a roommate whom I had mistakenly went to first base with (but that’s another story), had been hit on by my boss (yes, another story to come) and quit a job I had not even started yet (one not so very interesting story).  Making bad decisions with Luke Taylor, the boy with the hot name, sounded like the perfect antidote to my vile week.

The red dot had other plans for me, however.  Remember those disgusting tampon commercials about seven years ago that represented a woman’s period with a fat red dot on a white screen?

A lovely girl, strolling along the beach with her curly locks blowing in the breeze, giggling as she sips on a fruity drink and gazes on at the dolphins playing in the waves, then…

BAM!  Red dot, white screen.  Her period.

I used to laugh and roll my eyes at those obnoxious commercials.  Now, I feel for that curly-haired girl because my period came and fucked up my whole day too.  Only hours before I was to hang out with Luke Taylor, my red dot came.  All I wanted to do that night was drink massive amounts of alcohol and hook up with the boy with the hot name.  In an effort to not come across like I objectify men, I will digress and say, he is the only person I have met so far in Los Angeles who is, 1. Normal.  2. Not an actor (you can’t trust those).  3. Did not attempt to name drop at the first available opportunity and 4. Made me laugh.

Despite my vagina bleeding, I still shaved my legs and made attempts at looking attractive.  Now, I will fast-forward through the flirty parts, and bring us to later that night, after large quantities of alcohol had been consumed by both parties.  I was too drunk to drive home, and Luke Taylor, being a nice young man, offered to let me stay over.  Don’t roll your eyes, I know he was probably more concerned with his penis than he was my safety, but he is sweet and disguised that well.  Luke and I met on a film set where we did the whole, flirt all day, make cute eye-contact and then exchange numbers awkwardly at the end of the night thing.  This was the first time we had hung out since that day.  I was not expecting to be spending the night out anywhere, so I did not bring an extra tampon.  Luckily, my period is always very light, so the fear of leaking through has never been a concern of mine.

A good twenty minutes into a hot make-out session, it came to the point where we were either going to bring things below the belt, or not.  Though I have had my period for eleven years now (don’t bother guessing, I’m twenty-five), I still am sufficiently grossed out by the thought of clumpy blood mixed with vaginal discharge flowing out of the female body.  I absolutely do not participate in any type of below-the-belt act while I am on my period.  I know I am speaking of it freely here, but I do find periods to be embarrassing and avoid telling a boy that I am on mine at all costs.  As Luke Taylor’s hands reached for my belt buckle, my hand’s intercepted. A short look, then from my lips,

“So…. I uh-”

“Are you about to ask me if I have a STD?” he said.

That’s when I knew I liked this guy.  I laughed and said no, though it’s mildly disturbing that this was not even a little bit on my mind.  Quickly, he came back with,

“You’re on your period.”

I forced out some kind of sound that resembled a yes, and then we continued with our intense making-out which included straddling him, shirts coming off, dry humping and all of the other embarrassing foreplay activities.

The next morning, we did all of the necessary post-hook-up duties… cuddling, complimenting and caressing which took up about fifteen minutes… then I left.  Not until I got home did I realize I had fucking bled through.  Of course.  The icing.  No, the period itself was the icing.  This was those little bullshit flowers on top of the cake that are inedible.  I spent the next two days freaking out that I had possibly perioded on Luke Taylor’s bed sheets.  Figuring out at what time during the night the leaking took place was vital, but I was drunk, and mental backtracking through pee breaks I had taken was not jarring any memories.  I went to the physical evidence… the pants.  I examined the blood stain and let out a sigh of relief when I concluded that there was not enough to have dripped through the denim and onto the sheets.

Then, the flashback of myself straddling Luke Taylor came flooding in, drowning me.  What if I had perioded on him?  My crotch was absolutely rubbing up against his and all I could see was him getting up in the morning after I had left, to the fat red dot on his white boxers.  Ew.  So what did I do?  I called my 911, my best friend, Lance.  Lance is fucking annoying when it comes to periods because he is not grossed-out by them at all.  I suppose it’s safe to say that he and I are on total opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to vaginal bleeding.  I wanted him to tell me that if in fact I had bled on, or around Luke Taylor, that this boy with the hot name would simply never call me again.  That sounded fair.  A girl periods on your bed on the first date, and you never contact her again.  I was cool with that.  Unfortunately, Lance informed me that if it had happened to him, he would have probably just ignored it, washed the sheets/boxers and still called the girl again, assuming he had a good time with her.  This is not what I wanted to hear because then how could I ever be sure if it had actually happened or if I was just being paranoid?

I’ll save you from the suspense.  It has been a few weeks since the incident, and I am still not positive if I did in fact period on, or around Luke Taylor.  I have hung out with him a few times since, and I am 95% sure that I did not, and here is why.  Lance is my age, 25, but Luke Taylor is only 22.  In a lot of ways, this means nothing, but in a few ways, it means enough.  When I was 22, boys my age were equally as repulsed by periods as I am.  Now at 25, I’ve noticed that the boys simply don’t care anymore.  They claim that they’ll just put a towel down and go to work.

The difference between 25 and 22 also becomes apparent during/after a blow-job.  I have found that the 22-year-old’s are still very apprehensive about their own cum.  They warn you about its approach which, I guess I appreciated when I was 18 because I participated in that awkward pull away thing where you finished him by jacking him off, or even worse, he finished himself with the last few strokes, because the thought of semen in your mouth was terrifying… but we grow out of that.   A 22-year-old will not want to kiss you again until the next day, even if you do brush your teeth.  A 25-year-old does not give a shit anymore, and will kiss you as long as you don’t have cum dripping down your chin.  So that was my clue that I did not period on Luke Taylor.

I went down on him about two weeks after the possible “incident,” and he absolutely played the role of the 22-year-old, warning me, and then even going as far as throwing away the glass cup I spit into instead of just washing it.  This leads me to the conclusion that he would have also played the role of the 22-year-old in the period situation, being disgusted by it and never speaking to me again.  So my friends, I am happy to have reached the verdict that I was simply being paranoid, and did not period on, or around Luke Taylor, the boy with the hot name.

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