Anyone who knows me is also well aware of what a mess the romantic side of my life is – and has always been. It’s been devastating, painful, and, on at least two occasions, life-endangering. Since I am way too cheap for therapy, I’m going to tell some of those stories here online to save on my co-pay.
A couple of years back, I was at a bar after a convention and it was great – music was loud, people were dancing, there were shots. Lots of shots.
On a side note, with me, there are always lots of shots. Tequila shots are spectacular. They’re fun, but are also the key to some very strange, and often stupid, things. Kind of like the Bridge to Terabithia. Sure, it starts off pretty and you think it’s like the Hobbit or Narnia, but that bitch goes south real quick. That is shots.
Anyway, so dancing, shots, shots dancing. And this girl I know grinds up on me in a tiny dress and starts shaking it a little. For most people this would be a good thing – a sign – a connection. For me, tho, I’m more worried about the fact that the Flash logo print on her dress isn’t the right color…I’m a nerd – a real nerd, not one of those hipster-douche Chris Hardwick types. I don’t play the latest PS4 game because IO9 tells me to. I played Pong, bitches. I’m not watching Arrow because all of my friends like to say they ‘like comic books.’ No, I watch Arrow for one reason: Stephen Amell on the Salmon Ladder. I am a professional nerd and this sort of thing doesn’t happen to me.
She’s flirty and it’s fun and funny because, you know, Shots. I mean, at this point we’ve had 5 or 12 or 100…I don’t know. At some point Common Bar Math takes over and I lose count. I’ve got a little crush on her, but I’m an absolute coward who never asks women out. She’s hot, smart, funny. I’m…well, like the fourth season of Heroes.
We dance, we have fun, we drink. Bar closes and it’s time to go. Group of us head out and file into a cab: this girl, me, our friend up in the front seat with the driver, and some woman I’ve never met before – I have no idea where she came from or how she got into our cab – heading back to the hotel.
The girl slides over and puts her head in my armpit – which, because I’m an idiot, has my brain thinking ‘I’ve been sweating a lot’ and I’m about to say something when a little voice from down below chimes in ‘Shut the fuck up.’ I’ve got a tiny penis that swears at me a lot, sort of like having Kevin Hart in my pants.
She’s sitting there and it’s nice and all, so I let it go. All is good. Then, out of nowhere, this girl pulls an Inception on me.
She kissed me.
Nothing anything crazy. This was a tentative kiss – all exploratory like the Mars rover. Top lip to bottom lip. Real quick. And right there, shit got flipped, turned upside down. Like I’ve got Will Smith with me now. In the car: driver, buddy, crazy woman, hot girl, me…and the Fresh Prince of Bel Air.
The world, all of time and space begins to rush passed me at high speed – like a Colonial Viper being launched out of the Galactica – and then slams to a stop. My head goes ‘Wha–?’ And I’m about three quarters convinced it was an accident. This girl is clumsy – I’ve seen her break heels, trip, knock things over, fall into a lot of things – never quivering top lip first, but probably a mistake.
Reality the decides to take a hike and allows itself be replaced by Shots. She kisses me again. Now, I’m not an attractive dude, so this sort of thing NEVER happens to me. Not without a visit to Craigslist and a stack of twenties.
This time it’s serious, but not pushy. It let’s me know it’s there and backs off. Every ounce of my breath disappears. You know the feeling – breath goes, body gets warm, fuzziness around the eyes. Veins open up, preparing to dump every ounce of blood out of your head.
I’m drunk, but not so drunk that I just go with it. My brain is going ‘WHAT THE FUCK?!’ For about half a second I consider stopping things. Kevin Hart springs up from below and says ‘No…No. I’d like to see where this is going.’ And, honestly, I wasn’t one to argue with a tiny black man in my pants.
The third kiss takes me by complete surprise, and I become Quicksilver (X-Men not Avengers) – everything freezes in place, as my head and my dick begin to debate.
That’s how it goes. Back and forth – head, dick, head, dick, dick, head, dick, head.
This is where a third party jumps into the argument and my lips scream ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP, I’M WORKING HERE!’
So we start making out there in the back…with the driver and my buddy up front, the crazy lady, Fresh Prince…and Kevin Hart in my pants. None of them are making out, although the crazy lady is intently watching the whole thing play out and my buddy is signing about Bilbo fucking Baggins and the Shire, completely clueless to the train wreck going on two feet behind him. Being otherwise preoccupied, I have no idea what the driver was thinking.
We’re kissing and touching, it’s great. Brain’s turned off, lips are happy, my hand is on her butt so it’s good. Life is magical. Then, Kevin Hart starts talking again. ‘Um…we have a problem.’
Now, my head is pissed. My lips are pissed. My hand doesn’t really seem to care because it keeps doing it’s thing.
‘What is it, Kev?’
‘We…we need to slow down.’
My lips say ‘FUCK YOU! I’m not stopping.’ Hand keeps going. Hand don’t care.
My brain, for the first time in this entire scenario steps up and takes charge. ‘I’ve got this. Lips keep going, hand nice work. Kev, I got you covered, dog. We are Groot.’
While we’re making out, I begin to go over different things in my head to ease the internal struggle going on…because Kevin Hart’s nice and all, but he’ll start spitting if he gets too agitated.
I’m a nerd, so automatically Voltron pops until my head. And I go: From days of long ago, from uncharted regions of the universe, comes a legend. The legend of Voltron: Defender of the Universe.
Worked like a charm. Kevin Hart settled down. Head’s happy, lips’re happy, hands are doing their thing. Cab ride ends and I am literally torn between two of the most powerful urges in my life. One side of my brain wants to toss my wallet at the cabbie and tell him to takes us around a few more times. The other wants to punch him in the forehead.
Luckily for everyone, the valet opens the car and we get out: my buddy, the crazy lady, hot girl and me…I’m assuming the Fresh Prince’s work is done because he split. Grab the girl, we all head to the elevators. We punch our floors. Buddy hits five and I hit 10. Crazy lady just stands there looking at us.
Doors open at five. Hot girl gets out – I’m confused but start to go. My buddy, not remembering that I have two black belts and an excitable Kevin Hart in my pants, cuts me off and follows her out. They need to talk I’m told. The doors close and, although the elevator goes up, my heart drops. There I was…horny, drunk, and alone in the elevator.
That’s when I hear, from somewhere behind me, a voice. At first, I think Kevin Hart, but then I realize…I remember…there is someone else in the car. I turn, and the crazy lady is standing there smiling.
She says…and the words will be burned into my brain for all time. She says ‘I thought you were going to hit that.’
Things were surprisingly un-awkward the next day at the con. I’m assuming most of the evening was a blank for poor hot girl because, you know, SHOTS. If she had pieced things together, she didn’t acknowledge the evenings adventure at all – at least not to me. If I had been smart, I’d have done the same. Filed the memory away in the spank bank for later use, thanked Crom, and been done with it. Moved on.
However, I’m an idiot. So I asked her out. Straight up – no games. ‘I like you, I think you like me, we both seem to love the fuck out of cabs. Let’s go out.’ In my head, it didn’t seem like a crazy idea.
In my head, I’m thinking ‘What could possibly go wrong.’ Down below, on the other hand, Kevin Hart just looked up at me with his one good eye and said ‘You are one dumb white boy.’
She said, and much like the eloquent words of the crazy woman the night before, what she said will be tattooed on my ego FOREVER….She said ‘Like a date?’
Warning lights begin to go off in my head – like in a submarine movie. Red lights are flashing, sirens are blaring, water’s pouring through the bulkhead, Kevin Hart is screaming ‘DIVE, MOTHER FUCKER, DIVE!’
I respond ‘Yeah…everyone likes free dinner, right?’
I said that. Bestselling author. Comedian. Witty mother fucker. ‘Everyone. Likes. Free. Dinner…Right.’
Somehow, those words, as lyrical and deeply moving as anything written by Nabokov, did nothing for her. She just cocked her head to one side and tried to be nice as she proceeded to don the head garb of Mola Ram and reenact the scene from Temple of Doom. But in a pleasant fashion. She’s sweet.
I don’t remember specifically what she said, but it was essentially ‘no way, you suck, die.’ But in a pleasant fashion. She’s sweet. What I do remember is looking down as Kevin Hart said ‘Told you, bitch.’
Anyone who has been rejected knows, the worst part about getting turned down – and I’m talking by someone you know, not by a stranger in a bar or a rest stop bathroom – the worst part about getting turned down is that they look at you and decide that they would rather spend time with some random guy they don’t know – maybe a Brony – than with you.
In my case, with the hot girl, we’d spent tons of hours together – working, hanging, eating, laughing. We’d made out in a car – she’d touched my Kevin Hart! I thought we were a great fit. Of course, I also thought Warcraft was an avant garde masterpiece that pushed the boundaries of modern filmmaking.
I may have been wrong about the girl, but I think history will prove me right on Warcraft.
For me, the biggest question that came out of the entire sad situation is: when do I tell her about the herpes?
-Mat Nastos, Just Stories