Saturday, December 11, 2010

God, I'm a Dick

A lot of people tend to think that dudes are the only ones who can be assholes when it comes to random sex and hookups. So true a lot of the time. Dudes are fucking dbags, man. College taught me a lot about how to deal with dudes who just want a blowjob and have no interest in what your name is, what your major is, or how you're going to get home across campus at three in the morning. However, I've had my "don't know your name but can you get the fuck out of my bed" moments.

This one normally would be embarrassing to any other girl. But obviously I have no shame, dignity, or sense of embarrassment, so to me this just made me think Iw as kind of an asshole who didn't give a shit.

I met a dude who plays in the MLL (Major League Lacrosse. I know, does it even really count?). Dude was pretty hot. Kind of dumb looking, but pretty hot. He gets my number, he seems cool, we text all day for two days. I'm supposed to go out with him on a Friday, but he text me shady "I really wish I could see you tonight" shit all day, like borderline crazy obsessive, so CLEARLY I agree to go out with him on a Wednesday after work, because my standards aren't that high. I'm wearing hideous granny panties, I hadn't shaved, I have no intentions of fucking. I'm tired, I'm in a work outfit, I smell like stale beer. No, this is not how I enjoy having sex.

8 Brooklyn Lagers and three shots later, I am so fucking horny I would have fucked the chair leg. So clearly, dude gets me to go home to his 2x3 bedroom with NO WINDOW.

If I hadn't actually had that much to drink, I'd have thought I was roofied, but I wasn't. Dudes don't need to roofie me to bang, and they get that vibe IMMEDIATELY upon meeting me when I crack a dick joke or talk about fucking. But yeah, I was pretty fucked up.

I vaguely remember fucking. There was a long conversation about a condom. See, even when I'm shitfaced, I'm safe and clean. Anyway, long conversation about the condom, and then some sex that I remember stopping because it hurt. I mean, like, I was shitfaced and could still feel the pain. Looking back, I'm surprised there was no internal bleeding.

Anyway, we finish banging, I get dressed, underwear on backwards, manage to get my ass in a cab and go home. I wake up the next morning with a sore fucking vagina and a bad hangover, because Brooklyn Lager is NOT fun to puke up.

I also have a text. "Hey, wanted to make sure everything was okay".

I have one eye open, my head is still throbbing on the pillow, and I text back "yah, just hung as shit (like someone else I know) but I'm fine, why?"

"There was a lot of blood. On my sheets."

Alright, now I'm awake. I'm stressing. Not because I bled all over the dude, not because I'm mildly skeeved out, but because I thought I literally had internal bleeding. I knew it wasn't that time of the month, I'm on the period and you could fucking cook a turkey to how on time that shit is. So the only obvious answer is I'm dying. Somehow, I'm dying. I called like, 12 of my female friends, my sister and two gynos to make sure I wasn't dying. That my mom or someone wouldn't find me in bed looking like I had been raped with a butcher knife.

No one's calling me back - none of my friends who have real jobs and can't answer the phone or discuss bleeding vaginas at work, not the nurses at my gyno's office, no one. Now I'm having a massive panic attack thinking my uterus is punctured or like, I'm having a miscarriage or my stomach is falling out of my vagina. Panic stricken. Terrified. I'm dying, bleeding to death and it's all because of my STUPID VAGINA. And a lacrosse player. NOT EVEN A COOL SPORT.

"I'm so sorry, I'll buy you new sheets" I promised him in the midst of trying to figure out how much blood I had lost and how long until I passed out, and if it was safe to drive myself to the ER.

Dude never got new sheets. He asked for them, twice. Nope. Didn't happen. He also never got another booty call. He tried to hit me up a few times after (apparently he finally got new sheets after he realized he wasn't getting a payout for damages from me), and I was always like "hey, no, thanks. Take it easy." And it had nothing to do with being embarrassed. It had to do with the fact that I was always nervous I'd have to cough up money to pay for the shit I ruined. Which, I assumed, also probably included boxers and a pair of shorts I vaguely remember putting on after.

A day later, when I was still alive and there was no blood whatsoever where it didn't belong, I realized that I wasn't having a random miscarriage and my uterus was still intact. Nope. I realized that I fell on his step up to his apartment because I was hammered and sliced my ankle open. Everything else on my body hurt so bad that I didn't even realize. It was one of those small cuts that bleeds a lot - because I recut it when I shaved my legs two days later. I also realized there was no blood in my underwear, but loads on my Rainbows. That's where the blood came from. And I never even bothered telling him. Let the dude think his overly large penis drew the reds. Fuck it, do you think I care? I wasn't about to be told I couldn't get pregnant because he broke my cervix, I was fucking ecstatic. Not that I want to get pregnant. Gross. But if I ever got the urge, I'd like to not be limited because some laxer's massive dick scrambled shit up. That already happened freshman year of college, and if I survived it then, I certainly was surviving it now.

I don't know who had the bigger loss of dignity - me, for getting shitfaced and letting a laxer see my granny panties, or the laxer for actually hitting me up as a booty call again after I basically went all CSI on his bedding. Good, fucking, times.

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