A tale of an annoying one-night stand

During the summer between my sophomore and junior years of college, I was working two jobs - one as a waitress, and the other as a cashier at a franchise hardware store. I won't name what particular franchise it was, but I will say it is the worst job I have ever had. It was boring and demeaning and chock-full of anal rules that could cost you your job if broken. Not to mention that the people with the authority to boss me around were all pervy drug addicts only a few years older than me. Anytime you shop at a large retailer, take a look at the workers and be assured they are not happy - their workdays are made up of mundane tasks that serve not the customer, but the bureacratic overlords that crack the whip. The overlords want to break the employees' spirits, and that's not just hyperbole - they will do anything to brainwash workers into servile robots.

But I digress from my Marxist rant. At the beginning of this summer, I had no friends. Being a bitch in high school who hated the people I was forced to hang out with, I'd done little to retain the strained connections with my school chums. The only option was to go out with my mom, but there is only so much a 20 y/o and a 45 y/o can do together; partaking in ribald activities - my highest desire - was not on the calendar.

I continued my work at the hardware franchise with the desperation for a pal scrawled across my face - thus, horny-boy buzzards started to circle. They could smell how lonely and bored I was. A guy who acted like a 20 y/o but turned out to be 32 introduced himself to me my 4th week in. A few days later, he invited me out with himself and a bunch of other guys from the hardware store family - "Meet us at Q's, it's right near the store" - and with that it seemed my isolated days were over.

My demeanor can be deceiving. Though I don't think so, it seems I have the face of a cherub - people see me, not a trace of evil or hate in the way I carry myself, my chipmunk cheeks aglow - and assume I am a straight-edge innocent. Nothing could be further from the truth. Ever since high school I've been drinking, smoking, and doing drugs (all in moderation, of course). Even today, if I light up a cigarette in front of a person I just met, they will reel from the fact that I partake in such a nasty habit. "I didn't know you smoked!" they exclaim.

"Well why should you?" I retort. "You just met me."

"I know, but...it just surprises me."

When I was 20, this perceived innocence was like a bad reputation I had to shed - I wanted the franchise boys to think I was tough, someone who could party it up like a rock star. No, not a "Girl Gone Wild" - a Keith Richards-esque hedonist who could drink beer like I invented the stuff, puke all over the bar, then rally up and repeat the process. So I joined them at Q's prepared to pound shots of Jager and chug pitchers of Budweiser.

The night was tamer than I expected, but when the bar closed at 2 am, I wasn't prepared to end the party - remember, I wanted to be a rock star. This is how I have gotten into every weird, shake-my-head-in-disbelief situation I've ever been in - when I'm not ready to call it a night, when there's something left to prove. So I accepted the invitation from one of the boys, Brian, to join him for a nightcap at his house.

I'm sure we shared some light getting-to-know-you banter and remarks about his Bob Marley posters (the ultimate in guy decor), but since I don't remember, I'll skip to the sexcapade. We were both wasted, losing balance as we twisted ourselves into an array of positions, not having sex to have fun, but having sex to be fun - this was my thinking, anyways. I'm sure he was having sex to bust a nut. The television blared in the background as we climbed all over each other like orangutans.

In the morning I woke up with a pounding headache and cotton-mouth. I stumbled into his bathroom and drank from the faucet, careful to avoid my reflection in the mirror - to see my face smeared with eyeliner and the bad skin exposed would only exacerbate the stress felt from awaking in a stranger's bed.

As I searched for my clothes - had I worn a bra? - he woke up and pulled me back into the bed and got on top of me. "C'mon, morning sex," he said.

"No fucking way," I laughed. "I gotta go."

"Aww, you got time," he replied.

He tried to yank my limbs into a coital position, and I yanked back. "No, I'm done, I have to go home."

I giggled uncomfortably as he persisted, but when things started to get too rapey, the giggling stopped. "Get the fuck off of me," I told him; my legs were crossed, and my feet had found their way to his crotch.

He didn't realize the precarious predicament his ballsack was in - maybe his boner was the only thing he could feel - and as he attempted to access my breasts I gave a hard shove with my legs and hit pay dirt.

"OOF!" He careened back, arms akimbo, and sailed off the bed. I think his head cracked the tv stand as he thudded to the floor, and I got off the mattress, surprisingly calm. Nowadays I wouldn't give a shit about assaulting a guy in his family jewels, particularly after trying to force himself on me, but at this moment I felt a twinge of guilt. Just a twinge.

He was too humiliated to be mad. "Fine," he aquieced, and he crawled back into his bed to sulk. As I picked my way through his piles of dirty laundry, he tried to smack my ass - I don't know if this was an attempt to be cute, but the fact that he missed and ended up slapping the bed was embarrassing to see.

One of the most annoying situations in the world is when you are a girl, trying to find the pieces of your wardrobe that were launched across the room the night before, and the entire time your hook-up is watching you. It's just plain rude on the guy's part. As I scanned the floor, I noticed I was wearing an old Beatles t-shirt; he noticed too.

"Hey, get out of my Beatles t-shirt before you jinx the band and they break up," he said, just before snickering stupidly to himself.

I rolled my eyes but didn't respond to his lame joke that he ripped off from The Wedding Singer. I guess he assumed that I hadn't heard him, so he repeated it: "Get out of my Beatles t-shirt before you jinx the band and they break up." He let out more retarded, satisfied giggles.

I should have explained to him why he was an idiot. In fact, my failure to do so is almost inhumane, a crime against the women who would endure his attempts at humor in the future. His stolen joke was inaccurate and borderline disrespectful, seeing as the Beatles broke up in the late 60's and two of the members WERE DEAD, yet he thought himself so clever (and conversely, he thought me so dumb) that he needed to say it again.

Without an ounce of help from Brian, I procured my clothes, pulled them on, and considered what directions to take home. Then I realized that I had no clue what town I was in. "Where the fuck am I?" I asked.

Maybe he could sense how aggravated I was by his predatory antics, because he stopped being a pouty brat and attempted to tell me how to get home. I ignored him; my brain was too muddled to remember what he said anyways.

Before he could consider a hug or kiss good-bye, I gave a flippant wave and dashed out the door. I climbed into the cab of the beat Ford I was driving, and on the way home I realized the tale of our debaucherous night would be heard by all the franchise boys. But in my youth, this notion was something I celebrated - I would just have to make sure it got back to the franchise boys that I had kicked their friend in the nutsack when he got too sure of himself.