Saturday’s Love Horror is a little tale from our new friend @ Single Infertile Female. (She’s good!)
Okay, you got your glasses on? Relaxed? Ready? Let's go!I’ve had a few dating mishaps and disasters (some mine, and some the blunderings of the man of the evening) in my life, but there is one that so completely and totally takes the cake that it is to this day an urban legend told by those who knew me then as a warning to men and women alike about the dangers of drinking and oral sex.
I had just fearlessly moved to Sunny San Diego with my best friend, and we were ready for our lives to begin. We had the beach. We had the bars. We had the boys. As far as we were concerned; there was nothing more in this world to hope for.
There was one bar in particular that we frequented regularly, and there was one boy in those earlier days who had earned a spot in my bed. The boy and the bar were synonymous, as he worked there and was one more reason it was so often our destination of choice. We’ll call him “The Bartender” (you know, just to keep me from getting sued). It was there (at that bar) where we often drank too much, and learned too early to ignore the regret of our decisions.
One night in particular (as the shots were flowing and the room was spinning) The Bartender confided in me that he wasn’t feeling well. Not one to allow a boy to ruin my buzz, I inquired if I would still be able to stay with him that night. My apartment was across town and cab fare was never an option I readily chose if there were other possibilities. He said of course, but that I shouldn’t be planning on much from him beyond sleeping.
The best and I stayed and helped the boys close up the bar, as was often our ritual. Those nights always included more drinks and rousing games of pool. By the time we finally left, it was well after 3AM, and the party just continued on to the home of The Bartender. As promised, he went straight to bed. I agreed to follow when I was tired, but as long as the party was raging I was not one to be left out. The boys continued to drink, and I continued my quest to “hang”. These boys admittedly had more drinking experience than I, and it was only a matter of time before their endurance surpassed my own. Still, I wanted to be a part of the cool crowd for as long as I could manage (a trait I’m sure I was supposed to have outgrown in high school, yet there I was; still trying to be the most popular girl in school).
When 6AM rolled around, the decision was made to swing by a local bar with an early morning start. There we enjoyed bloody mary’s and screw drivers and began a pool and darts tournaments. I was “one of the boys” (a position which I relished), yet I found myself missing the boy, and wondering if his bed and arms were still mine to crawl into; even in the early hours of daylight.
But when I tried to leave, I received boos and hisses and calls for “just one more game”. More drinks were ordered, and I agreed to “hang” for just a bit longer. We played, we drank, and I realized I was starving. The restaurant next door did this bar the courtesy of delivering breakfast orders. So, it was at 9AM that I ordered French toast and eggs for delivery.
I devoured my plate greedily. I had ingested nothing but booze in the last 12 hours, and the food felt “right” in my stomach. It made the haze of the alcohol temporarily start to fade, for just long enough to realize The Bartenders buddy was making a serious play… for me. Disgusted at the disloyalty of boys, I ordered myself 2 more shots (one out of indignation, and one for the road) and went on my way with a plan. I was going to wake The Bartender up, and he was going to be happy I had.
I let myself into his home and crept into his room, where that 6’4” of man was still soundly asleep. I snuck under his sheets and coyly pulled down his briefs without disrupting his slumber. I then began to perform my magic.
It is here where I must pause to say that, I am good at what I do. I have always prided myself on my head-giving abilities, and I have never received anything but rave reviews. In fact, I have dated men who have begged for more; and I am generally happy to oblige. After all, when you’re good at something, you enjoy showing off your talents.
He awoke slowly, and excitedly. He may have been sick the night before, but suddenly he was up and ready. I could tell that I was already making up for abandoning him the night before; I knew within minutes I would have re-earned my rightful place as the coolest girl he knew.
It was as he got more involved and excited though, that I found myself getting more dizzy and nauseous. I refused to believe that anything was amiss, so I continued on as planned, but I found myself coming up for air a bit more than usual. Still, I knew he was close and that this task would soon be completed with a gold star. I plunged ahead. In nearing release his excitement mounted, and that’s when he placed his hands on my head. He had started the descent into loss of control, and he was holding on for dear life; unfortunately, he was preventing me from getting the gasps of fresh air I so desperately needed to maintain balance at that moment. I felt it before I knew what exactly was happening, and then even as I realized it, I couldn’t escape. Within seconds (seconds before he was actually able to climax) The Bartender had breakfast in his lap. Full chunks of French toast and eggs (and the backwash of bloodies and screwdrivers) were there, wedged in between his nether regions.
You have never seen a look of pure horror on a man’s face until you have thrown up on his cock. Neither of us moved for a moment, both stunned into stillness. Finally, he jumped up and ran to the shower. I instinctively followed and jumped in with him (after all, I had some of this mess on me as well). I tried to assist him in cleaning; tried to ease the tension (as I stood in the shower almost fully clothed watching him claw at his own skin). “Don’t touch me” he said, icy and slow. “What do I do?” I begged, “I’m mortified.” Because, even in a drunken haze I still knew how to employ a decent vernacular.
“Get the sheets off my bed.” He said, “And then leave.” I complied. I didn’t even question it. There was nothing I wanted more than to leave. I could tell he was freaking out, and to be completely honest; I wasn’t holding it together so well myself. I found my way home and I busted into the room of my best (whose boyfriend happened to be spending the night). “I threw up on The Bartender.” I shouted, wanting her to wake immediately, “I threw up on his dick!” I stood there, unsure whether to laugh or cry. It was when the two of them started laughing hysterically that I took my cue and chose to find the humor. I laughed for a good 15 minutes with them before going off to my own bed.
When I woke from my slumber the reality of what had happened hit me though. I would have to move. There was no way I could stay in this town now. I would have to move far away and change my name. Never again could I show my face; not in our bar, and not on our beaches, and never to our boys.
I turned into a hermit over the next week, determining the best course of action. It was when I least expected it that my phone rang. It was The Bartender. He wanted me to come over. I immediately leapt at the chance. If he could forgive me, then all would be right in the world again. We talked. We ate. We talked some more. Later in the evening I found a fully drawn cartoon (done by a mutual friend of ours) that depicted the entire incident to a tee, right down to the words “I’m mortified” coming out of a bubble from the mouth of cartoon me. I should have been offended and hurt, but I had thrown up on the man.
And he had still called, just a week later, wanting to see me naked again. What can I say; I’m good at what I do.