Halloween! My favorite holiday seems to change based on whichever one is coming up next, but damn do I like Halloween. When you’re small, Halloween is all about free candy. Free candy! This is probably one of the greatest things in the universe, aside from presents. Since presents don’t come ‘til December free candy is amazingly awesome. Not to mention costumes. I remember being small and going to Party City to pick out a costume. There’s always that stage where you want to have a costume with some huge prop like a machete or a scythe. Never mind that you need your hands to hold your little plastic pumpkin (or, in later years, a pillowcase) for candy collection.
However, as one gets older, the appeal of trick or treating fades away. Or, in some cases, sticks around but you’re just too damn big to get free candy. Not to mention a sudden wave of hormones that carries you bumpily through high school. The high school years are a little shaky and awkward, Halloween wise. There are parties, sure, but there’s usually parents around or it’s a school night and things just aren’t as awesome as they once were. Until you get to college. Then you learn that in reality Halloween is not, as suspected, about candy. It’s about the costumes. Specifically, other people’s.
More specifically, girls’.
Who in the hell needs candy? As it turns out, there is a very simple convention to 96% of women’s Halloween costumes. Pick an occupation, put “sexy” in front of it, congratulations, you have a costume. Sexy policewoman, sexy librarian, sexy referee, sexy janitor. The list goes on and on and on. Unfortunately, there are still traces of the fear that creeps in around the edges of the holiday. No longer the something-jumped-out-and-said-boo flavor of terror, this new fear is something far more insidious, crawling in underneath the revelry.
Recently I went to a Halloween party (Recently means about a month ago, obviously.) . A fundraiser for the local YMCA. My expectations were low. I assumed a party thrown by the Y would be a bunch of middle aged folks with half-attempts at costumes sitting around and talking. I was pleasantly mistaken. There was a buffet, but there was also an open bar and a dance floor. And on the dance floor? A mixed demographic of ages, sure, but there were some attractive ladies who did subscribe to the “sexy something” school of thought. My eye was drawn to a girl in the classic “sexy nurse” outfit. She was tall, very tall. For a guy with two of the longest legs in the tri-state area, tall is good. And I did mention the “sexy nurse” part, right? She and her companion (a sexy firefighter, if you were curious) were tearing up the dance floor and somehow managing to keep their skirts from slipping from PG-13 to an R rating.
I stood by the buffet and sipped my drink as my friend got some food. I puzzled over who these girls might be and if they were there with dates. I assure you, getting punched by a guy dressed like Frankenstein and bleeding all over my dog costume was not high on my Halloween to-do list. As I sipped and pondered, the flashing lights of the dance floor swept across the RN and hit her in just the wrong way. I was struck by a horrible thought.
She was tall.
She was dancing with a smaller girl.
There was a good chance this was a guy dressed as a girl dressed as a nurse.
Crap.
Opting to err on the side of caution I got another drink and grabbed a few seats so my friend could eat her food. I frowned out across the table at the dance floor trying to figure this thing out for sure. Before I could do any real up close investigation, the pair vanished. It saved me a bit of trouble, but I was a bit miffed. After another drink and some dancing we returned to our seats for more food (for her) and drink (for me.) As the night drew to a close, the two returned. Perhaps there had been a sexy fire with some sexy burn victims that required their attention. As they passed, revelations were made. My friend informed me that I had missed the show- the firefighter had to readjust her bright yellow underwear and flipped the back of her skirt up. This is acceptable, since nothing sets the Halloween atmosphere like a full moon. I told her that I didn’t mind, though, since I had been distracted by the nurse retying her shoe. That’s right, her shoe. Party City may sell some nice costumes but the only place you can get décolletage that convincing is good genetics. Or a good plastic surgeon. It being Halloween, probably a sexy plastic surgeon. Unfortunately there must have been another sexy emergency because the two dashed out of the party (presumably into some sort of sexy fire truck or sexy ambulance) and never returned. A minor let-down, but probably for the best. I don’t know if she’d be covered by my sexy HMO.
I totally got to second base once. I was a late bloomer. I didn’t date in high school. Then it was off to college! Time to reinvent yourself, so I hear. I stayed more or less the same. Whoops. But I did kiss a girl a few times. We were never dating. Had Facebook been around then we’d probably be on there as “It’s Complicated.” Or maybe I just liked her a lot more than she liked me. Lord, I hope she doesn’t read this post. I hope no one I went to college with reads this, really. Or anyone in my family.
This isn’t about that girl, though, this is about a different girl. To keep her identity a secret (which will fail if any of my college friends read this, you can count how many girls I dated without taking your socks off. And if you’re missing fingers.) I won’t tell you if she was a girlfriend or a one night thing. Or her name. Or what she looked like… much. She was good looking though, so that was pretty good.
We were kissing, like college boys and girls do, and a suave young me decided it was time to make the move. I’d been on the internet. I’d seen the Holy Land. But I had yet to make my pilgrimage. Onward, fingers, to the most glorious creation in all of nature! My hand slid up her side. I brushed her ribs through her shirt with the palm of my hand. I was almost there! She had yet to stop me… what are you waiting for, hand? Make the jump!
We have landing! Early sensor reports show softness and high levels of enjoyment! She kept kissing me so after a brief walkabout I decided to explore below the surface. Have you ever noticed that in every teen comedy the luckless hero struggles with the bra? No one told me there were struggles before that. My hand returned to base at the belt-buckle area and began his northward trek across bare terrain. Ribs again and… success again! My hand’s first impression was that this girl had on some sort of sports bra. I knew what bras looked like. They weren’t solid cloth like this. Undaunted, I continued north and to the treasures there. Suddenly, the shirt I was moving beneath came down and met what I had assumed to be a sports bra forming a solid wall of cloth. What manner of trickery was this?! Find a way around, men! Wall to the left, wall to the right! She laughed. “It’s my shirt. It’s layered… here…” My hand made a hasty retreat and she pulled off the offending garment. I was flabbergasted! After a moment to collect myself I was back in the action and my fingers remanned their post. It was glorious. But there was more to come! Eventually, that last fine bit of cloth between me and greatness needed to be removed. Ironically, I had no problem with it. Speak not to me of hooks and of clasps, they fall before my nimble fingers!
It was as if I had opened the Ark of the Covenant, only my face didn’t melt off in stop-animation. And there were no swooshing lights. Still, it was pretty awesome. In the old school definition- to inspire awe. (And in the new school “bitchin’” sense.)
Unfortunately, this was such a rare occurrence that the “hang something on the doorknob” rule was unknown to me or my roommate. I was able to enjoy the fruits of my labor for only a short while until my roommate decided to show up. Thank you roomie! It’s not as if I had any trouble getting here! Do you need help with that laundry?
When I go out to a bar, what with the music and the dancing and all, I’m well aware of the fact I have no idea what I’m doing. Not in a black-out what-did-I-do-last-night drunk kind of a way, just in a total social ineptitude sense. Sometimes I entertain the possibility that maybe I do not know a lot about these things.
Last night I went out to just such a bar where my total lack of social grace and confidence could run free. We’d been there for maybe an hour or so when I notice a girl from across the bar (cliché!) looking at me. When we made eye contact she pointed at her eyes with her index and middle fingers and then pointed at me. I had to mentally and consciously prevent myself from looking around before I did the traditional “point at your own chest and mouth ‘me?’” maneuver. She responded to my crazy smooth only-mouthed-me bit by doing the eye pointing bit again. So I did it back. So… she did it back. This continued for a longer time than might be acceptable. Finally I squeeze my way around the bachelorette party she was a part of (if the woman in the veil wasn’t telling sign, the straws shaped like penises were) and started a conversation. I told her I had no idea what the hand gesture meant. (A lie, we all saw Meet the Parents) She said it meant she had her eye on me. Indeed? She could not tell me if this was good (romantic, in my mind) or bad (an impending street fight perhaps) even when pressed. We talked about important and deep things. Like the penis straws. Then after a while we wandered apart. Later when my wanderings brought us back together we began to talk again.
I can’t remember why, exactly, but another member of the party was brought in to the conversation. This new girl begins to tell me what a catch my new friend is. Why is that, I asked. I was treated to a list of fairly generic sounding traits like “awesome” and “smart” and some other adjectives I couldn’t hear over the band’s cover of “Take Me Out.” Then she said something about “two years too late.” Late for what?
For the last two years my new friend has been in a relationship with a doctor. Pardon me? True story! I understand that I am a majestic figure of a man and it’s only natural that one might watch me as I wander the bar, but do not telegraph this point to me unless you have a good reason! So we continued to talk and then the bride to be descended upon me. She was a nice enough person, for all her boisterous drunken enthusiasm. She pointed out all the accoutrements of the bachelorette- the veil, the penis straw, the white tank top with “bride to be” picked out across the chest in rhinestones. Then she asked me if I was single. Now, idiot though I may be, I suspected that this woman might have had a boyfriend. I don’t know why, something I just couldn’t put my finger on. I told her I didn’t and she began listing off reasons I should and she couldn’t believe I didn’t. Another list of somewhat generic terms came forth. “Tall,” “funny,” “nice,” “cute.” Erm, thank you? I shall remember this information? Good luck on your wedding?
And so, after that, the bride to be and her bridesmaids drifted out of the bar. But I like to think that I will forever be a part of that wonderful quilted tapestry of memory. Specifically the little square of fabric that says “remember that guy who hit on Jackie at the bachelorette party? Haha hilarious!”
It started, innocently enough, with a shopping list. I needed four boxes of Count Chocula, a 60 watt light bulb, a DVD player, a bra, and some wooden chairs. Trying to do this all in one trip, I went to my local “super-corporations are ruining America” megastore. The bright red concentric circles on the outside of the building told me that I was about to find some sweet deals on the parts to my Rube Goldberg invention. The greeter, a leggy blonde knockout, smiled at me and gave me a greeting probably not outlined in the employee handbook. She dragged me into a utility closet and gave me my very first Target Superstorgasm. As she was tying her red apron back on, I asked for her name. She handed it to me.
“Nice to meet you, Penelope” I said.
“Nice to meet you too. Give me back my nametag.”
From there it was a whirlwind relationship of carnal education. I, of course, knew only of the basic orgasm. Penny often had multiples- two or three usually, though sometimes we did hit the beloved fourgasm. She was a wild, adventurous spirit. I recall once doing it with her body pressed against the main entrance to her home. Her front doorgasm was a good one, she assured me, as I peeled myself off the hallway linoleum after my own floorgasm. She was an excellent teacher. She would always direct me “higher, higher, to the left, a little more, down… to the right! Yes!” She would lead me through it all in an explosive tourgasm.
Still, nothing lasts forever, and after a little over half a year, Penny and I had a messy breakup. We were in the park and got into a heated argument which degraded into us shouting at one another.
“Oh, yeah,” she yelled, “you’re a great guy! Not a pain in the ass or anything!”
“Yeah?” I screamed, much to the chagrin of the little league game going on a dozen feet away. “Yeah? Well what makes you think I want to stay with a crazy nympho like you anyway?!”
She laughed bitterly. “Nympho? Right, ‘cause you never want sex. Oh no, you’re so pure right? I didn’t hear you complaining when you stuck it in my-” Regretfully I didn’t hear the end of her sentence since at this point the right fielder was wailing uncontrollably. “And you’re so wonderful. I don’t know what I’ll do without you! I don’t think I can live without you! I…” Just then her face flushed and her eyes rolled back in her head. Her knees wobbled as she let out a long, low, animal moan. Then she blinked and looked at me, eyes shining.
When I was in college, I took a trip out to Arizona to visit my friend who had moved out there while we were in high school. Scott was my best friend and it was great to see him again. As we toured the mean streets of Phoenix I thought it would be swell to impress some ladies. Being even more helpless with girls than I am now, I somehow came up with the idea that girls would be interested in us if we met a few basic benchmarks. A cellular telephone was, for some reason, important. Furthermore, being recently dumped and on the rebound would be a bonus. Seeing as we didn’t have any exes handy, I made it all up.
Don’t misunderstand and think I was wandering up to strangers and saying “hey my friend over there was dumped and I have a bitchin’ cell phone, make out with us.” Though that would have worked just as well as my actual plan. No, my plan was one of cunning subterfuge. I pretended to talk to a third friend on my cell phone as we stalked the streets. This was all make-believe. (Even the cell phone, I was talking into my wallet.) In a minute, poor Scott had been loved and left by Mallory Grant.
Mallory was a very pretty girl. She dyed her dark hair even darker, giving it a purple sheen. Her long bangs, the color of ripe plums, contrasted nicely with her eyes, which were such a light shade of brown that in the right light they looked almost orange.
She was an art major at Arizona State. That explained the unnatural hair color and her fondness for slightly eccentric outfits. Mallory (We started calling her Malalicious after she dumped Scott) had a thing for dark skirts and thigh-high argyle socks. Unfortunately, as an art major she was open to the sort of things outside mainstream, straight-laced society. She had done a little modeling for some of the life drawing classes to make a bit of extra scratch to pay for books and liked it enough that she went on to “model” with a male model in a film student’s senior project “The Irreversible Beauty of Mother Gaia” which involved Mallory taking it from behind in the woods for two hours from a dude dressed as a satyr. Naturally this marked the end of the relationship and the beginning of my own career as a patron of the arts.
I’m sure that some of you want to hear about how my incredibly stupid plan was a total bust. “Women don’t want a guy who’s just been dumped,” “women don’t care about fancy cell phones that look like and are wallets.” Well, I’m sorry but as it turned out it was a devilishly clever plan. A woman who was chaining up her bike asked me what time it was. I told her. I may have done so in an English accent. I really don’t know much about girls.
As an attractive single twenty-something I am on the constant lookout for beautiful women to fulfill my every carnal desire. It was with this particular goal that I set about the veritable meat-market that is Craigslist. Being a man who cares deeply about a relationship steeped in trust, understanding, and love, I naturally am drawn to the “casual encounters” section. And because I am a man who knows that it is truly a person’s soul that is important, I make sure to filter the search to exclude any personal ads that do not have a photo attached.
I found myself drawn to a posting entitled “Get in touch with my eyes.” This would most evidently prove to be a woman who understands that the eyes are, clichéd though it may be, the windows to the soul and has highlighted this in the title of her ad. My darling love! What words have you written that will burn upon my mind as I try and sleep this night?
I am thin and in shape…I like to fly in an aeroplane or a helicopter and Snickers
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself, But if your love and must needs have desires,Let these be your desires
Photos craigshookup.com
I am Diamondbolduc there Im interested in Steamy real men
maybe we can see what can happen
Forsooth! It is an assemblage of prose that leads a man of the strongest constitution to cry out “forsooth!” Oh my internet Aphrodite, allow me, though I am not worthy, to gaze upon these words and discern their deepest of meanings!
I am thin and in shape…I like to fly in an aeroplane or a helicopter and Snickers
Indeed! Though you have attached a photo you have also deemed it necessary to describe your body to me here. Most importantly, you have done away with the typical frivolities one says in these arduous introductions (such mindless prattle like “I enjoy romantic walks on the beach”) and have told me devices you enjoy taking flight in! Oh wondrous woman of my dreams, I too enjoy flying in these devices! And Snickers!
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself, But if your love and must needs have desires,Let these be your desires
A poetic testament to love, my dear! Love transcends mortal understanding and therefore cannot be corralled into such simple and archaic terms as the written word requires. Love, truly, is too powerful for verbs, for modifiers, and for the basic concept of sentence structure.
Photos craigshookup.com
Darling, I can only assume this is a much more post-modern and minimalist attempt to portray love because I have no idea what you are saying.
I am Diamondbolduc there Im interested in Steamy real men
Oh that I had a thousand years to understand the complexity of thy name, fair maiden! It starts plainly enough with “Diamond,” the material tougher than any other and most suited to represent the feelings we feel for one another. But then “bolduc.” What could this mean, beloved? “Bold uc?” Are you an alumnus of that prestigious school, the University of California? Or perhaps it is “bol duc” which I believe is French for “duck in a bowl?”
And you are interested in Steamy real men. Have you, in the past, fallen for men who are charlatans? Have they hurt you? Have they offered you forms of water that are less acceptable, such as ice? Fear not, I can offer you all the evaporated water your heart may desire!
maybe we can see what can happen
This woman who takes my breath away is also a brilliant philosopher. Here she references the work of David Hume, Scottish philosopher of the mid 1700’s. Hume says that just because, in the past, one thing has caused another that does not mean that these results will always continue. When one holds a rock aloft and then releases it, one cannot assume that it will fall to the ground simply because it has always done so before hand. Together, my love and I will explore the very foundation of nature and maybe we can see what can happen.
What is the deal, girl who shot down my party invitation? I don’t think you appreciate the work that went into trying to get you to that party! My friend thought you were cute and pointed you out when we went to your place of work, a bizarre Chinese-Mexican combo place. You knew his name and paid slightly more attention to him than you did to me. I am so super hot that this can only mean that you are into him or myopic. I tried to get him to invite you to the party and he chatted you up while your co-worker fed me all sorts of spicy food. I do not like spicy food, girl who shot down my party invitation!
So he didn’t ask you that night. The party was in a scant few days! We did what we had to do. We went back the next day! You were not even working. We had to sit in gloomy defeat and eat Chinese food quesadillas for the second day in a row. Do you know what happens when you eat Chinese food quesadillas two days in a row? You get a lot of time to yourself, sitting on the toilet until your feet go numb.
Well, we are no quitters and you had told my buddy that your little shop of gastrointestinal horrors would be selling special delicious cookies on Saturday. Saturday was the day of the party and, incidentally, the day after visit two! That’s right, we came back for cookies! However someone with the worst taste ever decided to have their wedding reception at a Chinese-Mexican fast food place. While I meandered around so he could ask you, the boss of the whole store offered me free samples. I took it, to be polite, but it was chicken with green crap on it. I pretended to like it and threw it away when he wasn’t looking. I was beginning to get the impression that my friend was not going to ask you and the very act of being in that store was making my intestines slither and my bowels weep so I told him I was going to ask you and get it over with. I sauntered over when you were by yourself setting up the buffet and tried to start a conversation. Turns out I talk a big game but when it comes down to it I couldn’t ask you either. Sorry girl who shot down my party invitation but I couldn’t think of a segue from “is that guy really the owner” to “come to this party tonight to make out with my friend.”
Finally you were back behind the counter and it was time to make the move. You came to help us. I said we had been told your store would be selling very special cookies that day. I acted like I knew nothing about them, even though I had choked down a sample earlier. You asked how many I wanted, six or twelve. I turned to my friend. “What do you think? A dozen? We should get some for the party.” Then I turned back to you. “We’re having a party tonight. Would you like to come?” Girl who shot down my party invitation, this was not an off-the-cuff, spur-of-the-moment idea. This was carefully formulated to appear casual! And you told me you had to go to a barbeque. I let this roll away as if it were just a little idea that was not the basis for going to the same eatery three days in a row. But then you asked me what my name was.
Girl who shot down my party invitation, I was not asking you out on my behalf. You gave me agony of the colon. This is not something I look for in a girl. Quit sweating me.
Sincerely,
Jeff
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