So there’s this guy. He’s 6’5, in decent shape, runs marathons and shit, college educated, personable. So he’s everything all my exes aren’t. This should have a nice ending right? Spoiler alert!
I met him at a party that I was dragged to because I was newly single, which my friend thought was a travesty. I’m forced to mingle and there’s this guy who fits my standards for my new philosophy that men are for recreational purposes only.
Much to my despair, I learned he had a girlfriend but nevertheless we exchanged numbers and began talking on the phone on the weekends while his night-shift nurse girlfriend was at work. Now I know what you’re thinking, but I’m no home wrecker. He’d be bored, call me, and talk. We wouldn’t talk. He would talk. About movie after movie that I hadn’t seen or didn’t like. I’d put him on speakerphone and pull up my IMDb app so I at least had an idea what he was talking about until eventually I would just be lulled to sleep by his chatter. We became good friends.
Then he broke up with his girlfriend and my interest was newly piqued. We made plans to watch movies at my place.
I told him I wasn’t hungry but he still ordered pizza. And wolfed it down while chewing with his mouth open. No need to aerate the tomato sauce, but still I was a good sport and endured. When he was through with the gut-wrenching mastication he started talking. About Star Wars and every other movie that he brought up and I told him I hadn’t seen. No worries though, he described his favorite scenes in great detail. Often.
Finally, the fucking started. The details here aren’t as important as everything I’ve just told you, but it was amazing. AMAZING. A-fucking-MAZING! I told him it’s good luck to get a Jewish girl to cry, “Jesus Christ!” Five times in a twelve hour stretch with a nap in between. Being a marathon runner definitely has some endurance benefits and I assumed he ran the long distance ones.
But, and that’s a critical ‘but’, when fucking was on break, he was talking. And his description of some Star Wars episode was frequently punctuated with pauses to rub his junk and smell his hand. Smelling me! So after the seventh or eighth pussy-hand-smelling pause I interrupted some scene description about Darth Vader, and asked him, “Everything good?”
“Oh yeah. I like the smell.”
[Insert my wide eyed, blushing emoji here].
At some point in between fuck sessions he was laying with his head near my sore, beaten, cooling off nonni when he opened me up and took a good, long look around. “Looking for something?” I asked.
“Nah. Just looking.”
[Insert my puzzled/annoyed emoji here].
(I’ve been surveying women about that experience ever since to find out if that’s happened to them too. It hasn’t.)
Anyway, blah blah blah Darth Vader. Blah blah blah John Candy died before his time. Blah blah blah some obscure 80s movie reference. I was bored out of my fucking mind. Three hours later he finally left.
It’s been two weeks and I decided to give Star Wars Guy another chance since he happened to be in the area anyway and I, well, he was good in bed so why not.
Blah blah blah 80s movie I haven’t seen. Blah blah blah long description, with vocal reenactments of 80s movie I haven’t seen. Blah blah blah.
I was shocked when he interrupted himself to make out with me. Which I don’t like doing because when you think about it, what’s the point? Why not put the tongue somewhere it’d be better appreciated is my thought on the matter. Which he did. Very well. Leg-shaking, star-seeing well. I gave him a high five.
Again, I’ll spare you the fun, pleasurable details but I’ll tell you this: I purposely sucked his dick like I was a skinny chick just because he’d been so annoying earlier. Anyways, sex was great again but it’s a work night so.. Bye. No. I sat on the couch with my blanket and told him, “Thanks again! I’m exhausted.”
So he sits next to me and flips on the TV. Rush Hour is playing on HBO. And then he narrates it with “Did you know” commentary. And it occurred to me while texting my friends, I just fucked the human IMDb.
[Insert smiling shit coil emoji here].
Sylvia Norway is a writer who lives in South Florida.
More to come . . .
