OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- Mark your calendars, because this doesn't happen too often.
I ran into a situation this weekend so fucking batshit, so completely and utterly strange and drama-filled, that I'm not sure I'm able to find any words to describe it.
Other than something like, Jesus H. Christ! Now that, dude, is fucked up.
* * * *
It started out with a simple, awkward-as-hell run-in with the Fruitcake Sex ex-fling on a frozen sidewalk in the middle of the night, with her current boytoy. That one cruel act of fate beget an awkward breakfast Saturday morning, just the two of us, and my inviting the pair to a friendly dinner at my apartment that afternoon.
Things were fine until, well, my Inner Asshole realized that the new beau - one of those lazy, wealthy Limousine Liberal, Trustafarian types - was both a nosey bastard (the guy routed through my bookshelves, CDs, and DVD collections like a cracked-out raccoon - totally unacceptable) and extremely intimidated by yours truly (he kept reminding me how rustic and Southern Gothic I seem in person - apparently, he'd heard a bit about me.)
Things went downhill after dinner, particuarly after the second bottle of Chardonnay.
How a conversation about how all three of us liked listening to Tom Waits after (and sometimes during) sex quickly devolved into a melodramatic circus of hurt feelings, bruised egos, periodically crying/pissed ex-flings, and, yes, even the panties she left in my apartment last December ended up getting thrown in her face after Mr. Novelist Wannabe found them in my bedroom closet is beyond me.
Confused yet? Don't worry, join the club. I'm still confused myself.
I can't even begin to explain the impromptu make-out session in a crowded bar late Saturday night, eight hours after the fucked-up dinner and after the Local U's home hockey game, the one where I literally walked into the place where she and the beau were having drinks, grabbed her by the hair, and shoved my tongue down her throat - five feet away from the guy.
Yeah, an asshole move. I know. My bad. Had nothing to do with being possessive, or jealousy, or anything of that sort. I did it, my own bruised ego and drunken rationale aside, to see if I could get the guy to take a swing at me.
The guy pissed me off to the point where, yeah, I just wanted to have a good brawl with a dude with a law degree who grew up in a Gated Community somewhere back east.
Those guys are like punching bags for the working class. Seriously. But the fucker, well, just stared like a goon, fumed. He wouldn't bite.
I didn't expect for her to grab my hair, shove her hand down my pants, and kiss me back. I think, yeah, she expected her pussy of a beau to be just a tad bit more possessive - you know, do the Boyfriend driven into a Jealous Rage thing - than your average bar stool warmer.
Anywho. I left without a word...
Didn't think anything more of it, went back to drinking and skulking alone, went home and crashed.
And then, Sunday morning, I answered a knock at the door, only to find a red-eyed, angry young woman standing there, alone.
She kissed me and then - out of the fucking blue - slapped me so hard that my nose bled for a good hour after she stormed off.
Didn't offer an explanation, didn't say a word. Just a kiss on the lips and a firm open palm to the cheek.
Like I said.
Not sure how, really, to even begin describing this weekend...
Enjoy the Tom Waits video. For some reason, that's all I've been listening to for the last few days, and I'm feeling, somehow, like somehow I'm up Shit Creek again.
I ran into a situation this weekend so fucking batshit, so completely and utterly strange and drama-filled, that I'm not sure I'm able to find any words to describe it.
Other than something like, Jesus H. Christ! Now that, dude, is fucked up.
Oh well. Lemme give it the ol' college try...
* * * *
It started out with a simple, awkward-as-hell
Things were fine until, well, my Inner Asshole realized that the new beau - one of those lazy, wealthy Limousine Liberal, Trustafarian types - was both a nosey bastard (the guy routed through my bookshelves, CDs, and DVD collections like a cracked-out raccoon - totally unacceptable) and extremely intimidated by yours truly (he kept reminding me how rustic and Southern Gothic I seem in person - apparently, he'd heard a bit about me.)
Things went downhill after dinner, particuarly after the second bottle of Chardonnay.
How a conversation about how all three of us liked listening to Tom Waits after (and sometimes during) sex quickly devolved into a melodramatic circus of hurt feelings, bruised egos, periodically crying/pissed ex-flings, and, yes, even the panties she left in my apartment last December ended up getting thrown in her face after Mr. Novelist Wannabe found them in my bedroom closet is beyond me.
Confused yet? Don't worry, join the club. I'm still confused myself.
* * * *
I can't even begin to explain the impromptu make-out session in a crowded bar late Saturday night, eight hours after the fucked-up dinner and after the Local U's home hockey game, the one where I literally walked into the place where she and the beau were having drinks, grabbed her by the hair, and shoved my tongue down her throat - five feet away from the guy.
Yeah, an asshole move. I know. My bad. Had nothing to do with being possessive, or jealousy, or anything of that sort. I did it, my own bruised ego and drunken rationale aside, to see if I could get the guy to take a swing at me.
The guy pissed me off to the point where, yeah, I just wanted to have a good brawl with a dude with a law degree who grew up in a Gated Community somewhere back east.
Those guys are like punching bags for the working class. Seriously. But the fucker, well, just stared like a goon, fumed. He wouldn't bite.
I didn't expect for her to grab my hair, shove her hand down my pants, and kiss me back. I think, yeah, she expected her pussy of a beau to be just a tad bit more possessive - you know, do the Boyfriend driven into a Jealous Rage thing - than your average bar stool warmer.
Anywho. I left without a word...
Didn't think anything more of it, went back to drinking and skulking alone, went home and crashed.
And then, Sunday morning, I answered a knock at the door, only to find a red-eyed, angry young woman standing there, alone.
She kissed me and then - out of the fucking blue - slapped me so hard that my nose bled for a good hour after she stormed off.
Didn't offer an explanation, didn't say a word. Just a kiss on the lips and a firm open palm to the cheek.
* * * *
Like I said.
Not sure how, really, to even begin describing this weekend...
Enjoy the Tom Waits video. For some reason, that's all I've been listening to for the last few days, and I'm feeling, somehow, like somehow I'm up Shit Creek again.
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