Love story: or my lack of tits until age 20.

Fifth grade.

Stretch pants.  Side ponytail.  Bart Simpson t-shirt.

Seat next to me occupied by one boy.

The boy.

Blonde hair.  Dimples.  Guns & Roses tshirt.

Swoon.

Seat on other side of me occupied by another boy.

Specifically not the boy.

Jeans. Red t-shirt.  Plastic digital watch used to communicate with ‘spies’.

Wrinkle nose, roll eyes, try to ignore any and all sounds eminating from his desk.

Lean a little closer to the boy to ask a question.

Flip hair.  Twirl pencil.  Smile.

Something hits my face.

It has been launched from the other side.

And then again.

Bouncing off my cheek, a fruitsnack falls onto my desk.

Followed by inane giggling.

Blush away from the boy.

Turn to glare at the other boy.

He is sitting on his package of fruit snacks.

A look of sheer determination on his face.

Breath held, brow furrowed he focuses.

Then, a fart.

Onto a fruit snack.

A fruit snack he then tries to launch at my face.

A fart fruit.

The boy now checking out another girl.

She already has tits.

I don’t.

For the next ten years.

I will attract nothing.

But more fart fruit.

Tequila, a bad-boy, leather, and my brief stunt as a muse

Trouble always finds me when I’m trying to drink tequila in peace.

I was 22, I decided I hated men, and I went out with my roommate to celebrate the recent discovery.

Sitting at the Irish pub down the street from our apartment, I ordered a round of shots for her and I, and the two of us began discussing why boys were stupid.  I can’t remember the details, but I’m sure it was an inspiring conversation.

Nibbling on a lime slice, I happened to look down the bar.

That’s where I spotted him.

Notebook, guitar case at feet, scotch on the rocks, dark hair, blue eyes, and tattoos.

Normally this would have done me in instantly.  But considering the festivities, I instead ordered another round of tequila and my roommate and I watched him from afar (ten feet down the bar).

Five minutes later my blood was happily flowing to the tune of a mariachi band.

So when Sexy McNogood beckoned me with his finger, I strolled down the bar to say hi.  At least that’s what I meant to say.  But what came out was:

“Hey, I’m out celebrating my hatred of all men.”

To which he responded:

“Interesting, I’m just out looking for a one night stand.”

Tilting my head at him curiously, I muttered: “ok then, I think we’re done here” before returning to the roommate.

Twenty minutes later, he asked for my phone number.

Two days later, he called.

We went on three dates.  On the eve of the third we were doing some hard-core smooching and yea ok-a little over-the clothing heavy petting was beginning.

I still had my jacket on though, to give you an indication of how far things had NOT progressed.

But for reasons still unclear to me now, he took this as an opportunity to utter the phrase:

“I’ve got something I want to show you.”

Standing up, he walked to his closet, opened the door, and asked me to come inside.

Peering into the former master bedroom closet, I saw various toys, whips, leather attire, masks, and some sort of swinging contraption in the corner.

For the record men, this is not the appropriate way to introduce this particular form of extracurricular activites to a potential mate.

As my Romeo soon discovered.

Speechless, I stared at him for some seconds before casually attempting to exit his house.  Muttering something about leaving the iron on in my apartment, I hopped down the stairs, yelled out something about not bothering to call me again, and left the house o’leather.

A month later I was back in the same bar with my roommate.  This time we were celebrating her hatred of men.

It was open mic night.

Out of nowhere tattooed leather man slimed onstage.

Staring directly at me, he began strumming his guitar while singing:

“You were out to hate all men, and I was just looking for a one night stand”

The song lasted about three minutes.

Thankfully it ended in time for my roommate and I to have one last round of tequila.

Taming the lioness

He looked like Johnny Depp.

He was writing in the corner of the coffee shop.

I was 22, I was single, and he was smoldering.

It was a recipe for disaster.

Donning his white t-shirt, faded jeans, and leather jacket, the perfectly messy bed-head and unshaven chiseled jawline were far too overpowering for my bad-boy prone nature.

When he sauntered over and gave me the napkin with his handwritten poem, smiled, and asked me to dinner, I stammered a yes while gazing doe-eyed at him.

silly doe, you have no idea what you're doing...

 

For the record this was not the first nor last time my idealism would get me into trouble.  But that is neither here nor there.

Three days later I met him at a restaurant.

Donning stilettos, dark jeans, a sexy top and my own leather jacket I met up with Casanova at a bar.

It took him approximately two minutes before it began.

At first I didn’t think I had heard him correctly, so like an idiot I leaned in across the table.  Pressing his lips next to my ear, the guy I had gazed so longingly at whispered this into my ear:

“What’s it like knowing you have the attention of every man in this room?  What’s it feel like to be a woman with that much power?”

Leaning back and glancing around, I double-checked my outfit.  No one appeared to be noticing me.  The restaurant was near campus, so the place was crowded with hot girls, I was hardly a rare commodity.  Keeping a safe distance from his cigarette whispers, I responded:

“No one here is looking but you (clears throat, blushes a bit-silly young Ryan).  So should we order some wine or-‘

I got that far before he unleashed an intense monologue.  Shakespeare could not have written a longer pile of metaphorical nonsense.  During this speech, I slowly lowered myself in my chair-willing the table to come to life and eat me in one solid, painless bite.

The opening line was barked with such intensity I did a double take at my formerly sexy tablemate:

“Ryan, you are like a lionness”

Clearing my throat, I tilted my head to one said and began to ask a question but was instantly interrupted again-

“Every man in this room.  Every one of them, including me, is your prey.  You move, we watch.  Wanting to be devoured.”

Let’s take a moment to note his voice was loud.  Seriously loud.  Loud enough that now people were starting to stare.

I’m pretty sure most of my fellow diners just wanted their chicken wings to arrive, but his volume made them turn their heads-which convinced him of his initial interpretation-that they gave a damn about what he said.  Not true, but lets just agree-this guy was delusional.  The sauntering bad-boy (who was rapidly becoming a typical freak my magnet loves to attract), seemed to picture me as this creature:

Stoic, graceful, proud. Ability to kill in an instant.

With growing embarrassment, I was feeling more and more like this version of his story:

Naive, idiotic. Maintaining ability to follow moron to dinner.

When he started referencing the primal nature of fornication as if he were the first man to conclude this theory (neanderthals the underworld over simultaneously turned in their graves); I left to go to the bathroom.

I couldn’t bring myself to sit staring at him while he uttered words like raw, natural, wild, and animalistic in reference to what he had hoped would be our after dinner plans.  Each whisper was so creepily rehearsed I was sure he’d given himself a peptalk in the mirror earlier in the evening.  Locking eye contact, he tried to stroke my cheek with his forefinger while proclaiming his desire to ‘tame’ me.

Wrong girl Tarzan, wrong girl.

I called my best friend from the bathroom, scheduled the appropriate emergency phone call for five minutes later, and returned to the table.

At this point I had been in the restaurant a total of ten minutes.

He may have looked like Johnny Depp.

He may have been a writer.

But even at 22 I could tell-this tribesman was far from warrior.

A giant, too many vaginas, and an Iphone

A giant initiated conversation with me in a bar a few months ago by inquiring as to whether or not I had ever done any nude modeling.

For the record, when I say giant, I mean this creature:

I was somewhere between sizing him up and answering his question, when he busted out his Iphone, scrolled through a group of black and white photos and said:

“seriously, I ask because I am an artist”

Usually when a man in a bar approaches me claiming to be an artist I brace myself for a long-winded monologue laced with philosophy references.  This time however, I was too preoccupied with sizing up his monstrous features to prepare for the inevitable speech and nearly choked on my wine when he proclaimed:

“It’s all about vagina placement.  See, I mean the placement of the vagina in the shot-do you understand what I’m saying?”

At this point I responded with the first thought that popped into my head:

“I mean, I know where mine is, but that’s pretty much as far as my interest in such things takes me”

Which of course, was my downfall.  Evidently, this was the oversized man’s cue to scroll through nude picture after nude picture, and explain to me in detail why the various vaginas were placed in each location within the frame.

At one point he began discussing the importance of labia shape.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens to me when I attend a function designed to unite english speaking ex-pats.

Individuals seek me out and unroll their portfolios to discuss vagina placement, labia size, and the various problems that may or may not occur when shooting such subjects in a desert.

Last I checked, I do not own a t-shirt reading: ‘talk to me about genitalia!!’

Yet somehow, for whatever reason: my face inspires aforementioned artistic discussion.

Next time I’m staying in, ordering take-out, and watching a National Geographic Special.  At least that way, if labia enters the frame, I won’t have to listen to an oversized idiot mutter to me through excessive mouth-breathing and sweaty gasps why vagina placement is important.

thank you, Spielberg

When I was seventeen I worked in a movie theatre.

It was the summer that Saving Private Ryan was released.

I wore a nametag.

You do the math.

Obese gentlemen of all ages found it hilarious to inform me as I heaped piles of popcorn into massive buckets (with butter smeared in the middle as well as the top), that the feature they truly wished to see was Ryan’s Privates.

Some of them even offered to save said privates, which of course was especially tempting when uttered from the greasy lips of men known to inhale cheese-dogs and nachos faster than oxygen.

It was after one such man was zipping up his fanny-pack and preparing to balance his buckets of popcorn, pretzels, candy and gallon-sized soda that a sixteen-year old boy made me forever wary of certain peanut-butter and chocolate treats.

He had overheard the sweat-pant donning walrus casually request a view of my genitalia, and took it upon himself to redeem all of mankind.  So, cautiously approaching the counter I manned, he smiled, shook his head and said:

‘Betcha get that one a lot huh?  Sorry. That sucks.’

Standing there covered in popcorn grease burns, wearing a man’s button down shirt, and sweating from the heat of various hot-dog, nacho, and pretzel ovens-I instantly deemed him a poet. Compared to the rest of the sludge that rolled up to the counter-here was my adorable, grungy, dimpled, teenage hero.

I blushed, laughed, and smiled at him in gratitude for recognizing the horrors of working a concession stand.  He returned the smile, stared at the ground for a moment, and glanced up at me determined to continue the flirtation.  Which, given my mood-very well could have led to an overly dramatic teenage romance.   Delicious make-out sessions in the backseat of cars, hand-written notes, and romantic proclamations of love were all unfolding in our collective future.

But sadly, love is fleeting.

The next words out of Romeo’s mouth were:

“I’ll take a coke and a pack of Reeses Penis please”

Needless to say, he didn’t make it to the select screening of Saving Ryan’s Privates.

Parisian metro

If all the world’s a stage, then the Parisian metro should be raising ticket prices.  Theatre of all forms lurk inside the cavernous walls of the this city’s underground public transportation system.

The absurd, grotesque, comical, romantic, in-the-round, fourth-wall, and musical all manage to co-exist throughout the tunnels, stops, and cars as one hops from location to location.  Above ground the city maintains a gorgeous plethora of sites, art, and architecture,  but underneath-the actors never stop playing.

Perhaps you need a short cast-bio to really understand what I’m talking about.  Let me display tonight’s program for those of you who are new to Paris.

The role of the absurd shall be performed by the woman I once witnessed changing her pantyhose in a metro car, while it was moving, while standing.

The role of the grotesque has a profound number of understudies, but tonight shall be performed by the man who pulled out his penis and rubbed it while staring at me.  When I refused to look at his disgusting member, he spat on my shoes.  And they were my Chucks, which are my favorite.

The role of the comic shall be performed by the idiot who muttered disgusting profanity to my friend and I before attempting to dive off the metro as the doors were closing. I say attempted because his jacket got stuck in the door and he required our help out of the situation before being let free.

The romantic goes to the homeless couple I once witnessed having sex underneath a piece of cardboard, next to a poster displaying a Louvre exhibit.  Seems the two were quite taken by the art housed above them.

The in-the-round theatre exhibit goes out to the groups of little Parisian thugs who like to enter one car at opposite ends and move their way toward the middle, harassing everyone in their way.  In particular, the group who once set the ends of my friend’s hair on fire, and then stole her phone.

The fourth-wall acting method shall be performed by the schizophrenic who lurks on line ten.  He once sat next to me and shouted about farm animals for ten minutes (there was no one else on the train)-but never acknowledged my presence.  I must say, he kept that fourth wall barrier up quite well.

and finally

The musical cast shall be performed by a collection of the many accordion players who insist on playing the obnoxious songs they think we adore.  These cast members will undoubtedly be shoving their overturned hats in your faces immediately after completing said songs.  Never mind that you’ve already paid for a ticket to ride the metro-they have separate licenses allowing them further income.  From you.  For no reason other than playing an instrument that should have died with the polka.

If you need me, I’ll be up above.  Walking my dog.  Sorry, just couldn’t bring myself to buy another ticket.