Mr. Grad Ass
At University, we enjoyed a class about all the different psych tests during which we had to pick a test and try it on a few of our “unsuspecting” classmates. My bestie Liz received the MMPI and diagnosed me with a “Deep V Personality,” meaning my highs are high and my lows are low, or in other words, I’m dramatic (surprise!). We determined as a class experiment that my best mate would be someone with a very “Flat Line,” in other words, safe and boring. And as it turned out, he was the graduate assistant for the class, so we agreed to go on a date.
As someone who used to get emotional about everything, I understood the benefits of dating the safe guy. And Mr. Grad Ass was really safe. He picked me up in his loaded Camry and took me to an Italian restaurant on the outskirts of town. I am easily swayed by the comfort of red and white-checkered tablecloths, baskets of bread, table wine and opera (he probably researched this through my girlfriends) and the food was delicious, which totally lowers my defenses.
He suggested that we head back to my place for a nightcap and I concurred. We barely made it inside when he pushed me down on my couch and started making out with me. Hot. I really had to pee, but I couldn’t break the mojo that had appeared, almost suddenly in my living room. But he could. He got up to use the restroom and told me to hold on a moment. I laughed and said, “Thank goodness, I desperately need to go as well. Let’s take a pause.”
He came back from the bathroom and I walked in. To his SHIT. While he was polite enough to flush, he had blown up my bathroom in the most unforgivable way and then permitted me to enter into it. I was dry heaving into my hand. It took every square inch of my entire body to prevent an instantaneous and projectile vomit. I stayed in there long enough to be believable, flushed, walked out, gave him a quick kiss and told him I had to be up early as I walked him to the door.
I never spoke to him again. I returned no calls. I told no one, even though my girlfriends were madly curious as to why it hadn’t worked out. It didn’t work out because I would never be able to get that disgusting smell out of my mind. Every time I looked at him, I smelled it again.
I understand that he might not have been feeling well or perhaps his stomach wasn’t so well-adjusted to alfredo sauce, but then, go home. Get out of there. Say you have to get up early. Spare me, so that I can retain some shred of respect for you and the things you should do in secret.