boytellsall

The night of the date and I’m resigned to no sex. Who knows? Maybe she’s indisposed.

She calls up to say she’s downstairs in her car—don’t even start—and I walk past the open box of condoms on my dresser. Ah, another time. But that positively wistful feeling turns into a case of blue balls when I hop into the car because I am reminded that she is still smoking hot when I’m sober.

She wants to check out a four-star sushi place and I’m game. The food is great, the sake is even better. And I’m enjoying myself, not planning my next move for once. I already know I’m not getting any action. We’re hitting it off and I’m thinking this getting-to-know-you thing is okay.

Then the bill arrives.

I reach for my wallet that holds my roommate’s credit card—again, please don’t start—and I can’t find it. I do a pat down. Gone. Time slows. It must be ON THE DRESSER beside the domes. I experience searing flop-sweat that burns my eyes.

But just like that, Ms T reaches over and palms the bill. We’re out of there and into her car. I promise to buy dessert. We just need to swing back to my apartment to get my wallet. As we pull away she says, “Why don’t we go to my place?” HUH?

I’m all “sure, but you said…” And then she tells me again we are not going to have sex. Fine. I got it the first 12 times. And she’s starting to piss me off, hot or not. But she says she’s got some weed and some wine at home. If I like, I can crash there but no nookie.

By now, I’m completely neutered by her “no sex” mantra and me laming out on the bill. My balls are raisins. And her place is a million miles away in the middle of Satan’s buttcrack. But once we’re there, things are chill again.

We get high and listen to tunes. Then she breaks out the tequila, a drink I have come to avoid because of its truth serum-like properties. That’s in addition to its ability to explode my head like an egg in a microwave. And did I mention that deadly combo of booze and weed makes me completely useless in the sack? But since sex is off the table, I hop her party train.

When it’s time for bed, I’m in no shape for the trudge of shame to the TTC. I linger at her bedroom door on my way to the couch and she pulls me in for this movie star kiss.

Then she asks me:

Did you bring condoms?

WTF?

No, I didn’t bring condoms. Why the hell would I? That’d be like bringing a hot-dog bun to a gluten-free salad buffet. Then she gets indignant, saying I knew I was going to get sex all along. “And if you want to stay over, there’s no way you’re going to unless you fulfill your duty so you better bring it.” Suddenly I am a college girl in a No Means No campaign poster.

I look outside and there’s a blizzard. I feel my pockets and remember I don’t even have bus fare. I’m trapped.

Thus I find myself staggering to the 7 Eleven clutching a tenner for a three-pack of rubbers. Even the cashier knows. He shoots me a dream-on-buddy smirk. Now, had I been sober, it may have occurred to me to take the money and run. Instead, I slogged my way back to hers for a fumbling, flailing, sorry excuse for sex, which ended, mercifully, with a mutual pass out. Details are few. Thank god.

In the morning, I wake up to find me and Ms T all wound together like twist ties in the kitchen drawer. I think maybe I can redeem myself. Before long, we’re getting short of breath. And then the sobs come (not mine). And then, she screams, get out!

And I do.

I make tracks in the snow, jingling the bus fare I stole from her. And patting the leftover condoms I tucked into my chest pocket.

Last night, I took a hit in the self-esteem department.  No, not about a girl.  About the cheddar.  The scratch.  The dismal balance in my chequing account.  I’m sure you feel me when I tell you that as the numbers drift down into double digits, the ‘nads, they take a hit.

No cash flow = low mojo.

When this happens on a Friday night and you’re itching to get out, you have to find a house party in an upscale section of town. Lucky me had an invite to an uber-exclusive bump ‘n’ grind at a friend’s loft (more like a “daddy bought me a penthouse”).  I’m not complaining because that means I’ll be enjoying an ocean of free alcohol.

But the event turns out to be a sausage party so I start guzzling the expensive German import so the night won’t be a total write-off.  And in walks Trouble. And Trouble is a 10 to the power of 10.  And as soon as I spot Ms T, I know I want to tap that.

Turns out Ms T is still smarting from a failed relationship and I decide to show her my sensitive side.  Did I mention she’s HOT?  By night’s end, the guys want to check out an after hours club.  I turn to Ms T and ask her to come dancing.

She wants to. I can tell. But she says no.  So, I take the coward’s route.  I go romantic and ask her to dinner.  Which is idiotic and impossible since I’m broke, as noted earlier.

As she gives me her number, she leans in and whispers:  “I’m not going to have sex with you. I just want you to know that.”

Normally this would be my cue to shrug and tell her I wasn’t expecting anything, that I just want to get to know her better.  Then I’d walk out and make confetti with her digits.

But I didn’t.

More on that another day.