But by some fluke, we decided to use Friday, November 9 as the focal point.
The comedy gods are indeed kind, because although that Friday started out like
any ordinary day, it ended up with me in the sack with what
I thought was an ex-girlfriend. Given the state of my life lately, the odds
of picking this kind of day were astronomical. I might just as soon be writing
about how I was struck by lightning as my winning lottery numbers were
announced.
I work as an editor/proofreader for a newswire company, and my shift begins
fucking early. I have to wake up at 6:30 in the morning in order to be on time.
Because of winter, and something to do with time zones, it’s still very dark
when I wake up. When you drink as much as I do, you can never be quite sure if
you’re running late, or if it’s still the night before. And I don’t have a
clock, because I’m protesting the unfair treatment of Flava Flav by the rest of
Public Enemy.
"She thought I was angry at her; I wasn’t. I thought she
wasn’t into sex; she was."
On the Friday in question, I managed to drag
myself into work on time, and relatively presentable. It was “Casual
Day,” which certainly helped to explain why I didn’t bother to
shave or change underwear. Casual Day seems like quite a privilege,
but I can’t help but feel that’s what we workers are getting instead
of, say, a raise. Letting a bunch of office monkeys wear denim
doesn’t cost management a dime. I say to make Casual Day truly
casual, employees should be offered their recreational drug of
choice.
I don’t want to just skip over this part of my day, but it’s not easy to make
this kind of job interesting or funny. I could tell you about the great dangling
participle I noticed, but let’s not insult grammar by trying to squeeze comedy
out of it. Besides, I’m sure you’ll be more interested in other dangling things
I caught that day.
Speaking of which, there was something at work that amused me. Someone had
left a teabag on my desk. And now that the word “teabag” has been given a new,
testicle-related context, it’s great fun to push the envelope by talking about
literal teabags and watching office people squirm. Observe:
Me: So, someone gave me a teabag last night.
Office Neighbor: (spit take) What?
Me: Yes, right on my desk. (holds up packet of Earl Grey) See?
Office Neighbor: Oh, ha ha. (laughs nervously) I get it.
Me: (loudly) Would you like me to give you a teabag?
And so on. It’s not especially funny, but I do find it amazing that a
ball-sack double entendre was the most notable thing that happened to me at work
all day. Oh, and I almost forgot. One of the team leads brought snacks for
everybody! And believe me, many of my
coworkers deserved a jelly donut.
After I got home, I took a brief nap. This is a habit I picked up from my
ex-girlfriend, although, as a native of Argentina, she calls it a “siesta.”
Also, she says “gaucho” when she means “cowboy,” and “Diego Maradona” when she
means “Barry Bonds.” Nevertheless, she’s a gorgeous girl; way hotter than I have
any right to expect. She broke it off with me a few weeks ago, and that’s why I
was so surprised when her phone call awakened me from my slumber.
It was time to perform the dreaded “stuff-exchange.” It’s a ritual that’s
been around as long as there has been dating and/or property. I had one of her
DVDs; she had one of my books. I left a pair of shoes at her house; she wanted
back all of the panties I stole. You get the idea. In truth, I could give a fuck
about my stuff; I was just looking forward to seeing her again.
We met in the lobby of my building. We looked into each other’s eyes, and
before we even said a word, we were making out. Swear to God. I can only hope my
neighbors were watching on the closed circuit lobby channel and cheering for me.
Truly, it was
a moment right out of a movie. An Adam Sandler train wreck, granted, but
that’s still pretty good.
We settled down long enough to talk it out. From what I could piece together
with the flow of blood temporarily diverted from my brain, the whole breakup was
just a misunderstanding that kind of escalated. She thought I was angry at her;
I wasn’t. I thought she wasn’t into sex; she was. With this cleared up, we
happily pushed the reset button on the Nintendo game of our relationship.
Fast-forward through dinner and some more talking, and I’m at her place.
There are some times when a girl needs cajoling, and reassurance, and foreplay,
and possibly roofies. Then there are those times when you’re completely, totally
on the same page, and that page features two very naked bodies doing things that
would make baby Jesus cry.
We didn’t even waste time undressing; our clothes somehow evaporated, unable
to withstand the fiery heat of Latino passion (provided solely by her; Jewish
passion tends to be a little less fervent and focuses more on the prospect of a
post-coital sandwich).
They say make-up sex is the best kind. Up until Friday, I never believed it.
That’s probably because I’d never had a serious fight with a girlfriend that
left an opening for reconciliation. I’ve dated a lot of basketcases, including a
few with clinical OCD. Trust me, arguments about washing each hand exactly four
times do not set your libido on fire. But Friday was truly unlike anything I’ve
ever experienced.
It’s now Saturday, November 10. I’m writing this article at my
once-again-girlfriend’s place, while she studies for an exam. I’m still
underpaid and underappreciated at work, but at least I have the thought of
her to get me through the day.
P.S. Normally, this is not the kind of thing I'd be inclined to write
about. It's not that I'm really sensitive about privacy (in fact, stay tuned for
an article in which I test various laxatives, with hilarious results), it's just
that other writers here at PIC have just about cornered the market on amazing
sex stories. If you dig that stuff, go find writers whose names rhyme with Tate
LePfaff, and Mick Daudio. In fact, you can read about their Friday the 9ths,
along with the rest of the PIC Staff, right here:
www.pointsincase.com/get-to-know-pic.htm
