>>> Primal Urges
By staff writer Nathan DeGraaf

September 27, 2006

Shane: Who was that girl I saw you with last night?
You always say that.
Because they’re always named Jennifer. That’s not my fault.

In many ways, I’m a very lucky man. The career I found after graduating college happens to be located within seven miles of the college from which I graduated, which happens to be occupied in part by roughly fifteen thousand females under the age of 24. So, basically, because I like to live near where I work, the pool of females at my disposal is consistently within the 18- to 24-year-old range.

Some of the people in my life (like my mother, some ex-girlfriends and my employer) swear that I need to grow up (whatever the fuck that means) and move to an area more dominated by young professionals. This would be great if I wanted to spend all my time wearing collared shirts and lying to salesgirls about how much I make—but I don’t. So I think it’s a pretty shitty suggestion. In fact, when I told my old college roommate about all the people who feel I need to grow up, his response was, “Fuck them. They’re just jealous. I mean, who the fuck really WANTS to grow up?”

As usual, he made a good point.

“When young Jennifer saw my place, her exact words were, Wow, you don’t have any roommates. Your parents must be rich.

But, as life has taught me, nothing is one hundred percent great. Each thing, no matter how awesome it is, has a certain level of suck to it. And two things about fucking college chicks really suck: the lying and the weekday mornings.

Anyway, the last time I got laid, I fucked a 20-year-old little blonde college girl. And, despite the fact that she was smoking hot, the experience was a huge pain in the ass. Hey, I got an idea, how about I tell you about it?

Pull up a chair. It’s story time, children.

Up at the smoky pool hall, I sat down at a table occupied by three females. I do this a lot (just sit down at a table wholly occupied by females) because it shows women that a) I have balls, b) I want them to lick those balls, and c) I want them to fight over who gets that honor. Seven times out of ten this does not work, but that’s why picking up bitches is a numbers game. Anyway, this time I got lucky because one girl invited the other two to the bathroom and the cutest of the three refused to go. I realized that I only had about five minutes to get that chick out of the bar.

And the lying commenced.

The first question she asked me was what my major is, to which I responded, “Creative Writing.” I mean, what the hell, it was my major back when I was in school. Why not go with it?

After I told her what my major is (err, used to be), she started babbling all these great things about writing and poetry and how it gets her (her words, here), “So wet.”

So I told her one of my many love poems, all of which impress the living shit out of chicks.

“Wow,” she said, “I could listen to you all night.”

By this point in the evening, this little girl (I think her name was Jennifer, but aren’t they all named Jennifer?) was very into me. So I got her into my car and took her to a more intimate bar, where we drank wine and she told me how great a poet I am (God, I am an egotistical prick).

“How can you afford this?” she kept asking.

“I work,” I kept telling her.

Eventually, I got her home.

Now, I drive a 12-year-old car, and I live in a one-bedroom apartment that is almost 800 square feet. In the real world of working people, this is about as impressive as a skin rash. But, when young Jennifer saw my place, her exact words were, “Wow, you don’t have any roommates. Your parents must be rich.”

To this I said nothing, which is much easier than lying.

Within a few minutes of our arrival at my home, we were fucking. A few minutes later, we were asleep. By this time, the alarm clock informed me that it was after 4:00 AM.

“Great,” I thought, “I have to be up in less than four hours.”

My alarm sounded a few hours later. So, naturally, I woke up. However, Jennifer would not stir. I pushed her, I poked her, I yelled at her… nothing worked.

I turned the radio up as loud as it could go and got in the shower. I got out of the shower and put an ice cube in Jen’s ear. She didn’t even flinch. She was fucking out.

Now, I didn’t know this chick all that well, and I certainly didn’t know her well enough to leave her alone in my apartment, so I put her socks, shoes, purse, underwear and bra into a plastic grocery bag, put the grocery bag in the back seat of my car, grabbed her shorts and T-shirt and dressed her. Then I lifted her up and carried her out to my car, or rather to the ground right next to my car. While she lay on the ground, I went back and locked the door to my apartment.

My nosy neighbor Jerry, who takes way too much interest in my lifestyle, asked, “Everything all right, Nate?”

To which I responded, “Fine, fine, why wouldn’t it be?”

And he shot a glance over at the girl on the ground next to my car.

“Oh that,” I said. “She’s umm… sick.”

So then I opened my car door, picked up Jen, put her into the passenger seat of my car, and drove to the parking lot of the bar in which we met.

There were six cars in the lot and so I kept asking Jen what kind of car she drove. She refused to answer on the grounds that she was comatose. So I looked through her purse until I found her keys. They were Volkswagen keys.

I used either deductive or inductive reasoning (honestly, I never learned the difference), found her Jetta, opened the car door, put the keys in the ignition and then proceeded to pick her up and put her in the vehicle. I kissed her on the cheek, closed her car and proceeded to work, where I was about fifteen minutes late.

“You better have a damn good excuse,” my boss said.

“You’ll love this one boss,” I told him as I closed the door to his office.

After I finished my explanation, the boss said, “Man oh man. When the hell are you gonna grow up?”

“No sooner than I have to,” I said.

And maybe there’s something inherently wrong with the fact that I have almost no interest in growing up and having regular type nights with regular type girls who have careers and aspirations to achieve more in the world of mortgages and mutual funds, but the truth is, when considering all the other things that are wrong with me, I mean, the fact that I’m not yet totally grown up is the least of my concerns.

Now, this rash on the other hand….

It's been several months since he told you, but Nathan DeGraaf has a blog that showcases his daily writings (he also has herpes, but the blog is funnier).