I am not always the hero in my story. That’s why I’m a writer. Wearing cliches as if the world’s a masquerade, I hide in plain sight most places I go. When ever in doubt, I carry a camera. The opening lines to everyone’s story start the same. I was a person in a place at a certain time. The more interesting you try to make it the less flexibility you have with details. Stick to the truth and there’s an endless supply of embellishments. Honesty means you have to tell the bad parts with the good. And believe me, the stories you don’t want to be honest about are the best ones to tell.
For example, in my Worst Date story the last paragraph is vague about what happened at his house. I write from the disdain I felt for the entire experience overall but in truth there was a good hour of enjoyable heavy petting on his couch before I summoned a ride home. It wasn’t previously relevant to the experience and nothing I’m proud of. However, a follow-up text from him requires this addendum. I’ll pretend I’m inserting this into the original story (in italics):
* * * * *
We finally got dropped off and at this point I am texting friends to see if I can snag a ride back into my area.
Once inside the house I decide to make lemonade with the situation. We start making out on the couch and he eagerly gropes all the curviest parts of my body. I can’t think of anything that feels better than having my ass grabbed while engaged in a hot, heavy kiss. The leverage alone sends a thrill up my spine but I also have a submissive streak that flares up whenever someone clutches soft flesh. Working his way across my breasts and down the curve of my hip, I feel a hot gush between my legs. I freeze up because instead of the clear juices of passion I’m fairly certain I just started my period. It was a possibility going into the evening but I didn’t think about it again until now.
I push him back and he reluctantly stops. Explaining I need to go check something he protests me getting up. We are in on a couch in a dark living room so I can’t even discreetly sneak a peek – I really do have to go to another room. Pushing back on his check some more I say, “No really, I might be bleeding.”
His face screws up with obvious confusion so I’m more blunt, “My period. I think I started my period.”
He smiles drunkenly and coyly says, “Well, let’s see,” while reaching under my skirt. I’m not squeamish and at this point I’m annoyed so I smile and let him slip my white thong underwear off. Even in the non-light I can see the red stain of blood against the light fabric. Cursing lightly I start to get up but he has other ideas. reaching back under my skirt he begins to play with clit while looking me in the eye. I raise an eyebrow and say, “You are going to ruin your couch.”
Horny and intoxicated, he shows no heed. I’m not exactly sober and don’t know his roommates so I just shrug and hike my skirt up to keep it out of harms way. Using his hands and occasional licks of his tongue he proceeds to mostly get me off. There’s an uptight nice person inside me that wouldn’t let me relax about getting blood stains on a stranger’s furniture. I pretend to finish up and tell him I need a break. The second I’m free to stand up I grab my purse and head to the bathroom. Fishing for a tampon on the way.
He tails me and deflects me into the door of his room. If I didn’t already have him on my do-not-date list the state of mess in his personal space would have landed him there. I was willing to sit on the edge of his bed while he kept offering me dabs. It became increasingly clear that I wasn’t getting another Uber ride out of my date so I finally ordered my own Uber. It was a $13 mistake and I’m pretty sure I could have done better that night. It could have been worse and I’m glad it wasn’t.
To put a creepy exclamation point on the end of this tryst, I received a Facebook message two weeks later. He confessed that he wants me to be his girlfriend which I quickly put a kibosh on. I can honestly say it’s not him – I don’t want to be anyone’s significant other right now. When he accepted we weren’t going to date again he decided to drop this line, “Did you leave something at my house?”
I’m not sure if he was being cute or just honest but my response is the same, “You mean my bloody underwear?”
“Yeah.”
“You can keep ’em.”