I'm not one to be swayed by celebrity. And after this particular experience, I reckon I'm turned off for life. Give me a clean, polite, normal boy any day.
When I met Celebrity Guy, I thought he was a vain dick. I'd never have talked to him at all if he hadn't been a friend of a friend. I prefer kindness over fame, and anyway, I'd never even seen him on television. I was a Canadian hiding out in London who didn't have a clue about British shows.
Yet despite my aloofness, whenever Celebrity Guy and I ended up in a group out on the town, he kept flirting with me, to the amusement of our mutual friend. I didn't care I had a boyfriend.
But over time, the boyfriend got boring. Although I still didn't watch British TV, I did get used to the British sensibility. I realized that most middle-class British boys share the same humour and sarcasm I'd found so charming in my British boyfriend. So I dumped his average ass.
I was surprised to miss him, but even more surprised to find myself flirting with Celebrity Guy. Of course, by now I'd seen through him, too. He wasn't really a jerk, just incredibly insecure - as he should have been since, at the end of the day, he wasn't that good-looking or smart. He was just a little bit famous. He didn't even have that national wit at his disposal, and fame is fickle. So who could blame him for being a bit of a bastard?
That was my first mistake: feeling sorry for him. The second was getting drunk with him after our mutual friend went home. The third was going home with him (but I was rebounding...). The fourth was taking off my clothes.
Never fear, we were drunk in the British way, which means very. We passed out after some basic tomfoolery.
Then morning came. I blame it on the hangover; something about that oozy feeling always makes me randy. Morning sex happened.
Not exactly the most common way to have a fling, but it was all right. Besides, after he'd gotten up to put his dog out for a pee, he'd brushed his teeth, so it wasn't offensive to the olfactory glands either.
Well, not to start with.
The fifth mistake was entirely his. After we finished with the sex, I was lying half-covered by the sheet, drifting in and out of another snooze, but I kept smelling something. Poor Celebrity Guy sure had a case of really bad beer farts. I was glad I'd stuck to wine.
The stubbornly persistent scent provoked a bit of post-drinking nausea, so I decided to go to the washroom in hopes the smell would disperse. And if not, perhaps I could stand at the door and convince him to get up and away from the den of stink to have breakfast with me. Another hangover effect - I feel very social.
"I think I'll go to the loo," I announced.
"No, why don't we snooze a bit more," he whined.
Thinking he just didn't understand what I'd said, that somehow I'd pronounced "loo" wrong, I reinforced my statement with, "Don't worry, I'll just be a moment."
He grabbed my arm. "Just stay still a little bit longer, please," he asked in a little boy voice. I was horrified; not only was he insecure, but he was the clingy mommy-addicted sort. Ugh! I sat up quickly, needing air more than ever, and then I saw it.
Horror gave way to revulsion. Peeking out from under the sheet was a well-formed feces. Not exactly a small one either. It was, dare I say it, much bigger than his manhood.
I turned away so fast that he knew I'd seen it. I didn't see his face, so I'm not sure he was lying, but the next thing I heard him say was, "Shoot, my stupid dog is doing that again."
It was a lame excuse. It reminded me of my stepfather, who used to blame his farts on the gerbil. Did Celebrity Guy really think I'd believe our clumsy morning fuck was so heated that his medium-size mutt jumped on the bed, laid a load, then wandered off, and I hadn't noticed? I wasn't half-asleep, and the sex wasn't that mind-blowing.
As a matter of fact, the dog hadn't even come into the room since being let outside. He couldn't have done it in the middle of the night, since the door was shut. Besides, there's no way I wouldn't have noticed that thing. Surely, we would have rolled in it if it had been there all along. And why on earth am I still questioning it?
I'm not saying I would've stayed had Celebrity Guy confessed, that if he'd said, "I have a weird fetish. I like to shit after sex and lie in bed with a girl and a turd," I'd have said, "No problem. Let's make eggs."
I'm nice, but I can't say I'm that nice. I'd never been in such a compromising position before. I will say, though, that his silly excuse made me not only certain that the poo was his, but that I wanted out. If there's one thing I cannot stand, it's lying an insult to anyone's intelligence.
Then again, there is the possibility that he's a compulsive liar or otherwise psychologically ill soul who actually believes his fabrications.
So before my exit, did I help the poor bastard with some honesty? I could have said, "You've got a problem. You must somehow get off on public displays of pooing. You really need help."
No, I said nothing helpful. Instead, I muttered, "I really have to get home and to work," as if the process of lying next to a steaming pile of shit had inspired me to write a masterpiece.
I was inspired in a different way, though. I called my ex, who'd never so much as farted in front of me in the four months we were together, and indulged in a shit-free shag.
I was tempted to call all my friends and tell them about the horror I'd witnessed, and to let them know the final verdict on my quick fling with fame. Dating a celebrity was rather, well, crappy. But I didn't. I waited a year.
And then I started to write this article... Whoops. I guess I could always say the dog did it.
Andrea Blund is a pseudonym.