Rating: NNNNN
It’s 11 o’clock at night, one hour before a flesh-lover’s high noon. I’m showered, buzzed from a quick splash of scotch and ready for the hot man I met and screwed three days prior. I phone. “Hey, it’s me. Can I come over?”
“Oh, hey. You still have my drill.”
My libido groans. The back story goes: I met the guy at a party, he had great cheekbones and little curls that wrapped around his ears ever so sweetly, and I was smashed on free booze while simultaneously ovulating. I achieved my goal of staying at his house that night. I spotted a power tool on the way out and brazenly asked to borrow it. He, of course, couldn’t say no. We arranged for a repeat visit.
So here I am, calling right on schedule, but it looks like he’s suddenly about to say no.
“What, you want your drill back and you don’t want to hang out?” I am not one to beat around the bush, especially regarding my bush. “What’s the deal?”
“I don’t have the time for a girlfriend right now,” he says.
So this is what it comes to. I don’t even know this guy’s last name, and he’s throwing the g-bomb at me.
It’s the 21st century and a girl still can’t be sexcentric without a man thinking she’s trying to bag him, not just shag him.
I try not to burst out with something immature along the lines of, “Yeah, dude, I’ve got your drill. I’ll be right over with it. Ever heard of trepanation? Maybe a hole in your head will make you more enlightened about other holes.”
Instead, I ask, “Well, I’m curious. What exactly makes you think I want to be your girlfriend?” I don’t sound as calm as I’d hoped, and even as the words spill out I know he’s thinking, “Oh, all girls say that, but secretly they all want a boyfriend.” I’m trapped right from the start by male assumptions.
Here are the facts: I picked him up at a bar, gave him my number, chose to go over to his house, kissed him first and fucked him right off the bat, no questions asked. I didn’t call him for three days, and now I’m calling after 11 at night and want to come over. It’s not like I’m asking to meet his family or anything. Shit, if I were a guy I could be justly accused of sexual harassment, but because I’m a girl I’m supposed to have some lame ulterior motive about looking for a serious relationship.
Perhaps this is my karma for manipulating men in the past. I confess I’ve pretended to be looking for a boyfriend when I found guys with that long-term longing in their eyes and bodies that caught my eye. I’d lick ego and get it for a few weeks before admitting I was just after sex, and not interested in the privilege of stretching my sweet spot in the name of carrying and birthing their progeny.
But this guy seemed down-to-earth – dare I say, bohemian? Hell, he grew up in BC. Doesn’t that count for something? I thought I could go the straight-up route.
Rather than answering my question, Cheekbones begins a long monologue. Not only do I have to hear about how long it’s been since he’s had a girlfriend, I also have to learn that he is emotionally inept and knows his parents love him but doesn’t feel loved. (Did I mention I didn’t want to meet his family?) Then come’s the clincher, the floater that won’t flush: he tells me he thinks he suffers from “postmodern angst,” and this, ultimately, is why he can’t have a girlfriend.
I can’t keep quiet any longer.
“Postmodern what ?”
“Postmodern angst. Like a sort of depression.”
This is extreme. I wonder if this guy even knows a thing about the postmodern, a movement that embraces the fragmented and unstable.
Surely, if he were in the clutches of the postmodern, he would embrace meaningless sex. I laugh. I can’t help it. “That’s ridiculous. I can’t believe that all I wanted was a fuck, and you are pulling out the postmodern.”
“You just wanted… you just wanted… what?”
“I just thought we could get together once in a while and get it on. That’s all.”
“Oh.” A big pause. A big stupid postmodern pause. Then he says, “Still want to come over?”
I politely decline. Postmodern moroseness equals post-mortem man where this girl comes from. I’ve decided I would much rather stay home and drill that shelf unit that has been sitting in my closet for two months.
And speaking of the drill, was the borrowing a random act? Hell, no. In a world full of messy men, a girl should always be sure to take some good old collateral, from a CD to a power tool.
The drill is solid in my hands. It gets heavier and hotter the longer I use it. The reliable whirr makes me happy – how easily the screws drive into the wood, making a cracking noise as the wood gives way.
He leaves me a voice mail three weeks later asking where his drill is. I’m tempted to tell him about my postmodern plans for an über-dildo attachment, but instead just delete the message.
