My Little Slut

Since my mid to late-teens, I've come to terms with the fact that as far as looks go, I am something of an acquired taste. There are no hordes of women knocking down my door because I am ridiculously handsome, but there have been a few women over the years that have hit on me while "out in the wild," something that I fear I may never get used to.

Aside #1: Secretly, I actually hope I never get used to this.

One time for instance, I was riding my bicycle somewhere to get lunch, when I heard someone wolf-whistle in my general direction. Assuming the catcall wasn't meant for me, I ignored it, and locked my bike up before going into a restaurant and eating. When I had come back out, there was a note left on my bike that read:

You're really cute...text me...for a good time.
Signed, girl who whistled at you earlier
(phone number)

Now, normally I wouldn't have paid any mind to something like this, because to me, this note sounded incredibly promiscuous, verging on skanky. But I'd actually noticed the girl who had whistled, before she had done so. She was definitely attractive, and I was definitely single at the time.

Aside #2: Plus, she'd actually used the correct form of "you're," and that alone is something to marry someone over nowadays.

I had nothing to lose, and everything to gain. Smoothly, I waited about an hour before I sent her a text message introducing myself and asking her what her name was. "Valerie," she said in her response, before telling me that she'd like to get to know me better. A little too smugly, I sent her a text that read "That can be arranged."

Aside #3: If you haven't noticed by now, my most commonly used method of flirting with members of the opposite sex involves being really awkward and direct, verging on serial killer-esque, intermingled with infrequent moments of smoothness and charm. That really works for some women, I guess.

So two days later, after talking/texting nonstop about whatever it is you talk about with someone you've never officially met, we weirdly met up for lunch at a Taco Bell near my apartment. She was red-headed and quite a bit skinnier than I'd originally thought she was, verging on almost being too skinny, but still managed to have a sort of larger, more intimidating attitude about everything, something that I naturally find irresistible. Her voice was also slightly raspy, but in the pleasant way that isn't quite like like the way a throat cancer patient's is.

Reciprocating my unspoken attraction, she invited me over to her house after we'd finished eating, telling me she wanted to "watch a funny movie" with me. Coyly thinking I was reading between the lines, I accepted her offer, and we departed.

Not long later, we arrived at the house Valerie shared with her father, a small two-bedroom with the darkness of a bachelor pad but the stereotypical tidiness of somewhere a woman lives. Her father was out of town for the week, she explained as we looked over her movie collection, stillness of the house only interrupted by our movements.

Looking over the movies she and her father had collected over the years, I was slightly disappointed. There were half-decent action movies mixed in with the usual comedy fodder; movies like Bad Boys and Die Hard were alongside such "comedy classics" as Black Sheep and Anchorman. Given that she wanted to watch something "funny," it was slim pickings for someone like me, who had seen every chuckle-worthy film they owned too many times to count (on cable, no less).

Aside #4: Because of this story, I am now guilty of writing and consciously publishing a really whiny first-world problem. I don't feel great about myself.

After a rough inner-struggle followed by seconds of tedious decision-making, I decided on Adam Sandler's classic fish-out-of-water story, Billy Madison. If we were to ever be married, we would tell tales at our wedding of the first time we ever laid eyes on a television screen simultaneously, watching the original manchild himself work his way through academia. We'd be that couple.

Nothing unexpected happened over the course of the next two hours. We watched the movie, smoked a little bit of weed, and made out during the parts we'd both seen a million times (read: during most of the movie). There was something very high school about it all, and that was comforting to me.

At least, comforting until things became slightly more adult when Valerie took her shirt off mid-kiss. Not really knowing how to react, I just continued kissing her, until she finally gave up on waiting for me to be progressive and straddled me before she began taking my shirt off.

Aside #5: I am made of 100% pure certified playa. Don't even try to deny it.

Uncomfortable because being shirtless in the middle of her living room made me feel exposed, I asked Valerie if she wanted to go to her bedroom. Nodding, she hopped off of my lap, gathered up her shirt and mine, and lead the way.

The "hooking up," for lack of a better term, continued as soon as we crossed the threshold into her bedroom. We shockingly wound up on her massive, ridiculously fluffy and comfortable bed, with huge sheets that felt like they were stuffed with the finest softboiled cloud fetuses. It was ridiculous.

Apparently, it was a little too ridiculous, as mid-makeout the both of us began to feel incredibly sleepy despite the fact that it was only around four in the afternoon. Realizing that we'd potentially have the rest of the week to do whatever we wanted to each other, we hopped off the Love Train at Sleepytime Station, and decided to take a quick nap before continuing our journey.

Aside #6: That last one is definitely a contender for my favorite sentence I've ever written.

Our "quick nap" however, turned into the both of us sleeping until nearly 9 'o clock that night, the both of us only being awoken when her phone vibrated with a call from her father. Picking it up, she motioned for me to be quiet while she spoke with him. After she'd hung up, she straddled me once more (still shirtless), implying that she wanted to pick up where we'd left off. And needless to say, that's exactly what happened.

Now, I've never been one to go into explicit detail when it comes to the intricacies of my own sex life, but something curious happened during Valerie and I's...passionate lovemaking. At one point, when I was lying on my back with her on top of me, she leaned down and whispered something into my ear. At first, I wasn't sure I'd heard her correctly, and asked her to repeat herself. Speaking louder, she confirmed that I had, in fact, heard her correctly.

"Tell me I'm your little slut," she pleaded, hips grinding into mine. "Please, tell me I'm your little slut."

Aside #7: That first sentence right there is probably a contender for my favorite as well, though for an entirely different reason.

I had no idea how to react to this, as I'd never been asked to say something like this during sex before. My sexual history's Weirdest Member's Club only consisted of one girl who liked it really, really rough and that girl that insisted we watch Saw IV during the act, never someone that got off on dirty talk like this. So I did what any self-respecting male would do in the situation. I totally went with it.

"You're my little slut," I said softly, the end of the sentence trailing off like a question. To my surprise, this seemed to work some kind of magic on Valerie, as she went at it more vigorously than before. Slightly more confident, I repeated myself. "You're my little slut!" I half-yelled, producing another burst of energy from her.

"Yeah, I'm your little slut!" she yelled in my face, pulling my hair a little too hard and breathing heavily.

I'd call her my little slut two more times before we finished, and each time I said it, it was as if I had said some sort of sexual hypnotism trigger phrase that was she was conditioned to be turned on by. It was one of the most bizarre things I'd ever experienced, and my internal wonder at this phenomena and the odd urge to test it against other derogatory phrases made it really difficult for me to concentrate when it came to my role in the wrapping-up of our sexy time.

Aside #8: What I really mean to say is, the fact that this effected her so much almost killed my boner.

But as I said, we finished, and then engaged in the usual post-coital cuddling that is required of every guy when they want to impress a female. Something was wrong though, and I could tell Valerie could feel it too.

I don't know what happened between the two of us after we had sex, but I have a theory. We didn't talk directly about her preference in pet names, but I think the both of us felt awkward about it (and she insulted or embarrassed) because of my initial hesitation. For the rest of the evening, our conversation felt stilted and forced, and when I slept over we didn't sleep near one another like we had earlier when we'd taken that nap.

The next morning we woke up relatively early, and she drove me home in near-silence. Naturally, we said we'd see each other again soon, but neither of us really meant it. We kept in touch a little bit afterwards, and less than two months later she was engaged. He seemed like a pretty good guy, from what little she told me about him.

I just can't help but wonder if she's his little slut, too.

This is how I troll

Note: The following is not considered a "typical" TFTG post. I just really wanted to get this out there. Regularly scheduled programming will resume when I feel like it.

Yesterday evening I was lurking Facebook, and I came across the profile of a high-schooler named Clay. In one of his semi-recent statuses, he wrote "Top 10 cutest girls," followed by a numbered list of girls he apparently thought were cute, with links to each of their Facebook profiles.
Now, I'm not one to put my admittedly large nose in other peoples' business, but since the status was public and I felt that these girls were being ridiculously disrespected, I decided to comment on the status and voice my opinion (read: "troll the shit out of him"). This is the shitstorm that followed (slightly abridged, for both length and continuity):

My Friend the Millionaire

A few summers ago, I found myself stranded in downtown Los Angeles after a moving trip from Phoenix to Seattle went awry (which, I promise, will be a story told in a future post). Opting to take a bus from LA to my hometown of Dallas to live there instead of finishing my trip as planned, I bought a ticket for a one-way ride and packed my belongings that I couldn't afford to ship into three differently-styled, overstuffed bags: one messenger bag, one tweed suitcase, and one ten-raquet tennis bag.

Unable to afford a cab from where I was staying to the bus station, a friend of a friend named Joshua that had shown me around the city a few days previously told me he'd show me how to get there on foot. Seeing this as my only option to get to the station on time, I accepted his offer and we departed from my hotel room three hours before my bus was to begin boarding, me carrying my messenger bag and tennis bag, Joshua carrying my tweed suitcase.

For those of you that have never actually been, there are a few small parts of Los Angeles that look like what you'd expect Los Angeles to look like: beaches to walk on, plenty of stores to shop in and attractive people to gawk at. But for the most part, Los Angeles looks like what I imagine downtown Baghdad looked like during wartime if Baghdad was populated primarily by hipsters and hookers. There are injured people lying in the street moaning for help, homeless people or mangy dogs on every corner, and everyone seems like they want to stab you for having an opinion different than theirs. I hate to generalize Baghdad like that (and to a lesser extent, Los Angeles), but it's the truth.

Despite this imbalance, we managed to make it to the bus depot on time and without being mugged, passing by many interesting things on the way.

Aside #1: We passed by the red carpet event for The Expendables, a filming of an episode of iCarly, the biggest Inception banner I've ever seen, and an original Banksy piece, amongst plenty of other things. I know people that live in LA see that sort of thing daily, but shut up. It was neat.

After thanking Joshua and saying our goodbyes, checking my bags in and waiting in the terminal for a few minutes, I stepped onto the large grey bus marked "DALLAS" and unknowingly sat down next to one of the most interesting people I've ever met in my life.

His name was Bruce, and he looked like a short-haired, 50-something Iggy Pop impersonator. Staring at me with his wild eyes, offering up one leathery baseball-mitt of a hand, he introduced himself to me shortly after I occupied the space next to him. Over the next few hours, we would end up talking about everything from our personal lives to literature to current news, and Bruce would tell me the following five things about himself:

1. He is a construction company business owner and millionaire who is deathly afraid of flying, hence him riding the bus. When I asked him why he didn't just buy his own personal bus and hire a driver himself, he scoffed loudly. Apparently, he "really loves" the people he meets on the rides he takes a few times a year.

2. He was visiting his daughter in Waco, Texas, who is a mildly successful blonde-haired, big-breasted supermodel. He showed me many, many pictures of her, and even pulled his shirt down at one point to show me a portrait of her he'd had tattooed on his shoulder.

Aside #2: Before you wonder if it was terrible or not, it was. Sorry, Bruce.

3. In the 90's, he was addicted to cocaine. He told me that he'd been clean from coke for a few years, but still smokes pot regularly to deal with the arthritis he has in his legs from when he used to build houses. We really bonded over this in particular, because that's half the reason I smoke.

4. He's been married three times, and only has the single daughter from his first (from when he was "dumb and young"). He admitted that his last two wives had taken a lot of money from him, though he didn't disclose how much, exactly.

5. He's a born-again Christian. Go figure.

Right around as the sun was setting, Bruce asked me if I'd like to smoke with him the next time the bus stopped to refuel. I gladly obliged, and we did so, shortly after night had fallen behind a gas station in the middle of nowhere.

Aside #3: If you've never smoked marijuana regularly or been a part of the subculture, you probably don't understand how "normal" this is. Just know that his request wasn't weird or creepy at all, and that it was actually sort of a relief.

After putting my smoking supplies away, and making sure they were well-secured on my person before re-entering the bus, Bruce tapped me on the shoulder, staring at me with his big, wide eyes. Stuttering as he did so, he asked me if it would be possible for me to give him a small bit of weed, so he had some when he arrived in Waco. Being the ever-giving person I am (and having quite a bit on me at the time), I happily obliged, giving him a decent-sized nugget that should have more than satisfied him until he was able to find more. This is where things started to get a little weird.

Aside #4: Yeah, things only started getting weird after I gave an ex-coke addict millionaire a gram or so of weed for free.

Immediately after I dropped the pot into his hand, he looked me straight in the face and asked for a "little more." Not wanting to anger the person I'd be sitting next to for the next 15 hours or so, I gave him a little bit more, hoping that it would be enough. Apparently it was, because he immediately removed an Altoids tin from his pocket, turned around so I couldn't see its contents, and dropped both pieces into it. Thanking me, he promised that he would pay me back as soon as we arrived at his destination, telling me that he'd planned to give me a little money anyways for "entertaining" him on the trip. Feeling better about my decision to be a nice person, we both headed back towards the bus and got on.

Night had fallen at this point, so most of our co-passengers had fallen asleep in their seats. Bruce, however, decided to stay awake and keep me up with him. I didn't really mind, because I'm terrible at sleeping in moving vehicles, so all was well.

About midway through the night, during a lull in Bruce and I's enchanting conversation, he stood up and announced to me that he had to go to the bathroom (as if there was anywhere else to go). He stepped to the back of the bus, and remained there for about ten minutes. Right around the time I started to become worried for his safety, he emerged, eyes wider than before, grinning wildly.

"I just did some coke in the bathroom," he whispered to me quietly, an odd, child-like eagerness in his voice. "Do you want some, buddy?"

Aside #5: A detail that I forgot to mention in the list up there is that he always referred to me as "buddy," "pal," or any variation of the word "friend" (without actually calling me his friend). It was very odd.

"No thanks," I nervously smiled, synapses in my head popping. He'd explicitly told me earlier in the trip that he hadn't touched coke "in years," and it made me curious as to the validity of the rest of the claims he had laid earlier in our trip. Needless to say, from this point on, I began taking everything he did and said with a grain of salt.

Of course, this became harder and harder to do as his claims of riches and willingness to share them became more and more extravagant, and I began to wonder if he'd just lied to me about the state of his addiction because he didn't want to scare me off. After all, aside from that and the fact that he asked for more weed after I so graciously gave him some for free, he had been nothing but kind and ridiculously interesting the entire time. He was even offering to let me stay at his beach house in Florida, because he claimed to never use it. I was torn.

By the time we'd made it to Waco, a few stops before mine in Dallas, my mind hadn't been made up about Bruce. I wasn't sure if he was just a crazy, drug-addicted con man that had duped me into giving him free weed, or if he really was just an eccentric, lonely millionaire that needed someone to talk to on a trip to visit his daughter.

My question was answered shortly after we disembarked. Telling me he was going to get his bags from underneath the bus, Bruce quickly disappeared into the crowd at the station after we had stepped off of the bus, his average features and build camouflaging him from me. Assuming he'd meet me somewhere near the bus after he'd gathered his things, I went inside the station to use the restroom and buy food.

Fifteen minutes passed as I sat on a bench next to the bus we'd both stepped off of and ate my food, my belief in the man I'd sat next to waning with every passing moment. I had all but given up on trusting that he would come back, when a familiar, catcher's mitt-like hand tapped me on the shoulder. Bruce had come back. Smiling brightly, he reached for his wallet.

"Miss me?" he grinned, unfolding the old leather fishing a few bills out. Folding them in half, he handed them to me. "Don't spend it all on yourself, okay?" pleaded, sincerity in his voice.

"Okay, I won't," I said, smiling back at him. "Thanks, Bruce."

"No problem kiddo," he winked, and turned around, once again disappearing into the crowd.

I didn't check to see how much money he had given me until I was sure he wasn't looking at me, but when I did, I almost fell over. He'd handed me ten twenty-dollar bills, wrapped up with a small note written on a torn-off piece of paper. It read "Thanks for the conversation + weed."

And that's all it needed to say.