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.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.
Signed, girl who whistled at you earlier
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.