Sunday, May 31, 2009
The journalist and the Polaroid fiend
And just like that, I had a one-night stand with a stranger. He was a former employee at the coffee shop I like to patronize. We chatted, he invited me back to his place, we watched Brazil (1985), the next thing you know, I was on him like white on rice.
His pants came off, then my dress, and for a skinny kid, I couldn't believe how big his ...
The next morning, we smoked some pot and he looked so precious with that, "Look ma, I found a girl!" smile, but I had to tell him I didn't see this going anywhere. It's amazing how well the harsh light of day defogs the mind. I said I just landed my dream job and didn't know if I could give him the proper attention he deserved. He looked really bummed. Better to nip it at the bud, I sighed.
He insisted that we stay in touch. I agreed on the condition that the friendship stays platonic with no suggestion of an ulterior motive. (My assessment: Not likely.)
I'm kind of kicking myself because he is so thoughtful and romantic, but what bad timing. Except if I had to be completely honest, I simply didn't feel sparks, the kind vital to overriding rationality. Coupled with distance and a full-time schedule, it just wasn't the sort of relationship two people could fall into comfortably. Besides, I knew these issues had to be addressed once I realized even his massive cock couldn't compensate and quiet my concerns.
Here's the kicker:
I later learn through Facebook that he's friends with the boy I was fucking last October and the boy's roommate, both of whom are acquainted with me. What kind of a hick town is this that a girl can't pass around her pussy without the risk of discovery?
Note to self: Must stop throwing myself at sensitive young artists.