It started as a one night stand and now I’m married. The chronology is
still a bit blurry. But, let’s get a few details straight- I love him.
I don’t regret marrying him and I don’t resent him for getting me to
this place. But, nonetheless, I’m really not the marrying type and
neither is he.
Like I said previously, we started out in that awkward margin. I met
him at the local dive bar; he was working behind it and I was drunk
because of him (and not in the romantic sense). The night was fuzzy…
But it was something about his hands. He definitely was never my type
and still isn’t. He wore camo shorts and a nasty, ill-fitting
Clockwork Orange t-shirt. My friends called him dirty so I went home
with him, mainly because the sex was bound to be epic- it always is
with the unkempt ones. And it was good for a drunken romp. I figured
I’d never speak to him again and so I pulled out all of the stops
(isn’t that breaking the first sexual encounter rule?). I got on top,
I tugged on his balls, and I even let him finish in my mouth. I felt
dirty just being in his bare room, fucking on his futon with a
fluorescent bulb making me look even more haggard than I felt and
Sonic Youth playing in the background. And that was exciting. Or maybe
After it was over, I awkwardly climbed off of the futon, threw on my
clothes, said “thanks for, uh, that…”, and started to leave.
“Wait. Shouldn’t I get your phone number or something?”
I turned around and gave him my best attempt at a smirk. I felt as if
all of the Jameson I had consumed earlier that night was suddenly
turning on me in the most vicious way and I had to get out of there.
“That was fun and all, but I don’t date people who I fuck for fun.” It
had sounded better in my head. My tongue felt like it was expanding
and the room was twirling in that maniacal sort of manner.
I expected him to look hurt but, instead, he laughed. And it was genuine. Shit.
“Sure, I get it. Ok, well, come into the bar sometime. I’ll buy you a drink.”
And that was it. I puked all over his stained carpet (proof that I may
not have been the only one) and then left without offering to clean up
my mess. It wasn’t the nonchalant, sexy exit that I had pictured in my
head, by any means.
Anyway, I suppose you could say that the rest is history. His hands
brought me back into his bar. The Jameson got me back onto his futon.
And his genuine laugh got me down the aisle. It’s gross, I know. At
least I still hate that fucking Clockwork Orange t-shirt.
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