We have a guest post from "Fillmore" today. Happy Dating!
She came into my place of employment wearing one of those Victorian corsets with leather and purple, frilly bullshit and stainless steel buckles; you know, for people to wear to the premiere of the next Twilight movie. Three quarters of her extremely ample, milky sweet breasts came bursting out the top of her outfit like steam escaping from a cartoon wolf's ears. Also, I think she was wearing a torn ballerina's tutu, which was sexy and cheesy at the exact same time. I call it Chexy. After having just had my heart used as an ashtray\enema bag I became Emotionally Unavailable Guy, which is exactly who sidled up to little miss clit piercing. I used the single greatest pickup line possible when working in retail:
“Can I…show you something?”
She said something stupider than me by saying, “I don’t know, can you?”
She was eye touching me in my bathing suit area so I went for it.
4 hours later I was off of work and she was knocking on my front door wearing a super tight t-shirt with a picture of John Stamos on it. Every time I stared at those amazing boobies there was Uncle Jesse, judging me. She was at my house for sex. 4 seconds after closing the door she grabbed me by my left nipple (my favorite one. The other one just…pisses me off) and led me to my bedroom. 10 seconds after that she was naked and I was giggling under my breath, for fear that my desperation would show through my mask of casual indifference. That’s when she slapped me in the throat.
“Did that hurt, little girl?” She growled.
Thwack. Again. Right in the Adams apple.
“Okay, that really…”
“Shut your face-hole, faggot and tie me to the chair.”
Simply to spare my poor vocal cords further torment, I obliged. I grabbed my desk chair and a couple of ties from my closet and trussed her up like she was in the bed of a pickup and I was going on a road trip. A road trip to Creepytown.
Once I tightened the straps she looked me in the face with big, wide, innocent eyes.
“Now I need you to hit me as hard as you can.”
I laughed. She stared.
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Please master? I’ll be good to you if you do.” She purred, all sex kitteny.
“Now, by ‘good to me’ you mean…” I asked, fishing.
“Anything you want, master. Just make me hurt and I’ll wrap my body over every square inch of you.”
After a solid 3 or 4 seconds of thinking I said “Okay, I’ll do it, but does it have to be in the face? Can’t I punch you in the tit or something? Oooh, how about the kidneys? I’ll give you a hard shot to the kidneys.”
After haggling like I was buying a bracelet on a beach in Mexico we agreed upon an open handed slap across the left side of her face. And then I did it. Left a red palm print on her cheek and everything. 15 minutes later, after I had stopped crying, I untied her and she left without wrapping a goddamned thing around me. But that was okay. I wasn’t in the mood anymore anyway. I just wanted to call my mom and have her tell me everything was going to be alright while I fell asleep with my thumb somewhere near my mouth.
Anyway, I realized then that I had no choice. I was Sensitive Guy. I will always cry at episodes of The Office. Whatever, I’m fine with that. I like watching Dancing with the Stars and I’m not ashamed of that. Much.
Plus, if it wasn’t for my little trip to Creepytown I never would’ve met that Gothic Princess, who I married 2 years later. That’s right, I married the shit out of her. How’s that for a third act twist? I’d tell you that story, but you might think it’s weird. Maybe some other time.