And the grave-digger puts on the forceps
The stone mason does all the work
The barber can give you a haircut
The carpenter can take you out to lunch
Yesterday, after I studied all day, had a test, and had almost no sleep, I managed to drag my ass back to my house with one thought on my mind: sleep. Even if Jensen Ackles had been waiting in bed for me, I probably wouldn't have been able to sex him sufficiently. I might've managed a comotose b.j. I mean, shit, it's Jensen Fucking Ackles. (And on a sidenote: the way he gets out of that car sets my panties on fire. And since I've watched that video lots of times, there is a shortage of underpants at the casa de sal)
I was so tired, the thought of my bed was almost pornographic. I pictured it slowly revealing its soft, cream colored sheets. The bed sighing softly as I slipped into it. I'm weird like that.
Anyway, I walked up to my front door, and on the storm door, there was a note clipped there with a little clippy thing. On notebook paper, no less.
Seeing a note on my door wasn't a good thing. I didn't want to look at it. I didn't want to open it, and I thought about just crumpling it up and throwing it away.
Of course I didn't.
I read it, and at first I laughed so hard I couldn't breathe.
The note was from Brooks. I think I've mentioned him before, but I'll recap, because I really don't give shit one about my previous posts. Or finding said post.
Brooks was a guy who happened into my life, was a college boy, and decent. He had dark hair, blue eyes (my usual victim), and I didn't hate him.
We hung out, watched Chappelle Show, drank beer, and introduced our no-no parts.
The first time we had sex, it lasted about eight seconds. Now, I know that the first time with just about anyone is never great, exactly. It's like a trial run.
I didn't comment on it, but he felt he had to.
"Damn. Eight seconds," he kind of laughed, (testing the waters, really). I said the first thing that I thought of. "Well, if that was a bull ride, you would've gone the distance, tiger."
We both laughed about that, and after that, he lived up to the challenge quite well.
For the rest of that summer, we had a regular thing going. Usually I'd go over on a Friday night, we'd stay up all night having sex like we invented the shit, then as soon as the sun started coming up, I'd go home to get some sleep.
After sexy times were over, sometimes he wanted to talk. And if there's one thing I stood by, it was "less talk, more fucky".
There were a few things that stood out about this one, things I made sure to tell some of my best friends (names were omitted to protect the guilty).
First, everytime he came, he made sure to let me know. Not a big deal, right? In fact, some people would be extremely thankful for this.
It was the way he told me that make me want to die laughing every single time.
His way of announcing it was to say in a dramatic tone of voice "Here it comes..."
The way he made it sound, it would've been accompanied by this video:
And fireworks. The kind that spelled out "HERE IT COMES" over the bed. Maybe a parade, and a marching band too, just to be safe.
Part of me wanted to laugh hysterically, and part of me wanted to put my hand over his mouth at the crucial moment to keep him from saying those words. And a third, twisted part of me looked forward to it every time.
Here it comes.
The other thing about good old Brooks was that he was probably the least aggressive man I've ever met. I mean, we'd be making out, I'd practically tear my clothes off (and his too), and then just about everytime we had sex, I was on top.
I don't mind being on top, but he was kind of like a girl that just lays there and takes it. Like a blow up doll. Only, he was a guy.
I think he was just submissive. And of course, I tend to be dominant. That was fun for awhile.
Sometimes, though, it made me feel like I was the guy from Sleeping With the Enemy, pounding away at Julia Roberts while never noticing the disinterested look in her eyes...
Sometimes I felt like I should make him cook me dinner, then while he slaved over making me mac&cheese, I tell him how fat his ass was getting, or how he was letting himself go.
Then, I'd make him go down on me while I watched football, and drank a beer. And instead of 'domestic violence', we would call it 'home correction'.
Jesus, I'm a dick.
I thought about all that when I read his nice little note clipped to my door.
I thought about that, and I laughed.
I sent him a text message later in the day, and he returned with something along the lines of "I'd like to see you. Things haven't been going great, and seeing you would make my day."
And I actually considered seeing him. And by seeing him, I mean putting enough miles on his weiner that he would earn a salvaged title.