Like Paper Cuts to the Face, These Are the Days of Our Lives

2/15/07


With St. Valentine's Day now safely behind us for yet another year, maybe I'll at least get a reprieve from the barrage of news stories and personal anecdotes of romance, marriage, loneliness and the ever-engaging conversation of whether "love at first sight" exists. No. Stop asking. What's worse than hearing a news report on how couples knew the other was "their soul mate," and even worse than being a single person on Valentine's Day, is having to listen to some maudlin douche-bag complain about how they'll never find anyone for them, how all (men/women) are the same, how they just have so much love to give, ad infinitum. If you're one of these people just shut the hell up and get drunk alone in your apartment with your tears like a decent human being. That's what I used to do and I got along just fine.


The way I see it this holiday means one of three things to people:

1. The obligation to either purchase exorbitantly-priced plant sex organs for her or to go kitty-up one more day besides his birthday for him.
2. An opportunity to pass out huge piles of those disgusting, chalky "message hearts" to your coworkers.
3. A deep, abysmal sadness which only the sweet release of death can quell.

In the spirit of that last, I thought I'd bring you a story of my most embarrassing and idiotic romantic overture on record. Seriously, this story paints me in such a pathetically sickening light I wouldn't be surprised if The Council of Men just went ahead and revoked my testicle privileges. Enjoy.

I was a staggering 20 years old when I lost the old virginity. Not cool at all, is it? By that late date in life I had this little man inside my head (or penis) screaming at me to - Lose it! Just lose it! Look, that chick isn't so bad; she'd probably appreciate the lay, what with that club foot and scabby neck! Doitdoitdoitdoit! AGHHGHHGHHH! So perhaps it's understandable that I was a little blinded and unnaturally attached to the first woman goodly enough to part her legs for me.

We'll call her Tina. Tina started working at the country club where I was employed and right away I was attracted to her. She was a little white trash, sure, and she kinda stuck out her boobs and butt whenever she walked, as if she was being pulled along by a rope tied around her waist, but all in all not too shabby. She was older, 26 I think, in keeping with my odd propensity for longing after older women.

As it turns out, some women find the idea of deflowering a virgin strangely appealing. Not terribly normal women, to be sure. I mean, what logical reason could a chick have for wanting some inexperienced, eagerly flopping lunatic on top of her for several minutes? But for some women it's a power thing, I suppose. Tina was one of those women. After about 3 months of boner-inducing flirtation, I finally managed to get Tina between the old sheets. (And if you've ever had cause to speak to my current girlfriend, you know just how old and…used said sheets probably were.)

I still don't know how it happened, exactly, but the important thing was I had plunged my purple-headed warrior into the fertile crescent! All I can say is that it was totally a pity-lay. As we were making out prior to bumping uglies, I remember her asking me, in reference to my virginity, if I would "like the nightmare to be over." So yeah, no conquest issues on her end by any means. But pity or flag-planting, I didn't care which had just gotten me the poon.


Tina and I did it twice in as many nights and then we just…sort of…stopped. Well, to be fair, she stopped and I was left sort of following her around like a puppy begging for people food. I suppose she just decided that she'd done her civic duty and I was becoming a little too attached for the good of either of us. Which would have been fine, had she explained that to me. It would have saved me about a month of odd, adolescent overtures in an attempt to woo her back into my carnal bedclothes. But no, she felt it best to just sort of let the whole thing painfully peter out over the weeks like a small, dying rat that got into some antifreeze. But then…oh boy, then I got the most brilliant idea ever! Flowers and notes and fantastically undignified behavior hadn't worked, maybe it was time to just remove my pride altogether. It was coming up on her birthday, and I decided, "hey, this broad hasn't shown interest one in you since the 2-shot bang-fest, why don't we purchase something that could simultaneously buckle our knees financially and point out just what a weird little needy jackass we are?" Sigh. My older self often wishes it could kick my younger self's ass.

So, of course, I rented a room at a Bed n' Breakfast. 'Cause nothing says "well adjusted" like some dude showing up at your door at nine o'clock at night, asking you if you'd like to "come with me, I have a surprise for you." That's something serial killers say. True, she hadn't officially told me we were no longer in a romantic way, but a retarded lungfish should have figured this out by now. When I couldn't get Tina, after about an hour of prodding, to come with me, I finally just chucked the last of my ego into the garbage and told her that I had rented the B and B room (The Hunt Suite, inside The Mansion at Elfindale) for us, as a present for her. After her aghast expression subsided, I believe her words were, "so…what, Ryan, you thought we'd just go there and have sex?" Needless to say that did not happen.

I went back to the room and collected the various "romance-inducing" paraphernalia I'd scattered about the room: Champagne, tequila (what the fuck is that about?) flowers, body oils and the like, probably something to eat, I can no longer remember, and the TV/VCR I had brought because this curiosity of lodging didn't have one in the room. I slunk out of the B and B like a cat burglar and went home, where I announced promptly upon entering that I didn't want to hear a word, not a syllable, of question as to why my no-miss plan had caught fire, plunged to earth, and exploded upon impact with a pig-shit reservoir. Then I got drunk.

But you know what I did not do? I didn't annoy friends and coworkers with the story of how sad and alone I was. So there you go, dear readers; a disturbing look at the early romantically cluster-fuck that was Ryan.