Wedding day, part two - The reception

I stood near the bottom of the staircase and watched Tess walk slowly across the lawn. The bridesmaids had taken a side route on the way in, staying on the pathway, but she was forced to teeter down a row of uneven stepping stones in heels she was unaccustomed to wearing. The result was an awkward, painfully long procession and the music had ended by the time she finished her struggle up the stairs.

When she was finally situated the bridal party turned to face the couple, as previously directed. Unfortunately for me, turning to the side gave everyone in attendance a generous view of my left breast. I could see mom staring and I knew she thought the display of cleavage was my way of rebelling against an event I didn’t want to participate in or an attempt to make the hideous dress work in some way. But it wasn’t.

When I’d picked up the dress the top was already straining so I took it to a seamstress to reinforce it, to avoid any possible mishaps. But as soon as we started walking around the grounds taking pictures, the threads began to pop, stitch by stitch, until it was even more gaped open than when I bought it. Everyone in the wedding was, at regular intervals throughout the afternoon, overcome with laughter about my wardrobe malfunction – taking it in turns to making popping noises.

While the preacher started his spiel, I tried to inconspicuously raise my bouquet to chest height. It no doubt looked ridiculous, but it was better than the alternative – flashing my family, friends, neighbors, and the president of the American Pilipino association, who’d flown in from New York to witness the blessed event. The greenery was poking me unpleasantly and making my boobs itch, but I suffered in silence.

“If there is anyone here that can show just cause why these two should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace”, the preacher shouted threateningly. There was the tiniest pause for breath and he started to speak again, but was suddenly interrupted by loud and repetitive shrieking.

Larry the Goose, Tess’s web-footed mate, was objecting...when a lot of people wanted to, but wouldn’t. I’d always hated that goose, but I found myself feeling rather fond of him at that moment. The preacher had to wait until Larry finished honking, and everyone had stopped laughing, before continuing.

That's his bad eye. He has one that works.

When the service ended after the second longest prayer in the history of prayers (the first was at the rehearsal), Papa and Tess slowly and awkwardly descended the stairs – she was all wrapped up in her dress and he had to take one step at a time, sideways, because of his leg braces. I was told later that my father picked that moment to pipe up and say, “Well, there goes my inheritance.”

They reached the bottom and went off on their way, which was our cue to start ascending the stairs one by one, meet a groomsman on the top platform and be escorted out. I’d fought to get my cousin Ben as my partner, since the alternatives were an old family friend that irritated me and my cousin Ashley’s letch of a husband.

He winked at me as we made our way to the top and I rolled my eyes. We met, hooked arms awkwardly (since he’s a foot taller), and started down. Days later, when I was looking through pictures of the ceremony, I saw one of Ben and me walking the aisle. In it we’re looking at each other, my neck craned up, his down, and grinning like idiots at some whispered joke I can’t remember. It looked just like a picture of me with another Ben, in another wedding, ten years ago. The dress was different, the hair was certainly different and it wasn’t the same cousin – but it made me remember a moment I’d almost forgotten, and I think that was worth being in that fiasco of a wedding and almost flashing my nips to all and sundry.

Anyway, we were forced to spend another hour taking pictures on the stairs while all the guests made their way through the buffet. I was pissed because I knew there wouldn’t be a single meatball left by the time we were finished, and I let it be known.

“How much longer is this going to take”, I asked a photographer. She was shorter than me, which is rare in people over the age of 12, so I used that to my advantage and gave her my best ‘I’m leaning over you, glaring, and you will be intimidated’ pose.

“I don’t know”, she said, not at all unsettled. She and her fellow photographer seemed to find me quite amusing, despite my best attempts to be the opposite.

“All the meatballs will be gone”, I grumbled, not for the first, or even the second, time. I can be rather single minded when meat is involved.

After more laughter, someone’s child was sent to fetch me a few meatballs (I got the last three) and someone’s boyfriend to get me a beer. Then I stood by a column and waited my turn again, stuffing a whole ball in my mouth and “mmming” inappropriately.

While I was rolling my eyes and blissfully chewing, my cousin poked me in the chest and said, “Hey, what’s all that green and orange stuff on your tits?” I looked down and sure enough, there were splotches of color all over my exposed cleavage. Confused, I rubbed at a spot with my finger and it immediately came off.

“It was the flowers”, a woman passing by said, peering down my dress. “You had them stuffed in there and they bled.” Everyone laughed at my expense, again, and I just sighed, shrugged and popped in another meatball. It was a testament to how hungry I was that I let the stuffing and bleeding remark go without comment.

My family is roughly the size of a professional football team – including managers, coaches, water people, and all those other random folks standing on the sidelines – and each little family unit had to take a picture with the happy couple.

My father showed up in jeans, work boots, a black t-shirt and a button up black and orange Harley Davidson shirt with the sleeves ripped off, the frayed edges sticking out several inches. There were plenty of other people wearing jeans, but none stood out quite as much as he did. I sat uncomfortably on the steps under the crook of his left arm, hid my beer behind the bouquet and tried to smile like I meant it. But I’m pretty sure, all things considered, it could be a candidate for the awkward family photos website.

The caption would read: “Just married Grandpa poses with his wife, an ex-mail order bride from the Philippines who is no longer suspected of murdering her first husband (hooray!), his son, a man that proudly shows everyone his cell phone collection of busted old lady titties...even at funerals, his two granddaughters (anorexic on right, Boobs McGee on left), and his great granddaughter, who only moments ago wiped boogers on the back of his tuxedo.” Or something like that.

The reception was in full swing by the time we made it to the patio. I went straight to the bar, grabbed another beer and walked away from them all – around the side of a building, up the hill and to my house. The first order of business was to get out of that stupid dress.

I was gone for about half an hour, at the most. The sun had been shining all day, but as I made my way back to the party in a slightly more comfortable dress, the sky had turned grey and the wind had begun to pick up.

Joining the huge circle of people around the dance floor, I noticed that only half of them were watching the Pilipino dance crew do their thing with balance beams of some sort. The other half was staring worriedly at the steadily darkening sky.

It held out until after the first dance and what I call “the money dance”. Apparently it’s a Pilipino custom for the couple to dance and people to come up to them (males to the bride and females to the groom), pin money on their clothing and take a turn round the dance floor.

Tess’s friend took the microphone from the DJ and explained the procedure to the crowd over the playing music. The first few minutes were rather awkward as everyone, including myself, looked around at each other and balked. Our reluctant faces, turning this way and that, said it all – “Ha! Fuck that shit! I came here for the free booze.” Finally a decent number of people started participating, but I have no doubt that it was just to get Tess’s friend to stop barking loudly into the mic.

I snuck away to the smoking crowd by the boat house and hid there until the first rain drops began to fall. The band and the DJ were swiftly moved to a covered area, just before the bottom dropped out. I was bummed because it made our dancing area considerably smaller, but it only lasted long enough to drive away the majority of the old people and non-family members. The guests dwindled and that was alright by us – more beer.

And while I was drinking more beer, I got a play by play of what I’d missed before the dancing. Apparently Papa and Tess were cutting the cake, surrounded by photographers and guests of course, and the minute they shoved it in each other’s faces, his pants fell down. The long table cloth obscured the scene from those facing them, only showing Papa’s surprised cake-covered face and Tess rapidly disappearing from view. But those to the side of the table got to see a very large, very old man in his underwear...and his tiny new bride, fumbling around on the ground, attempting to jerk his pants back up. And as expected, dirty old man that he is, Papa is still quite pleased about the incident.

I returned to the house once more, as the rain was all but finished, and changed clothes again. As I squished back down the hill in my rain boots and jeans, I saw dad walking around the perimeter with a glass jar in his hand. Some idiot had given him moonshine and I thought to myself, “Well, here we go...”

As the evening wore on, the band and the DJ taking it in turns to play a mix of country and every line dance known to man...twice, dad started to make his presence more known. Though Papa finally confiscated his moonshine, some damage was already done. He spent an hour with his arm around a visibly uncomfortable Ray, telling him how glad he was to be gaining a “husband in law” and how to tell when mom is going to “flip her shit”.

Responding to the desperate look in Ray’s eyes, my sister and I attempted to distract dad and draw him away. It worked, but only when he suddenly decided to physically force me to dance with him to a slow song. Though I tried to resist, he was having none of it and I knew if I continued to refuse, he’d get angry. So to keep the peace I swayed in a circle, avoiding his drunken stomping as best I could, while everyone snickered and shot me thumbs up.

My cousin’s boyfriend was the next recipient of his unwanted attention. I was standing with the two of them in front of the garage when he zigzagged right up to us and threw an arm around her.

“Who are you”, dad demanded of her boyfriend.

He answered, holding out his hand to shake, but dad just stared at him. I knew that look so I wasn’t surprised when he slurred, “I’ll black both your fucking eyes, boy.”

The poor guy turned white as a sheet.

“Shut up, Dad. Leave him alone”, I said, glaring at him.

After a few minutes of tense conversation, dad decided that “the boy” was alright, mostly because he had horses and motorcycles and, wouldn’t you know it...so did dad! What a fucking coincidence! A connection was made. Then the band struck up a fast song and dad shouted, “It’s time for the Jimbo Shuffle! Everybody to the floor! Jimbo Shuffle!” He zigzagged back up to the crowd, violence temporarily forgotten in his excitement.

But once he’d regaled everyone with The Jimbo Shuffle (which is the only dance he does: feet together and arms bent at the elbows with closed fists, he slides a few feet to one side and then the other, pumping his arms in a circle at the same time...a lit cigarette usually firmly clenched between his lips), he approached my cousin’s boyfriend once more.

“I’ll black both your fucking eyes. Don’t think I won’t you sonofabitch.”

He’d completely forgotten their truce, probably even that they’d spoken at all, and we had to intervene once more. They then had the same conversation as before and dad tugged him down the ramp to see his motorcycle while my cousin watched in horror. Fortunately, though, she didn’t have to worry for long. Dad’s ALDD (Alcoholic deficit disorder) kicked in and he started half running back up to the band shouting, “FREEBIRD! FREEBIRD!”

You’ve heard of “My Father, The Hero”? This was “My Father, The Epitome of Southern Stereotypes”. He requests the eight minute version of Freebird every time there’s a live band. Once, when we went to dinner, he embarrassed the shit out of me by asking the lead singer of a reggae band, “This shit is ok and all, but ya’ll know any Skynyrd? Freebird!”

A little while later, I realized just how far behind the others I was on the drinking scale.

There was a random pole, that looked like a stop sign post without the sign, sticking out of the ground in one of the flower beds bordering the overhang where the band was playing. And facing that pole, dancing in front of it as if it were an audience of one, was my neighbor. An hour later, she still hadn’t stopped gyrating and so I approached one of her daughters.

“Your mom’s been over there alone, dancing with that pole for over an hour.”

She glanced over and rolled her eyes. “I know. I wish she’d go home.”

Every now and then someone else would notice, comment, chuckle and go on about their business. That’s why I was surprised when all hell suddenly broke loose.

I was dancing with Claire when Leigha came running up crying. Apparently the daughter I’d first spoken to cussed out my mom for looking at her mom – at least that’s what I was able to gather from Leigha’s dramatics. It was over before I made it off the dance floor, but I approached the daughter and asked her what the problem was. The more she spoke, the angrier I became and I finally just held up my hand, said “no” and walked away.

I stalked into the house, fuming, with Marie on my heels. I knew I was doing the right thing by walking away and not escalating the situation, but that didn’t lessen my anger. I distracted myself by cleaning up the girly mess scattered all over Papa’s bed and floor.

Maybe 10 to 15 minutes later I was relatively calm and Marie and I had finished cleaning up, ready to head back outside. That’s when Leigha came running in, crying again. The first thing I thought was, “Dad tried to black both of what’s-his-name’s eyes and now they’re dancing around trying to slice each other’s nuts off with broken beer bottles!”

“They’re fighting”, she said. “Throwing beer and screaming and...”

We ran back through the house and out the door. I placed my family members first – Ray was off to one side talking to a neighbor, Mom talking to another neighbor, and dad was swaying alone in front of the band, completely oblivious. It was clear that he wasn’t the antagonist this time and closer to passing out than punching someone out. But who was? Where was the fight?

“They left”, Leigha said, pointing up the hill at a group of people that I recognized as our (yes more) neighbors – the pole dancing woman and her two daughters et al. The story came out in bits and pieces. Supposedly Claire went up to my mother to apologize for her sister’s behavior and when she did a family friend asked her to stop using profanity in front of the kids. She popped off at him, he yelled at her, she threw a beer at his head and that’s how the, apparently, three minute brawl started.

I was never a big fan of the wedding in general, but I was appalled at the way they disrespected my Papa by fucking up his reception. Not to mention completely shocked that it hadn’t been one of my family members that started the whole thing. The party ended abruptly and we’ve never called it a night so early before.

(Because of those events (and others that have happened since) there’s now a rift between my family and theirs. I’m broken hearted about it because I’ve been friends with those girls for 11 years.)

The band and the DJ started packing up an hour or more before they were supposed to and the few people that were left stood in an uncertain circle at the edge of the patio. No one was really sure what to do.

My sister looked as exhausted as I felt and so I said, “Are you ready to go home, Lee?”

“Yeah”, she answered immediately.

We told everyone goodnight and started our short uphill walk toward home.

“You know what? I just knew that, if anyone was going to start shit, it was going to be dad. And look...it wasn’t even anyone from the family. How crazy is that?”

She looked over at me and laughed. “I was just thinking the exact same thing.”

And somewhere in the dark, left behind, likely swaying back and forth in the middle of wedding debris, we heard dad singing.

“And this bird you cannot change! Oooooooh!”

I don't think, therefore I fuck up.

I rarely mull things over before taking action. Some call it spontaneity, some call it stupidity and some, like my father, get colorful and call it “getting a wild hair up your ass”.

The phrase “you don’t think” was shouted at me more times as a kid than I can count. It covered a wide range of misdemeanors, including but not limited to the time I – threw our poodle out the window, ran into the heating and air system with the four wheeler, wrote “I hate dad” (except I used his full name) 100 times instead of the allotted punishment of “I will think before opening my mouth”, coerced the neighbor’s children into eating chewy cat treats, and snuck out of my bedroom window with the family dachshund.

In my early 20’s I did appalling, dangerous things, mostly to do with sex and/or alcohol. Now I might not go home with a man covered in tattoos, including one shaped like a postage stamp that says “TRAMP”, named George that I said five words to at the bar (I believe they were, “your dick better be huge”) anymore. But I will, apparently, still do a lot of things without thinking about the end results first. The majority of them are just little things, but they serve the purpose of showing me that, even though I’m now mostly old and lame, I’m still essentially the same irresponsible person.

For instance – I decided last week that I was going to sell jewelry, host a book party and take orders to help out a friend that’s doing it on the side. (Selling jewelry I mean, not sex. Though if she were, I wouldn’t judge. This economy is a bitch.)

First of all, I’m terrible at sales. “You’d better buy something or I’ll karate chop you in the vagina” aren’t the words of a person that does well in retail situations. And if someone chooses not to purchase something even after that eloquent, empty threat of a sales pitch, the parting words aren’t much better – “I hate your face”.

Then I suddenly decided that instead of just getting book orders, I’d have an actual party. Ostensibly this was because I would get more orders that way, but once I started moving forward with the plans I thought, “Why the fuck did I say I’d do that?” It had completely slipped my mind when I said, “I’ll have a jewelry party”, that I’d actually have to, you know, go through with it. I’d have to send out invitations, make phone calls, make food, clean the house more so than usual, and sit in a room full of old ladies.

I don’t like old ladies and I don’t like cleaning. Actually, one of the most common questions I’m asked by family and friends is, “What do you like?” Or they simply state, “You don’t like anything.” I have a reputation for being rather cranky. I digress.

I couldn’t back out because I already had two book orders and my friend really needed the show. So Monday night I sent out my “invitations” – also known as a mass text message basically saying, “please come, there will be food”. Once they show up, I figure I can manipulate them into buying some damn earrings or something. However, the people that I know are attending are such a diverse group that I’ll likely be running interference the entire time. All I need is for my boss to walk up on a conversation like this: “You know she’s always talking to her about her vagina.”

“No!”

“Yes! And she said that sometimes she doesn’t make it to the bath...Oh...hello...”

Another good example is how I ended up agreeing to sing in a Christmas program at a church I don’t attend. I was standing in a group of people, minding my own business, when a doctor that works with my mother (who also happens to be my daughter’s pediatrician and a lovely woman) asked me about my years in the high school chorus.

“Your mother told me you used to sing with Ms. G, is that right?”

“Yes”, I replied with a smile.

“Well we’re having a Christmas Cantata and we’d love to have you be a part of it! You’re a soprano right? First or second?”

Gone was the real smile and in its place the panicked fake, a cross between wild eyed hysteria and a sudden stomach pain that means its deuce time. “Erm...yeah. First...or I used to be. It’s been a long time.”

“Oh, but you never forget those competitions! They were so much fun! There are a lot of us that took Chorus in school so we just love being in choir, gives us that old feeling.”

“Uh huh....” People don’t forget! .....

“So we meet every Wednesday night at 7 and some Sunday nights...”

“Sounds like fun”, I said too loudly.

“I can’t wait to see you there! Bring your mother.”

“Ooook! I’ll be there!” Wait...what? Tourettes! Tourettes!

And that’s how my mother ended up bringing home a CD sent by the Doc for me to practice with before the first rehearsal.

That was the first week in November. I haven’t made it to one practice yet, nor have I even attempted to listen to the CD. If I would have actually taken a moment to think about my answers before croaking out some bullshit, I wouldn’t be put in the position of looking like an asshole for not turning up. Or looking like an asshole when I eventually cave, listen to the CD, stand in front of a church full of people, and squeal in a choir robe, reeking of Saturday night’s beer blitz.

However, everyone has their limit. I can’t go on being irresponsible forever, can I? And after last weekend’s incident, thinking before I act, or agree to things, may just become my new favorite pastime.

My mom and her boyfriend left to go to the mountains and I immediately said to myself, “I’m going to have a party!” Then I enlisted my friend and neighbor, Claire, to help me invite the usual crowd.

I’d forgotten a couple of key elements when I decided to throw a party at my house that Saturday night:

1. Both Carolina and Clemson were playing and both games were critical.

2. Claire is overzealous when it comes to football. This is an understatement.

3. People get drunk at parties.

4. The usual crowd is quite large. My house is not.

At 6:30 Rachel, my sister and I arrived back at the house with a handle of Jim Beam, two cases of beer, and an extra pack of cigarettes. Claire came walking in a few minutes later with her insanely hyper Weimaraner in tow, decked out in her Clemson finest, and immediately flipped the TV to football.

Things started out fine – a few more people showed up within the next hour and we were all just hanging out and drinking a few beers. We made plans to play a game of Things when more people arrived.

Then it all started to go downhill rather quickly – Claire broke out the liquor, Claire took shots of liquor, more people showed up, Claire took more shots of liquor, Rachel hid, my sister curled up on the couch with some boy I thought was a deaf/mute, Claire coerced other people into taking shots, still more people showed up, someone kept making really loud jokes about “snatch”, and I...I was close to having an anxiety attack.

Before Clemson even made it to half time, I couldn’t hear myself think it was so loud in there. Rachel had forced herself into a tiny ball in the corner of one couch, one girl was puking in the bathroom, Claire had the remote shoved down her pants so no one could flip to the Carolina game to check the score, and someone had smoked all my cigarettes.

I’d only had two beers and I made myself drink those. I was too anxious to have fun at my own party. I stood on the perimeter, observing like an outsider for quite awhile. It was surreal watching them all interact without me at the center.

It wasn’t until I saw how much of the liquor bottle Claire and those had drunk that I moved into action. One of two things was going to happen – I was going to force myself to get drunk in order to deal, or I was going to scream at them all to get the fuck out.

So I drank. I shoved my way through the tangle of them and I poured a row of shots, downing them one after the other. A guy standing next to me clapped me on the back and said, “I hear ya”.

I walked around mopping up spills, picking up trash and throwing away beer cans. I approached my cousin Dave and said, “Go. Go now and get the fire barrel.”

“Ugh, I don’t want to. I’m hanging out.”

“Go get it now or die. These people have got to clear out some.”

About an hour later the majority of them were playing cornhole under a spotlight in the driveway and standing around a fire barrel gossiping. I’d managed to exert a bit of control, but while I was doing it, I was also killing the bottle of Jim. It was preferable to killing Claire, who was the only person who couldn’t be managed. She banged on the windows when Clemson scored, she banged on the counter when the other team scored, she screamed “break his fucking neck” at the top of her lungs in five minute increments, and by the time the game was over she was stumbling around in a huff...still with the remote in the front of her pants.

Several people left and I was able to really start enjoying myself. We stood around and talked outside, I found my spare pack of cigarettes, and we played cornhole and Things. I wish I would’ve saved the slips of paper from the Things game because they were the best part of the night. Well, that and when Dave was going to give me a piggyback ride and instead of jumping up from the ground like a normal person, I ran up the stairs of the patio and launched myself at him from the top like a spider monkey – sending us both plummeting to the ground. Poor Dave.

At 3am, when the only two people left were Claire and a guy friend of hers, I was rather drunk and ready for my pajamas. Rachel played bad cop and sent them home while I crawled into bed.

I woke up at 9:30 the next morning with a marching band in my head. My very first thought was, of course, “Why the fuck did I say I’d have a party?”

The damage to the house was minimal – just a sink full of dishes, a dirty floor, a few scattered beer cans (I’d picked up the majority as they were sat down because apparently I’m OCD about that), and a bit of a mess on the patio. Rachel, my sister and I cleaned up pretty quickly.

The main damage that was done wasn’t to the house, it was to me. Though I managed to have a decent time by the end of the night, I’m pretty sure the beginning scarred me for life. I can confidently say that I will never have another party again – never. From now on, I’ll stick with having a few bottles of wine on the porch with three or four people.

And if the memory from the night before wasn’t enough to make my resolution stick, Claire made it iron clad. She came walking in when we were about finished straightening up, smiling and completely hangover free, though she’d been by far the drunkest person there. I was still a bit put out with her behavior, but nothing a day or so wouldn’t fix. After all, I’ve certainly been the obnoxious drunk before.

Then she asked, “What’s wrong with you?”

I told her about how anxious I’d been, about how the spilling and the screaming and the general mayhem had almost sent me over the edge. Without actually pointing any fingers, I tried to gently imply that she’d been the one at the helm of that shipwreck.

She nodded earnestly and leaned toward me. I stared mutely back, waiting on the apology that was my due.

Looking me straight in the eyes and laying her hand atop mine, she said, “I know, girl! I could never have a party at my house. All those people! I don’t know what you were thinking!”

The shoe and the man parade

The black and white tile floor is littered with the debris of celebration: plastic cups, napkins, beads, and even a stray high heeled shoe. There isn’t much room to move around. The crush of bodies is excessive even for this place – a sea of green revelry.

But the shoe sits in a small circle of calm, dancers move around it as if there’s an invisible force field. I stare at it, idly stirring my drink. I wonder who it belongs to and if they’ll come back for it or just leave it to be swept away with the rest of the night’s waste.

The thought makes me sad and at that moment I realize that I look a bit like that shoe – lost, out of place. I’m standing near the center of a group of friends and for once, I’m not cracking jokes or running the conversation. I’m not even listening, really.

The festival has been going on all day. I might very well be the only half sober person in the room. Even the two people I came late with have drunk enough before hand to fit right in. I decide that I need to be on their level and I head to the bar for another drink.

Ten minutes later I finally have another Jack and coke. As I’m walking back toward my group, weaving through the maze of people, a cool hand grabs mine. I smile as I turn, thinking it’s one of my friends. It isn’t. He looks Brazilian – tan and dark, short and muscular, with a thousand watt smile. He’s mouth watering. He tugs on my hand, attempting to draw me to him. I resist, free myself, and continue pushing my way through the crowd.

Back in my original place, I can still see him. He reminds me of another man, most certainly Brazilian, that I had years ago. The sex was fantastic and I have a feeling it would be with this one too. He has the same look in his eyes – a confidence that should seem arrogant and off-putting, but somehow isn’t. Rather than kick myself for not acquiescing, I simply marvel at my self control. After all, I haven’t had sex since New Year’s. I smile to myself. I’ve become a regular girl scout.

I attempt to be sociable and I manage, but not with my usual flair. I’m hauled back to the bar for shots with my friend Claire and the small town heartthrob from a rival school that I’ve met many times over the years, yet he still has no idea who I am. He’s good looking, though dressed in the oddest manner. In the middle of gold beads, stilettos, green t-shirts, wigs and face paint, he wears a plaid button up shirt, tan sweater vest, and loafers.

More shots are passed around. Sweater vest guy tries to coerce me into dancing to every song that comes on. He’s very handsy and I suspect he may be on Ecstasy. It amuses me to turn him down, but it bothers me a bit too. I don’t exactly want to say no, but I can’t say yes either. Maybe this isn’t self control after all. Maybe it’s something entirely different.

The man parade continues with an old flame I ran into right before Christmas. The friends I’m with know him well, but they have no idea about our past indiscretions. He looks at me and I smile nervously, hoping no one notices my discomfort, most of all him. He walks over, but instead of standing in front of me, he walks around and half presses himself into me from behind. He’s over a foot taller and has to lean down to say in my ear, “I sent you text messages. You didn’t respond.”

I turn to face him, an apologetic smile on my face. “I’m sorry! I meant to, but when I got them I was busy. Then by the time I remembered, they were gone and I hadn’t saved your number.”

He looks properly unconvinced, but pulls out his phone anyway. “Should I call you now so you have my number?”

“Oh, you can just text me later. I’ll save it.”

I look up at him, trying to exude a casualness I don’t feel. In truth, I feel like I’m being pulled in different directions. On one hand - he’s attractive, he wants me, he’s free, I’m free, and seeing how much I still affect him is a rush. On the other – I feel dirty. Being around him makes me think of what we did and where we did it and who we could have hurt had we ever been caught. I wonder why I didn’t feel that way when it was happening and I can only assume that it’s because I was too young to really care. Guilt is a rare emotion for me, it was then and it is now. Now I feel guilty for the past, and for avoiding his text messages and not having the balls to say, “I’m sorry, I can’t”, when confronted.

“Ok”, he says, pocketing his phone again. He must sense my reluctance to be near him so he hugs me, says goodbye, and moves across the dance floor to another group. I catch him staring at me often.

When he leaves a little over an hour later, he comes to say goodbye again. I’m pretty drunk, surrounded by three men in a semi circle while I regale them with nonsense. He stands on the edge and holds out his arm hesitantly, like he wants to touch me but he’s not sure if I’ll allow it.

“We’re leaving”, he says.

“Ok!” I smile and throw my hand up in a half wave. “See you later!”

“Yeah, later”, he replies, dropping his arm and backing away.

Without him there to remind me, the guilt disappears. I'm relaxed again. I even dance a little bit. It is my cousin’s birthday after all.

She’s dancing too, grabbing my hands and twirling us around. Claire slaps my ass and I laugh. Someone else hands me a shot and I take it, still moving. My cousin turns around, intent on backing her ass up in my direction, knowing I have no where to go but back into a wall of green clad men. Suddenly she stops, screams, and lurches forward. She jumps, wrapping her arms and legs around someone I can’t see.

When she lets go and backs away, I’m not happy. I’m too drunk to stop the words from coming out of my mouth. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” Trey doesn’t hear me, but other people do. Her boyfriend’s expression matches mine, but at least he can keep his mouth shut.

It’s not that I mind Trey, exactly. It’s that the night has already been a bit of a drama fest without having him around too. One night stands are supposed to fade into the background and not pop up every where you go. I’ve never been lucky in that respect.

We say hello to each other and take shots. The act feels a bit like using Novocain – numb the reaction. He’s a fun guy, but he’s also an arrogant asshole. And, truth be told, not that great a lay – though I must admit the circumstances were a little difficult.

We used to work together back when I was seeing the kid’s dad. I’d known Trey for a few years though friends. I went to a few of his parties, smoked with him a few times, but that was about it.

One night a bunch of us went out drinking and ended up crashing at a friend’s apartment. Trey and I shared one of the couches – his head at one end, mine at the other. People were scattered all over the living room floor and the other couch. I don’t recall there being any flirtation between us at all.

I was almost asleep when I felt his hand on my leg. I was drunk and I knew he was drunk, so I decided to ignore it. Then, somehow, ignoring it progressed to having sex. I don’t remember all the details in between, as this was several years ago and alcohol was involved, but in the beginning we attempted to do it without changing our original positions - scooting together, legs laced.

It worked at first, but then it just wasn’t cutting it.

He dragged me off the couch and into a bedroom that was supposed to be off limits. We started going at it, but again, things just weren’t going well. By then the sun had been up for awhile and we started hearing people wake up in the living room. We stopped and I had to make the dash of shame, wrapped in a comforter, to get my clothes.

Not a great experience.

Things are awkward at first. We have nothing to say to each other and I know he’s probably thinking the same thing I am – why did I do that?

Our stilted conversation is interrupted by the blinding overhead lights. The bar is closing and everyone is being hustled out. I pay my tab and wait while my friends do the same. I watch as the room that was so packed mere moments before the shouted “closing” empties rapidly. The sea of green is gone. The black and white tile floor, previously only seen in bits and pieces, is open. Trash, mud and glass are everywhere.

My cousin joins me, linking arms, as much for stability as habit. We trip toward the stairs, her boyfriend and Trey following. I realize I left my jacket on a stool and I tell them I’ll be right back. They continue down as I hurry back, kicking plastic cups away as I walk.

Thankfully my jacket is still there. I pause to put it on and that’s when I see it – the lone, black, high heeled shoe. It’s turned on its side, surrounded by bits of broken glass. I can’t leave it there.

I pick it up and take it to the bar. “Someone lost this”, I say. I hand it to the girl. “In case they come back looking for it.”

She looks it over. “That happens all the time. She’ll be back for this one, it’s expensive”, she says, sticking it under the counter.

I turn and walk away. “I don’t believe she will.”

Turns out I HAVE been kidnapped. By aliens.

Friday night I went out with friends and got a bit wasted. Well, if “a bit” counts as stumbling around and playing grab ass with other women.

At the second bar I ran into a guy I used to know in high school. Well, I was in high school at the time...he wasn’t.

He worked at the same place I did and had a pregnant girlfriend who also worked with us. Being 16, that didn’t matter a bit to me and we ended up starting a quiet affair. And by quiet, I mean quiet. Only one person ever knew about it and she wouldn’t have opened her mouth if you paid her. Mutual dirt, see. She was a much bigger whore than I was.

On our breaks we would sneak around the side of the building and make out. He even once talked me into a blow job, right out in the open. I later found out that there were cameras in that area. If anyone saw anything they never breathed a word, thank gawd. I’m sure they would have had a good laugh though. I wasn’t nearly as talented back then. Maybe there was a bit of arm flailing and awkward head bobbing.

We never actually had sex, but we came pretty close a few times. He would sit close to me at work and just stare at me, big brown eyes saying, “I’d like to dip you in cheese and spread you on a cracker”. Occasionally he would lick his lips. It was all quite ridiculous.

Sometimes he’d have to call me from a phone booth and he would stand there for an hour, just to “hear my voice”.

I don’t remember what our conversations were about, but there was a song called Dilemma by Nelly and Kelly Rowland and he would play it on the phone and sing it to me. It was “our song”. Years later, every single time I hear that song it reminds me of him. Not in an “I wish I could go back and do it again” way. More like a “that was interesting but I feel kind of shitty for doing it” way.

So when I walked into the bar Friday night and saw him standing there, looking five times hotter than he used to, I was thrown for a loop. Being drunk helped a bit too.

He walked right up to me with a big grin on his face and said, “You don’t remember me do you?”

“Oh, yeah...I remember you”, I replied.

This was followed by a few nicey nice, what’s been going on questions. He mentioned his kid and I said, “So are you and what’s-her-name still together?”

“No”, he said smiling. “What about you? Are you single?”

“Terminally.”

He laughed and said, “You know, every time I hear that song...I think about you. For the first couple of years I looked for you everywhere: around town, Myspace, Facebook...”

“I don’t have a Facebook...”

“I know, but you do have a Myspace...”

“Never use it.”

“Used to.”

“Yep.”

“You’re still beautiful.”

Thinking: “Ooooooh shit.” Joking, I actually said, “You haven’t been pining away for me all these years, have you?”

He leaned closer and said, very serious like, “Yes, I have.”

At a rare loss, all I did was blush, smile, and fiddle with my drink.

He asked for my number and I gave it to him before my friends dragged me out the door.

He’s already texted me four or five times since then, but I’ve yet to respond.

I know you’re thinking, “Why the fuck not!”

There are several reasons:

- His baby mama is badass crazy. That’s drama I don’t need.

- He’s hot. Really hot. But I don’t feel any overwhelming sexual chemistry.

- At this point I’d just be using him for sex and my ego.

- It could never be anything but another fling.

I know. I’ve finally gone off the fucking deep end. Turning down sex that’s bound to be great (he’s storing a miracle grown cucumber in his shorts). Turning down ego stroking. Worrying about using a man. Ugh!

Who the fuck is this person and what has she done with me? Just what does she think she’s holding out for? And when is she planning on getting laid again, damn it?

In other news:

I’ve seen the bum one more time walking down the same road, but no one has seen him since. The motion lights have been repaired and the metal baseball bat is a permanent fixture.

As a matter of fact, I was on my way home the other night and I came to a license check. When the cop pointed his flashlight around the car, he noticed the metal bat riding in the passenger seat.

“What’s with the bat?”

“It’s for protection.”

“Against what?”

“Sexual deviants, bums, and the occasional rowdy house guest.”

“Cute. Are you concealing any firearms in the vehicle?”

“I’m not allowed to have firearms, but there are two Nerf guns in the trunk, if that’s relevant.”

Clearly irritated, “It’s not. Have a good evening.” He handed me my license back and waved me on through. I waved to the rest of them as I passed. Most of them have seen me half naked. Might as well give um’ hell when I get an opportunity.

In other, other news:

I’m feeling a little uninspired lately on the blogging front. Feel free (that means do it now) to help me out any way you see fit.

The Champion

It took me five days to get over that fucking flu. Five miserable, snotty, head aching days. And I know that sweaty bastard has to be the one that gave it to me. HAS to be.

So, before I disappeared last week to smother myself with tissues I’d planned on writing about the aforementioned sweaty bastard that most likely gave me the flu. I was a little hesitant about it. At first I though, “Wow…this probably makes me look like a big slut.” So I put it off.

Now that I’ve had plenty of time to think about it, “Who gives a rat’s ass. I have nothing else to write about…and it’s nothing if not, um, entertaining.” I comfort myself with the fact that I’m not really a slut. There are men out there ten times worse than I’ve ever had time to be. Screw the double standard that will likely never die.

That night I went out with my cousin and his fiancé and another girlfriend of mine. We went to dinner and then to a bar in the small downtown district. I’d usually rather sit home and stare at a wall before I’d go to a bar in my town, especially this particular one. I avoid it like the plague. It’s like a high school reunion every time. Ugh. However, my cousin doesn’t like the city night life like I do and he was paying for all of our drinks so I said, “Why the fuck not?”

It actually wasn’t bad. They had a sort of early St. Patty’s thing going. We went upstairs where it was less crowded to play a couple games of pool. Of course I ran into the usual small town school folks that never leave, (I’m still desperately trying NOT to be one of them.) but it wasn’t so bad.

A guy that my cousin knew well was playing at the table next to ours. He graduated a few years before I did, but I knew him from parties, rumors, and the usual small town run-in. He’d recently gotten back from Iraq, which surprised me. He’d been pretty big into drugs last I heard.

Anyway, he came and said hi to everyone and I could tell he was pretty wasted (but probably only slightly more than I was). When he got to me he shouted, “HEEEEYYYY! JIMMY’S DAUGHTER! WHAT’S UP?”

Yet another reason I avoid small town bars. There’s always one…always…that fucking calls me “Jimmy’s daughter”. I cannot stress just how much I hate being referred to as JIMMY’S GODDAMNED DAUGHTER. As if having the man show up to nearly every party for my entire high school career wasn’t enough embarrassment to last a life time. Not to watch out for me, never that. He was either already there and drunk, passing out god knows what, when I arrived or showed up later. Everyone thought he was fantastic of course. No one else’s dad partied as hard or gave out as many free illegal substances as old Jimbo. He’s a legend. It’s been years and he’s still causing me embarrassment merely by name association. Sometimes when they talk about how cool he was I want to tell them, “Yeah, he’s the coolest! I think it’s great that all of you got to snort my college fund up your noses!” I digress.

I sneered at him. “That’s not my fucking name.”

“I know your name, geeze, Ally...chill.”

We all went back to our games. My cousin started buying shots. About an hour and a half later (I’m estimating), I was lit like a Christmas tree. Everything was lovely! The originally offending party was especially lovely with his military muscles and tattoos. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to sleep with him or not. He’d approached my cousin and expressed an interest I was already plainly aware of, even in my drunken state.

The deciding factor that tipped the scales in his favor? He said, “You know, your dad and I were at (somewhere) once (back when I was still in school) talking and he opened up his wallet for something. I saw your picture and I said, ‘I didn’t know she was your daughter. Nice!’, and he said, ‘Stay away from my daughter’. He scared the shit out of me. He doesn’t live here anymore, right?”

I laughed so hard I spit my drink out, barely missing some poor player.

“No, he doesn’t. We’re leaving soon. Are you coming with me?”

That was all she wrote. He left before we did and I made plans to meet him where I’d left my car. HA Jimmy!

Skipping over the majority of the in transit details, I met the other guy and he rode with me to my cousin’s house. During the drive, we were both more sober and had a pretty decent conversation. Nothing to write home about, but he was a little more intelligent than I’d originally thought. We hung out with my cousin and his fiancé for awhile before they went to bed. I took him to the guest room.

I really didn’t want to complain about another sex partner. I didn’t want it to seem like I’m this really hard to satisfy bitch, because I’m not. I just have really, really bad luck. Evidently. So here it goes.

Before I could do anything he had my arms pinned to my sides and was trying to swallow my entire face. I ended up jerking my head side to side so much I’m surprised I didn’t end up with whiplash.

The sex itself wasn’t so bad...at first. Then the sweating started.

Sweat is normal. I understand that, especially given the acrobatics he was pulling out. But his sweating was not normal at all. He started to get slick. I started to get slick. It was fine as long as I stayed on top, but he kept throwing me around all over the place. It started to drip off his forehead and nose and when he pulled me back under him, it started soaking my hair. I was gritting my teeth and trying to decide if it was funny or disgusting when a giant drop fell directly into my eye. INTO MY EYE.

I froze and opened my mouth to say, I’m not exactly sure, but that wasn’t a good idea. I sputtered and coughed and made him get out and go get a towel.

He was apologetic and wiped my face and his. Against my better judgment, activities commenced. That’s when it got weird.

I love talking shit. Love it. It can be quite sexy. Unfortunately, what came out of his mouth was not. I didn’t initiate the talking. He asked me once if I liked it rough. I said yes and he took that as an OK to turn into the Shump Daddy. (Taken from his last name…how clever.)

He started pulling my hair. Ok. Great. Good. Fine.

“…you like that baby?”

“…uh huh…”

(This is gonna get graphic…)

“Whose pussy is it?”

“What?”

“WHOSE PUSSY IS IT?!”

“Um…yours?”

“THAT’S RIGHT! Say its Shump Daddy’s pussy!”

“What!?”

He yanked hard on my hair.

“SAY IT’S SHUMP DADDY’S PUSSY!”

I started convulsing on top of him…with laughter. I was biting my lip so hard, but little noises kept coming out, which he took as pleasure.

“SAY IT!”

I choked it out as best as I could, trying to keep from laughing out loud completely which made me shake harder, which made him think I was about to have a melt down.

“DON’T STOP! RIDE IT LIKE A CHAMPION! YOU’RE A FUCKING CHAMPION! A FUCKING CHAMP! CHAMP!”

I lost it. I stopped and doubled up laughing, out loud this time.

“What’s so funny!?”

I couldn’t stop laughing. He was perturbed. He grabbed my hair in one hand and my throat in the other, not really putting any pressure on it, but the intent was clear. I gasped when he pulled my head back. Which meant game on again, I guess.

He got so excited that he flipped me under him again and, pardon my rough and descriptive phrasing, pounded me so hard if I’d been a nail, he’d have hammered me through a whole stack of boards. You know how guys sometimes do that REALLY fast, vibrating, jack hammer thing? Yeah, it was like that. I grabbed a pillow and pressed it over my face, as much to muffle the laughter as to stop my head from jolting off my neck.

That’s probably the worst of it. It turned out to be about a two hour ordeal. I finally had to fake the most dramatic orgasm I’ve ever faked in my life. And I really, truly hate to do that because then they think they’re great and make other women’s lives miserable. But he was crazy. I didn’t really have a choice.

While he went outside to smoke I started cleaning up the room. The sheets were completely soaked with sweat. I mean SOAKED. They could have just come out of a washing machine they were so wet. I took everything to the laundry room and threw it in the washer. Then I went to the bathroom.

I looked like maniac. My hair was wet and matted, mascara all over my face, bruises starting to show up all over. I combed my hair out with my fingers and put it in a ponytail and prepared to get rid of the Shump Daddy.

Thankfully he went kind of quietly. With a parting, “I really pounded you good, huh?”

I couldn’t answer without having hysterics, so I just nodded.

I went directly home (it was 6am by now) and got in the shower.

The guy had to have been on something other than alcohol. I’m guessing cocaine. Of course I had to tell my cousin and his fiancé about it. They thought it was absolutely hilarious and have been calling me ‘The Champion’ ever since.

Lovely.

It’s that asshole’s fault I got the flu. I know it.

Ah well. Another notch, another laugh and I got 2 ½ days plus the weekend off from work. Still, I’ll be avoiding that bar and the Shump Daddy indefinitely.