My Quest To Recover A Watch I Left At A Psycho Girl’s House: Part 1

======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ==== ======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ====


With warm miniature Wahlbergs backstroking through her intestinal tract, Sarah thought this was the time for “the talk.” I simply did not, sitting on the corner of her bed about as comfortable as a potential baby daddy on Maury.

“Okay,” I said. “What kind of talk?”

She came out from under the covers revealing the sort of veiny oblong cabbages that one would think were reserved for pregnant women, or, at least, the recipient of gastric bypass surgery. She sat next to me as the feelings of instant regret hit me like an awesome wave.

“About us, I mean.”

About us? I could feel the abhorrently inappropriate responses bubbling inside me. I’d only known this woman since my roommate Max brought her to formal the previous weekend. Like the true gentleman I am, I realized quickly she was far too attractive for him (she must’ve had a pushup bra on and I didn’t know about the summer squash attached to her torso at this point) and saved him the embarrassment and hit to his confidence by swooping in. After the second Fetty Wap song, I was knuckle deep clam fishing in the coatroom. You’re welcome, buddy.

“Well, you know I definitely think you’re cool and a ton of fun to hang out with, but we just met,” I said. I was gritting my teeth, trying to restrain my natural urges.

“I feel the same way,” she said. “Like, I don’t just have sex with anyone. This isn’t normal for me, you know?” This from the girl who asked me to “slap her like a dirty little slut” the first time I introduced her to my genitals. I declined the solicited domestic violence, however.

“I totally get that, and I respect you and won’t tell anybody anything about this or what we do.” I smiled. “And I don’t know, maybe I’m weird, but I think we’re moving too fast and should hang out and talk for a while.”

“Okay,” she responded, frustrated, “but we’re a little past that at this point. You can’t just fuck me and then say oh okay let’s take it slow now.”

Is that a law or something?

“No no, of course, you know what I mean.” By now I was getting a little nervous.

“No, I don’t,” she said bluntly. “So why don’t you actually tell me if you want to be with me.” I was on the verge of an explosion.

“What I’m saying is that I think you’re great, but I hardly know you and would want to hang out more. How is that bad?”

She laid back down on bed. “Okay, then get in here with me.” She smiled. “I need a cuddle buddy too.”

Essentially a virgin to “sleeping” with girls in a literal sense, I knew this was the nightmare the older brothers had warned me about. I had either inadvertently exceeded her sexual expectations (very rare) or she was so insecure that even naked validation did not satisfy her need of self-worth.

I laid down about as reluctantly as a pledge being tasked to clean the bathroom covered in puke. My predator had already caught me. She immediately opted for the spoon position, one I don’t even enjoy when it’s accompanied by penetration. I was scrambling for a way out, in total desperation.

“Sarah,” I whispered, “I’m really not feeling well. I should probably head home.”

She abruptly awoke, disoriented as if her 4 minutes of sleep were a Rip Van Winkle inspired hibernation. “It’s okay,” she said. “Let me take care of you.” She turned toward me in a sort of face to face spoon nobody had ever even warned me about.

I panicked. “But really, I need to use the restroom and I don’t want to do that her. It would be such a bad way to end a great night. I’ll text you in the morning.”

I stood leave, but she wasn’t having it.

“Seriously, I have my own bathroom. I don’t care. If we’re going to be together, we have to be comfortable.” Like Patrick Bateman waiting for a table, I was near tears. All I want is a sandwich, some Madden, my own bed and to hopefully wake up realizing I took a point of view porn video too far, but I headed to the bathroom.

“Let me know if you need any help,” she said as I made my way for the door.

I sat there pretending to be ill, earning a new appreciate for my bulimic ex because induced throwing up is far more difficult than she ever made it look. After a few strong gags (and opening the door to increase the volume), I stumbled back to the room ready for a monologue of bullshit to unlock the key to my escape.

“I am seriously so sorry. I’m really sick. I need to get home and get some rest. I don’t want to put you through this.” I start collecting my things.

“No,” she said. “This is our first night as a couple. I’m not leaving you.”

A couple? Oh hell no. “Look, I’m sorry, you’re a sweet girl, but we’re not a couple and I am sick as fuck so I’m going to go home.”

She sat back up and was clearly furious. “Oh, so you’re faking it! You’re just going to fuck me and try to tell me you don’t owe me anything? No, sorry, I’m not that kind of girl.”

This is why you never let them finish first.

“I’m sorry,” I begged, “but I have to go.” I continued getting dressed and collecting my things. She turned her back to me.

After what seemed like 40 years of wandering, I — like my sandal wearing ancestors — could see the Promised Land. I was almost out the door. She then turned back to me and said, “You can either stay here tonight or you will never fucking hear from me again. You totally took advantage of someone who you know really likes you and you know I don’t do shit like this!”

“Shit like what?” I was befuddled.

“Randomly fuck! Sex is a huge deal to me. You know that. You know you’ve made a commitment to me and I need you to honor that.”

“You know what Sarah? You’re the one who’s full of shit, so don’t get me started.” She got in my face like I did hers earlier, but less sticky.

“Excuuuse me?” said said in that Beyoncé feminism kind of way.

“You heard me. I’m sorry and I need to go.”

“No fucker, tell me what you mean and get your ass in that bed and be the kind of boyfriend I know I deserve.”

I actually start laughing.

“Okay, listen,” I said. “I’m not your boyfriend and I’m not going to be. I’m sick of feeling bad about this. Look, if you want a guy to take you seriously, don’t let one of his pledge brothers bend you over the pong table while ten of us watch.”

She retreated a bit. “You know about Mark?”

“Everybody fucking does! We were there. I mean, Jesus Christ, don’t go to formal with my roommate and then tell me after ten minutes by the bar how badly you want to suck me off. Don’t open your legs after two drinks and an appetizer. That’s not how relationships start. You tell me how serious sex is for you and how you don’t do it, but I know you fucked essentially the entire special teams unit, even the fucking punter.”

“I dated him!” she yelled and then slapped me.

“Fuck you, the other guy I’m fucking is hotter, and way better in bed anyway.” She smirked and sits down. “So leave. I don’t care because I’ll call him. I’m telling everyone you’re terrible in bed.”

“Grea, honey! Enjoy! Christ, I’m going to have to go home and put my dick through the dishwasher. I never thought I’d say this, but I wish I didn’t lie about not having a condom.” I walked toward the door.

Liberated from her prison, I ran home with no plan to ever return, like Roman Polanski. I walked in the door to find a disgruntled Max watching Californication with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.

“Jesus, Max what a Saturday night.”

He glared at me. “Yeah, well I’m sure yours was better.”

“Actually, it wasn’t.”

“Wait, you didn’t close?” He awaited my answer giddily.

“Oh no, I did.”

“Fuck you,” he said.

Suddenly I realized I was missing something on my left wrist.

“Holy fuck.”

“What, did she swallow?” Max asked.

“No, well I mean yeah, but not that.”

“What’s wrong?”

In my haste to leave, I had left my watch on her nightstand. A solid gold Rolex Presidential passed down to me from my father when I graduated from high school.

“I left the fucking Presidential, Max. I have to go back.”

“Wait,” he said. “Can I come?”

To be continued…

Email this to a friend

Siblings of Mark Wahlberg

Sorry Mom & Dad. Follow me to prevent my suicide: @SiblingsOfTFM

34 Comments You must log in to comment, or create an account
Show Comments

Download Our App

Take TFM with you. Get

The Feed