First Impressions

I’m not paying attention to the way you speak, dress, or walk until I make an educated guess of two things: could I kick your ass in a fist fight and how well can you perform in the bedroom.

I’ve often wondered if I’m the only person whose mind works in this fashion. Do I have a stronger link to our ape-like ancestors? Shit, I hope not. That would imply I’m an idiot… And have a jutting brow with crazy amounts of body hair (I lack both and would allow embarrassingly close inspections to defend my honor). I’d like to think that I’m just naturally ready to survive a shit storm. I’m cocked, locked, and ready to rock. Wanna throw down? I’ll feed you your own teeth, bastard! As for the fucking bit… I guess that has to do with my subconscious need to pass on genes with an alpha male. Or I’m just a pervert. I often find that when I’m speaking with a girlfriend about the latest man she’s bedded I think “But did he have a big dick? How is this not the first thing you bring up?” Anyway…

Working in the weight room of my gym gives me plenty of people to judge. With the exception of the twiggy fuck sticks just beginning their journeys of MAKIN’ GAINZ! most of my patrons could grind my bones into meal or sodomize me with a removable lap pull down bar. The curved one that’s ergonomically easy on your hands and improves grip strength. No contest here. I better stay on the porch because I can’t run with the big dogs.

Imagining sex is the tricky part. As anyone who has lifted with a bunch of jocks knows, people make crazy grunts, groans, moans, or (my personal favorite) screams. Yeah, I imagine these guys making those sounds while they’re pumping away on top of their significant others. And it makes me laugh my ass off. There’s a guy who hisses when he does deadlifts. I have to busy myself with re-racking weights or piss myself with laughter. I mean, can you imagine? “Babe, I’m coming!” hiss hiss hiss hissssss

The lady patrons. All of them are tops and will punch you in the nose if you hold eye contact for too long during coitus. There’s one girl who works out with about six dudes. I bet she fancies bukake. And could suck the chrome off any dude’s pipe. My inner Cro Magnon says I should be jealous of her sexual prowess. HAHAHAHA!!! …okay maybe I’m a little threatened, but I’m not ready to up my game THAT much. Thank god I have personality.

It’s the little things

Seamus. Seamus O’Hare. How I loved you. That’s a lie. I still love you. If I made a list of the people who’d weep when I die, you’d be on it.

The first man to say he loves me.

That’s a big one, but I remember all the little things too. They’re somehow just as important as the I love you’s.

Your heater broke and we had to sit by the stove to keep warm. We moved your mattress next to the hot metal. You held me close because I was afraid of rolling into the flames while we slept. My protector.

We painted your landlord’s apartment while he was away. He said he’d pay you. You said you’d split it with me. You paid me in the form of pizza slices and kisses. A better bargain.

You never kissed me in public. You only placed your forehead on mine. It was enough.

My hand belonged in yours. Always. When I came back from university and you had a pretty girlfriend in tow, you squeezed my hand, my fingers lost in your grip. A little thing she didn’t notice.

When she left for home, you put your lips to hers. It looked so strange to see you kissing in the street. A pang of… hurt? Jealousy? She turned a corner, and you put your forehead to mine. This is ours.

He didn’t say he loved me again. But I suppose he didn’t have to.

Kitty Kat

When I was a little kid I lived in Hawaii and had a stray cat I fed called “Kitty” (I was not a very clever second grader). I would put Kitty in my backpack or under my shirt to sneak him into my room on the second floor. When I heard someone stomping up the stairs, I would scramble to open the rusted window and Kitty would jump down to the fence/trees. It’s a miracle I never got tetanus.

This was probably the biggest secret of my childhood, and I still don’t know how my parents never noticed me walking through the living room with a cat under my shirt.

Darts, the Ladies’ Man, and the Murderer

I remember I threw a dart in my brother’s leg once. I don’t think he remembers because he was pretty hammered. If he reads this story he’ll finally know how he got that circular scar on his thigh.

I’m sure I was doing straight tequila and Long Island Iced Teas that night because Dennis is an asshole when he orders for me. Years of drinking has taught him what makes you feel like shit the next day and he’s made sure to set a glass of nastiness in front of me as a weird rite of passage. I don’t mind though; I’ve always wanted to be a high-functioning alcoholic, most writers are. Besides, he always gets me top shelf and there are worse ways to die.

As per usual, he was swamped with women, left, right, and center. He’s quite the ladies’ man. If memory serves he had taken out a girl who had just broken up with her boyfriend or some other girly sob story cliche. A shoulder to cry on becomes a dick to ride on, I suppose. She was aching for his attention (read: his cock), so naturally he didn’t give it to her and that made her want him more. The poor thing wasn’t thirsty; she was dehydrated. Now there’s something very odd that happens when a man is seen with another woman vying for his affections: the other sluts start checking out the dude. I’m not sure if it’s hyper competitiveness or curiosity that prompted them, but these broads made a bee line towards Dennis, stiff arming babies and pushing down senior citizens to the shatter of their china hip bones.

But how is someone to keep the attention of such fickle creatures like women? You tell them the story of how your kid sister passed out from hypoglycemia and pissed everywhere and how you fireman carried her to the emergency room thus saving the day. And then you point at her from across the room so everyone in the bar knows she created a miniature Yellow River in the living room of your apartment. Now on most days I’m a good sport about this kind of stuff, but he pulled this shit in our “home base” pub. Christ, our names are on the fucking bar for drinking insane quantities of alcohol! The regulars knew the pissy pants story! Couple this burning embarrassment with my undoubtedly high BAC and the darts in my hand and you have a very dangerous Jessica in your midst.

I threw one of my darts at the dart board. Triple 20s. It was a sign from whatever deity likes to pick on me. I turned towards my brother standing about 15 feet away from me in a crowded bar and flung the dart like Zeus shitting a thunderbolt because let’s be honest, I was throwing like an epileptic with Parkinson’s that night. I swear I heard the metal tip rip through his jeans and puncture flesh. “Oh fuck, I’m so fucked,” I thought.

But Dennis didn’t move. He kept smirking and getting all handsy with the woman next to him. Then it was like that one scene from Shrek “YOU HAVE AN ARROW IN YOUR BUTT!” Only it was “Ummm… You have a dart sticking out of your thigh…” My brother ripped it out like a G and said something along the lines of “What the shit? How’d that get there?” as he slammed it down onto the bar. Relief flooded my stomach; I was so happy he didn’t throw it back at me.

The resident dart god, Ron, picked up the metal cylinder and handed it to me. “I saw that.” I felt a little sheepish. I wouldn’t have felt so ashamed if I had known he was a wanted man hiding from the law in Korea. Interpol picked him up five years later for murder. I bet he offed his victims with darts.

The Best and Worst

Off the top of my head, I can remember the best and worst things that have ever been said to me:

1) Jess, don’t ever change.

2) We’re fucked but you’re making it worse.

I can laugh at the second one now that everything is said and done, but man, we were really fucked at the time. Police were involved and even worse, I had about 22 missed calls from my mom.

Honorable mention:

The most attractive man I have ever seen in person was wearing a kilt and playing darts.