This happened a few years ago. I met Serena on OkCupid. She was absolutely gorgeous. Our first date was nice but I’m convinced that she isn’t into me so I’m resigned to never seeing her again.
To my surprise, she wants to see me again.
Next date, I take her to this nice place and we have hors d’oeuvres and share a bottle of wine. She suggests we continue hanging out. I’m house and dog sitting for my friends and they have a pool table, so I suggest we go back there and have some more drinks and play pool.
She was a little spazzy and I was a little worried she’d had too much to drink, so I suggest we hang out awhile to sober up and she insists she’s fine and wants to go now so I have her follow me. She gets lost following me on the freeway, takes the wrong exit and we have a few phone calls and it takes her about 45 minutes to find my friend’s house.
She finally arrives. Great.
There’s good sexual tension and we’re getting along and having a great time. She suggests we go outside and smoke some pot she had brought with her. I tell her I’ll have a hit (I’m a lightweight when it comes to the stuff) but she can go right ahead.
This is where shit gets weird. I’ve never seen someone smoke themselves retarded faster or with such fervor. She just fully bakes out. Hit after hit after hit. The weird thing is that it makes her really argumentative and aggressive. She starts bashing “my place” and I have to keep reminding her that it’s my friend’s place. “These chairs are fucking ugly.” “Why is the deck shaped like this? It’s really stupid.”
Weird shit like that. I gently remind her again that it’s my friend’s place and I didn’t make the decisions.
She wants to play pool now. Oh boy. Maybe this will change the tone of things. She’s so high that she can’t hit the cue ball. She whiffs multiple times and grows increasingly agitated. I’m trying to figure out what the fuck is going on. My thoughts are racing. “Was that weed? Was it laced? Is she high on PCP or some shit? It tasted and smelled like weed. Am I going to get all crazy too? I feel fine, but she smoked a metric butt-ton of it.”
I try to bring it back to a positive place. I think it’ll be cute to try to get closer to her and help her hit the ball. Bad idea. She wants to do it herself.
“Back the fuck up! I can do it!”
Okay, this date is screwed. She hates me now. Everything has taken a turn. I’ll just be cordial and kind and let her sober up a bit and we can get her on the road.
“Let’s watch TV.” She says.
Okay. I turn the TV on for her. She starts bitching that I don’t have any of the channels she likes. Why don’t I have them? I remind her again that it’s my friend’s place. She seems really agitated. Then she’s suddenly on me like a facehugger. She’s furiously making out with me. Whichever Lovecraftian horror has possessed her obviously needs my seed to make the anti-christ. I am completely confused by everything.
She asks to see my room. I tell her that I have no room, I remind her AGAIN that this is my friend’s place. She wanders off down the hall and finds the guest room which has a futon.
“Why don’t you have a real bed?”
“Not my place. My friend’s place.”
“I think it’s really weird you don’t have a bed.”
She mentions the futon a few more times in case I missed it.
I excuse myself to use the bathroom. What I’m actually doing is staring at myself in the mirror asking what the fuck is going on. I have entered the Outer Limits. Neither the horizontal, nor the vertical, are under my control any longer. (Google it millennials) What is she on? Should I ask her to leave? She’s SO attractive but this is not going well. Maybe I should ask her for more of her weed and she and I can succumb to the darkness together, and we can burn this motherfucker down.
My dick and my brain are at war. Both mean serious business.
I exit the bathroom and return to the living room.
She’s butt naked sitting on the couch watching TV. I don’t see her clothes anywhere. She’s acting like this is perfectly normal. Unfortunately, she’s a sight to behold. Perfection in human form. Her dark hair snakes down her back (I’m pretty sure I see it move of its own volition), her pink nipples glow in the light of the TV and the electric power of the palpable crazy. She’s like some dark succubus from an evil, yet sensual dimension.
My brain is fighting the good fight, but my dick is winning. This girl just dropped the A-bomb on me.
At possibly the furthest from my finest hour ever, my brain loses. I allow myself to fully give in to her crazy embrace. I carry her writhing form as she licks my neck and ears and face as though she’s dedicated to finally knowing the timeless mystery of just how many licks it takes to get to the center of the tootsie pop, but instead the prize is my blood. Her hands are everywhere. I struggle to hold on as this many-armed Kali goddess touches every part of my body at once. Picture frames are thoroughly knocked off the wall, and we finally make it to the guest room and the despicable futon.
I go down on her and she bucks like a rodeo horse. She doesn’t want that, she explains. She wants one thing, and she wants it hard. During our sexual rendezvous she continues to complain about the house and the futon. I’m growing irritated. She says she wants me to choke her and suddenly, a thought comes to me.
Is she purposefully trying to irritate me so that I fuck her in some violent and vengeful fashion?
If so, it has the opposite effect. I stop. My mind has cleared. What the fuck am I doing? What’s going on?
“What are you doing? Don’t stop! Fuck me!”
I ask her to stop complaining about the bed. It’s out of my control. I try to reel things back in. I try to slow things down, maybe connect with this stranger I’m naked with. It’s a little too late for that. She tells me so. She asks me again why I don’t have a real bed.
Something gives. I don’t know if she’s been trying to manipulate me into hating her, if she’s on something that has removed her ability to be in control of herself, or if truly the futon is the worst thing that has ever existed.
Either way. I’m done. I can’t go on.
I stop the crazy sexual olympics we’re engaged in and I tell her that I don’t feel comfortable continuing. She’s up and off the futon in a flash, like a martial artist kipping up from a sweep. She begins to furiously get dressed.
Ah. Her clothes were in here. She took them off in here. In preparation?
She seems more lucid now than she has for the last hour. She decides she’s leaving and I walk her to the door. I’m feeling strange, I don’t know if I was manipulated, or disrespected. I don’t know what to feel. Irritated, a sarcastic quip escapes my mouth.
“Well this was so much fun. Next time maybe I can come over to your friend’s place and complain about all their stuff.”
The look on her face is pure rage.
“YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO COMPLAIN. BECAUSE THEY HAVE A BED!”
I usher her out the door. I close and quickly lock it. I feel relief. I think maybe I just avoided being eaten by the devil. She sits in her vehicle in the driveway for 30 minutes. I peek out the blinds occasionally like a nosy grandmother to see if she’s gone. All she does is sit in her SUV and stare straight ahead. Probably trying to sober up, possibly trying to decide if she wanted to drive through the garage door.
EPILOGUE: I felt guilty about the whole thing. I decided to message her later and ask her what happened, and apologized for the way we left. She actually messaged back and apologized and said something about sometimes people just don’t work out. I wondered how much of that night she remembered.
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