“So that’s why it sounds like you have a piss sheet on your bed? For a minute there, I thought you were going to try and kill me.”
“How long have we known each other and you still think I’d try to kill you?”
“Haven’t you seen American Psycho? Nevermind. Personally, I’d rather you tried to kill me then expose me to bedbugs.”
“You’re crazy. And it’s not a piss sheet. It’s for the be…”
“Bed bugs. Yes, I remember. Thanks.”
What this experience taught me was that not only do I need to worry about STD’s, pregnancy and bad grammar; I now have to worry about bed bugs. Could dating get any worse? Don’t answer that. It was rhetorical.
Earlier that same evening, I found myself wagering sexual trysts over a can of soup. Bug Boy said he had brought me some a year earlier to my old apartment when I was feeling sick and all I remember is him coming over and trying to talk me into a threesome. Funny how my memory gets more selective as I get older. If he won the bet, he wanted to “do it” three times. If I won, I got to make a cocktail and watch Takers while he rubbed my feet. He won the bet and I never got my foot massage. Luckily, I didn’t get lice either.
From now on, all conversations with any and all male prospects will go something like this:
“Are you married? Have a girlfriend? Criminal record? Bed bugs? You heard me…do you have bed bugs? Hello?”
I can see that going over extremely well.
Aside from my booty call’s infestation, I had to wonder why I was even there in the first place. Especially since I was using a bowl of Campbell’s chicken noodle to get out of having sex with a beautifully sculpted, 6’4” personal trainer from Manhattan Beach. That’s when it hit me. I’m bored, uninterested and oversexed.
Intellectually, I’m not being stimulated. A romp in the hay with someone who doesn’t know his own zip-code is becoming quite tiresome. Where’s the challenge? I believe my mother would call this “her baby girl finally growing up”. I beg to differ. How many 33 year old women do you know that have 118 episodes of Batman* recorded on their DVR? Exactly.
I’m thinking celibacy may be the needed course of action. I don’t know how long that will last. I usually start to go a little bat shit crazy at the one month mark. Something as simple as a gust of wind can jumpstart my predatory mode. Heaven forbid the mailman be under 70 because It. Will. Be. On.
The real question is; can I do it? Doubtful. Am I going to try? Sure, what the hell? Just don’t be surprised if you’re in LA and happen across a 5’9” blonde dryhumping a telephone pole in about 30 days.
And, for the record, when I went in for my last health screening a few weeks back I had them run the full panel of tests. The hiv, the herp, Chlamydia, Syphilis, termites. All came back clean.
Nobody can digress from insects into celibacy quite the way I can. That may or may not be a good thing.
*Adam West is the shit.