As I sat at the bar eating spaetzle at the only German restaurant in New Jersey, I thought of the song “Lipstick on my Collar.” Hmmm…why did he have lipstick on his collar? Was the traitorous woman making out with Connie’s boyfriend’s collar? Wouldn’t that be a strange moment, looking down and seeing some girl grooving on your shirt and not on you? Or maybe he wiped his mouth on his collar when he was done. Oh. I guess that sounds about right...and a little gross. Speaking of collars (smooth segue, Beth), I had an interesting collar-related experience this week. (How many times do you get to say that?)
I’ve been trying really hard (read: barely) to date during my time on this lonely island. Because I’ve convinced myself that it’s “good for me” even though my heart belongs faithfully and hopelessly to someone I can’t really have. So I went out with a surfer guy last week.
We went out to eat and then played some pool at the local pub. I was having one of those drunken idiot savant moments - you know, where you can’t walk a straight line to save your life but somehow you manage to sink a series of ceramic balls on a pool table and everyone is wowed, including yourself, because you have no clue how to play pool - one of those moments.
Anyway, this guy was really nice. And pretty sweet-looking. I knew I wasn’t wildly attracted to him but I figured I’d use the night to hone my fine seduction skills. So between my staggering (figuratively and literally) shots at the pool table, I’d saunter up to him and make out with him. Sometimes, I’d let him show me how to hold the pool stick while standing ridiculously close behind me, grinding myself ever so slightly into the groove of his arched body. Or I’d bend over the pool table wearing a rather short skirt. I was getting my slut on a little. Which is a good thing. Trust me.
After completing my finishing eight ball shot with utter finesse, I walked up to him and pulled him toward me, gently grabbing the collar of his shirt (which may have had lipstick on it at that point but only because I bumped into him repeatedly - not like the Connie Francis song) and kissed him hard and good. When I was done, he looked down at his shirt.
“Is something the matter?” I queried.
“Oh, it’s nothing. You just kinda pulled at the collar of my shirt and I don’t want it to get stretched out.”
And with that I kissed him on the cheek, grabbed my pocketbook and left. He followed after me, repeatedly saying, “I don’t care. Really. Pull away!” But it was too late. The damage was done. I walked home by myself singing Connie Francis and wondering why I was such a hardliner.
I mean, really…it’s not that big of a deal. But wait a second. Maybe it is. In my opinion, if some hot (and humble) chick is making out with you with even the possibility of going home with you in the air, the last concern you should have as a red-blooded male is your fucking $18 long-sleeved t-shirt collar.
But wait Beth…what if he had on a fine, silk shirt? Well, guess what? Same applies. First off, I’m not that aggressive. I’m not some dominatrix with a whip in one hand and your ripped-off shirt collar in the other, laughing demoniacally. Secondly, I’ve had clothes torn off of me at several points in my life. Maybe it bothered me after the fact, but at that heart-racing moment, the last thing I thought of was the state of my clothing!
His concern about that collar showed he lacked a certain primal drive that would no doubt showcase itself in bed.
What are you trying to say, Beth? Speak your mind!
I thought it was a real pussy move…there I said it. I mean, where's your beast, man?
This same principle applies to the bass player I dated in college. He didn’t like when I would grab his long, pretty hair while making love. Pussy. And the same holds true with scratches or bite marks. Just shut up and be man about it. Buck up and take it. Take a bite, a scratch, a slap, a pull. And don’t be a pussy.
I don’t really like saying pussy repeatedly. I don’t. It’s gauche. But my point is…don’t be a pussy.
1 comment:
Maybe he thought your callous disregard for his pristine neckline was a red flag; at that point he probably imagined you nudely smashing his Lladro collection as he watched helplessly from the sidelines, clutching his collar and screaming like a Campfire Girl. Try not to be so rapey Beth. Guys hate that.
Post a Comment