I had thoughts about him slamming me against the wall and pulling my hair, but also asking about my family afterwards and remembering my middle name and maybe wanting to meet my mom. I had a preconceived idea about how this encounter may happen, and I was determined to see it through.
“Hey Ashley, do you care if I leave that guy at your table my number?”
Ashley is my co-worker who somehow finds the good in an awful shift, and in times of true despair just looks to the heavens and says, “I love it here.” She also has a long-term boyfriend and a dog, and is truly supportive while I embrace the shitshow that is my 20s.
“No. They’re actually really nice guys. At first I was like ‘Oh shit’, but they’re actually really nice. BUT they need to know the number is NOT from me.”
I quickly ejected paper from the receipt printer, and jotted down my first impulse. I needed this message to expose my quirkiness and my charm, and get this guy to believe I was some adorable Anna Kendrick knockoff who was great in bed and had no money. Oh wait.
The first draft read: Hey, I’m not your server, but I gave you your chicken hash. Also: Are you on myspace?
I showed the draft to my coworkers excitedly, smiling like a girl who just got asked to dance first at Elan Greenberg’s bar mitzvah.
“Are you on myspace?” They chorused. “….I mean. I guess? I donno. I don’t get it.”
Take two. The second draft read: Hey, I’m not your server, but I gave you your chicken hash. I think you’re cute, here’s my number.
YAWN. BORING. BASIC. UGH.
I slipped the note into their check presenter, and upon gazing through the window, saw a group of twenty-something hungover guys laughing and passing the note around. My tall dark and handsome pursuit looked down bashfully, and I blushed whilst praying he was single. Thus, like a Hilary Duff music video, our romantic encounter unfolded.
The next morning I received a text from my paramour. We decided to meet up for drinks that night, and ultimately had a splendid time. He wore a tastefully baggy white bro-tank that stretched beautifully across his tanned pectoral muscles with board shorts and Sperrys. We talked about how crazy it was for both of us to give and receive a phone number at a restaurant, and how nervous we both were. We bonded over being from neighboring towns, and convinced each other that a shot of fireball would do us both some good.
Conveniently, he lived right next door to the bar he chose to meet at! Wouldn’t you know it?! We had a steamy kiss on the sidewalk in front of his walkup, and in that moment I decided I trusted him. We had had a lovely discussion, and he had taken a chance on a waitress with nothing to lose. In a shallow 5th grade sort of way, I was pretty much in love with him, and decided to let his performance in the bedroom take this love further.
We kissed each other the way only sloppy drunk horny people can. We clumsily peeled off our clothes one article at a time as his TV blared in his bedroom, getting our limbs stuck in skinny jeans, our ankles tangled in our underwear. As we began to “go to work” (I typed that and I’m not okay with it which is why I’m gonna keep it. Tbh I just read Fifty Shades of Grey and I can’t think of any clever ways to say “we began to have sex”.), I enjoyed the rough spontantaeity of it all. It felt like some crazy adventure that I chose to embrace, like taking a rowboat down the Amazon wearing only a denim vest. Suddenly, he flipped me over. I wasn’t opposed to the variety he was offering, but soon after I felt a piercing pain in between the chubby loaves of bread known as my ass. That’s right. He had invited himself into a black hole that no man has explored before; my asshole. He did me in the asshole without asking. He—(You get the idea. Also sorry Dad.)
“OWOWOWOWOW.” I yelped in pain.
“Oh. Sorry.” He said, defeated.
“I have to. I. I. I need to go to the bathroom.”
I peed immediately, thinking this would somehow help the throbbing pain on my backside. But lo, it did not. I got back into bed, drunk, tired and upset, and decided to turn on my side and go to sleep.
“Um. Just so you know, I have to work super early tomorrow.”
“Early like when?”
“’Kay.” I replied, facing the wall. I would be damned if this entitled North Shore gorgeous Jewish man thought he could just stuck it in my rear end and then kick me out at his convenience. Eff no. I was staying.
I awakened at 5:00am and quickly dressed, then descended into the darkness without saying a word. Aside from a text I sent the next day in a feeble attempt to smooth things over, we never talked again.
Now two months have passed since this happened, and I decided to call him out. My roommate reminded me that sometimes I just like to start shit, which isn’t wrong. However, it was more than that. I felt I owed it to myself and to women everywhere to call this entitled motherfucker out and remind him that he could not do this to people and expect us not to fight back. And maybe that makes me some “Crazy bitch on a rant”, but I’d rather be that than a woman who is complacent and scared, willing to let a man decide what to do with my body and my feelings.
So I said this: Hey! Long time no talk. Idk if you remember me… We hooked up a few months ago? Had a nice conversation at the bar beforehand? Had a meet cute at my job? I just wanted to let you know I’m really disappointed in the way it all went down. I followed my gut for wanting to sleep with you, and you helped yourself to sticking it in my butt without asking, telling me to leave and then never talking to me again. I know this may come off as a “crazy girl” ranting, but honestly I just want to let you know that people don’t forget these things and I hope the next girl you’re involved with gets treated with a great deal more respect. The kind of respect I deserved even a a mere waitress and bootycall. Good luck with everything.