Girl Crush(2)
This guy was a hodgepodge of decades gone wrong.
“Giselle, what’s wrong?” He trailed after me, stumbling on his own feet.
I flung the bathroom door back open just as Justin righted himself. We both stared at his artwork on my walls, my toilet, my floor, my rug, and the pedestal of my sink that was a solid three feet away from the bowl of the commode. My hands pushed the cleaning supplies into his chest, and as he awkwardly accepted them, I folded my arms across my breasts.
“I’ll be damned if I’m going to clean up after a grown man. Clean up your own piss, and then get the hell out of my house.”
Justin stared at me like I’d sprouted a second head, but when I cocked my hip and pursed my lips, he got to spraying.
“What the hell were you doing? Drawing our initials on the wall? I don’t even want to know how you got urine on the sink.”
Apparently, Justin wasn’t used to being talked to in such a direct manner, but it also explained why he still lived at home…with his mother. A tidbit I’d learned at dinner that was not mentioned in his dating profile. This was all the confirmation I needed—it was Tinder from here on out. When he finished, he tried to hand me the soiled paper towels.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I pointed toward the wastebasket. “You can put them in the trash yourself.” I snatched the cleaning supplies from him, and the moment he chucked the mess, I escorted him from my home. I might have growled when I closed the door behind him.
Sexually frustrated, with no viable option other than self-gratification, I retrieved my dead vibrator and made use of it as a dildo sitting on top of the washing machine on spin cycle.
1
I was done.
Done with men.
Women say it all the time; they get fed up, throw their hands in the air, and vow a life of celibacy—until the next chiseled chest comes into view, and then they’re foaming at the mouth and wiping the drool from their chin. But this was different, I really meant it.
I’d been manhandled by the last pig that would ever bring his sausage near me. After one of the nastiest divorces in history, followed by some of the crudest and raunchiest dates, I’d decided to bat for the other team.
Ronnie roared with laughter as I made my proclamation. Just before her features cleared, she realized my mind was set. “Giselle, you don’t just decide to become a lesbian. You either are, or you aren’t, and based on the fact you’ve been sucking stick instead of going down to Taco Town since puberty, it’s unlikely you just missed the signs.”
My best friend, Veronica, would know. She was the girl every guy wanted, every girl wanted to be, and in the end, she preferred fish to hot dogs. At least if I made the switch late in the game, I had someone to show me the ropes, teach me the Jedi ways.
“What happened this time?” Ronnie knew all the gory details from every failed attempt at a relationship or date since I’d gotten my first kiss.
Sitting in the darkened bar, I swung my feet under the high stool and twirled my drink in the pretentious glass it had been served in. Bars had moved up a notch since the last time I’d dated—thank God someone finally outlawed smoking in these tiny places. Not only could you see the person you came with, but you could also breathe long enough to enjoy a drink.
Justin. That’s what had happened this time. Justin happened.
“He peed on my walls, Ronnie. And then he seemed surprised I was offended by it.”
She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. Nodding her head, she confirmed she knew how savage the male species could be. “Men are gross, Gizzy. But you can’t just decide you’re going to be a switch-hitter. You’ve been practicing the wrong game for too many years.” She was humored by the entire conversation, but I wasn’t kidding.
“Are you going to help me or not?” I was on the verge of pouting and wasn’t above doing it if it would help me get my way.
“Help you what? Pretend to be a lesbian?”
“I’m not pretending. I want out. People switch careers, why can’t they change sexuality?”
“Please refer to my previous comment: you don’t just decide to eat pussy, Giselle.”
“I’m assuming it’s like beer…an acquired taste.”
She spat her Cosmopolitan across the table and quickly grabbed a napkin to pat her lips dry.
“What? I didn’t like dick the first time I tasted that shit, either. Be real. No bodily fluid tastes good. It’s the feeling you impart that makes you love the taste you’re chasing.” I wanted to smack her—Veronica was making this entirely too complicated. “Look, I just need you to show me the ropes. Give me some dating pointers. The how-to guide to wooing the hoo hoo.”
She sat back against the chair and crossed her mile-long legs. Her perfect breasts sat on display while her ample cleavage peeked over the top of her blouse. Veronica was sex on a stick and knew everyone in town.
“I think that might be against the rules.”
“Don’t be coy with me, you whore. I know where the bodies are buried. Spill it.”
Her laugh echoed through the empty bar. When I didn’t budge, and my facial expression remained stoic, she leaned in with her elbows on the table. “You’re not expecting me to show you, right?”