Twisted(57)

So, in light of my own behavior, I’m willing to give the jerk-off a pass. This time.

Of course, the next time I see him, all bets are off. If Dickweed gets on my nerves, I’ve got free rein to knock his teeth down his throat. And given his talent for annoyance, it’s pretty much guaranteed.

Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t tell me you actually like the guy now? Jesus Christ, that Kool-Aid must be pretty tasty—everybody’s drinking it these days.

Anyway . . . next topic . . . you know I didn’t f*ck the stripper. But what you don’t know is . . . it wasn’t for lack of trying.

Before you take my head off, let’s keep in mind that Kate had just ripped my heart out with her bare hands. She said she was leaving me, that we were done.

And I believed her.

Which brings me back to my opening statement. That’s right—church. The simple fact is, I owe God. Big time. And not for the reasons you’re probably thinking.

What do you know about erectile dysfunction? Limp dick syndrome. Failure to launch. It’s a condition every poor bastard with a cock is going to have to face at some point in his life. It’s horrifying. And like space rocks hitting the earth, it’s bound to happen eventually.

But for me, it’s only happened once. Want to guess when? That’s right—that terrible night. After Kate took off, the stripper did her little show for about fifteen minutes. Then she offered to take things up a notch—for us to get better acquainted on the couch, in the bedroom, from the dining-room chandelier.

But I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Couldn’t happen. Because I was about as hard as a chewed wad of bubblegum.

Now, maybe I couldn’t get it up because I was devastated about Kate. Maybe it was because I’d consumed enough alcohol to kill a horse. But I prefer to think of it as an act of God.

A divine intervention to save me from my own stupidity.

And it worked. Because today, Kate and I are better than ever. And I’m pretty positive that wouldn’t be the case if I had actually f*cked another woman. I don’t know if Kate could’ve forgiven me for that. I know I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself.



After all that was out of way, we got to the good stuff. The making up. The winning her back. I was always awesome at that part, remember?

But I don’t like to repeat myself; it’s unimaginative. So this time there was no deluge of flowers. No balloon-filled office. No three-man bands.

There were, however, affectionate text messages. Small but meaningful gifts. Notes on her apartment door. Every time I thought of her when she wasn’t there, each time I missed the feeling of her lying beside me, I let her know it. Poetry may or may not have been involved.

And Kate wasn’t idle either. Despite her obvious joy over her independent living situation, she made it known she was lonely without me. She insisted we talk on the phone right before bed. More often than not, she’d end up nodding off while I was still on the other end, and I’d spend longer than I care to admit listening to her breathe.

Is that pitiful?

Screw it—I’m way beyond caring.

Kate also cooked dinner for us at her place three nights a week. Then we’d work together at her kitchen table, like two high school honors students cramming for finals.

But around week eight, I felt a grand gesture was called for. And I made my master move.

Have you ever seen Say Anything? Remember when John Cusack held that boom box over his head? I took a page from his book. But instead of a CD player, I stood on Kate’s sidewalk with a karaoke machine.

You remember how I feel about karaoke, don’t you? There’re lot of things I do well—singing isn’t one of them. But I sucked it up and belted out every pansy-ass love song I could come up with.

Matthew and Steven and Jack showed up and sat on the curb and heckled me, but I didn’t give a shit. Because the whole time I was singing, Kate was standing on her balcony, watching me, a small smile on her perfect lips.

And public humiliation goes a long way.

Because halfway through “Mirrors” by Justin Timberlake, Kate came downstairs, took me by the hand, and led me inside her apartment. I flipped the guys the bird on the way in. And once we were there, Kate rode me like a warrior princess charging into battle.

What? You didn’t think we weren’t having sex, did you? Me, go two months without getting laid?

Why don’t you just pull my brain through my nose with a pair of pliers? I’m sure it would be less painful.

We’d been having sex. But like I said before, there were no overnighters. Which was kind of like eating a sundae without sprinkles. It’s still good, but there’s definitely something missing.

That night, however, changed everything. Because when I opened my eyes, it was morning, and Kate was already awake. Watching me. She traced my chest with her fingers and kissed me. And then she told me she was ready—she wanted us to move in together again.

That . . . was the second best day of my life.

We found a new apartment pretty fast. I’d been looking for a while and had it narrowed down to three choices.

It was important to Kate that we have a place that was “ours” in every sense of the word. For her, it represented a new start to our relationship. A symbol of whatever female empowerment she somehow thought she was lacking before. I’d always thought Kate was strong, independent—I never realized she didn’t think that.