Posts Tagged ‘ stories ’

Stories: Flooding his John

For those of you who don’t know me, allow me to introduce myself. I’m the clumsy girl who always finds herself in the most outlandish and unbelieveable shenanigans. Sure, we all have embarassing moments, but I just feel like my moments are far more severe and frequent than the next person. So much so, that when I may injure myself, the surrounding people don’t even ask if I’m ok, they just shake their heads and say, “Only you would (insert act of ridiculousness that I would only do here).” To add insult to injury, my clumsiness is shadowed with a dark cloud of unfortunate events. I’m not talking falling down the stairs, tripping on air, or running into standing objects clumsy and unfortunate (Yes, I’ve done all of these multiple times), I’m talking so clumsy and unfortunate that it belongs in a movie. In  fact, they did make a movie about it. Remember Along Came Polly….

My moment of humiliation began a few years back in the new apartment of the guy that I was seeing at the time. Now he and I weren’t together, but we were seeing each other pretty regularly and doing things that couples do. For the sake of the story, let’s just call this guy Leonidas. Leonidas had his doubts about me because he was 7 years my senior and thought that I may have been a little too immature at 22 to handle a relationship with someone who was pushing 30. As someone who prided herself on being more emotionally and mentally developed than your average 22 year old, I couldn’t disagree with him more. Unfortunately, this wasn’t so evident in the way I dealt with a series of truly unfortunate events on a particular day.

So Leonidas had just moved into his new apartment with his roommate, and he invited me over to come watch a movie and have a few drinks as we often did. Leonidas made spaghetti, I picked up some vodka, and we watched The Last Dragon, a movie that I hadn’t seen up until that point and that he was determined for me to watch. All through the movie, I had the most uncomfortable feeling in my tummy from the spaghetti we had eaten. Like REALLY uncomfortable. Like BGs uncomfortable. I couldn’t understand for the life of me why this spaghetti had me so f’d up until I realized that the ground turkey that I thought I was eating turned out to be italian sausage. Pork. I don’t do pork. I decided that I wasn’t going to sit in discomfort all night, so I went to go do my thug thizzle in the bathroom as soon as he fell asleep. I’m not sure if it was the Lincoln log that I laid down or the excessive amount of toilet paper that did it, but before I knew it, that mofo was filling up fast! I reached behind the toilet to turn the water off, but at that point, it was too late. The damage was done, and there was dirty toilet water all over the floor.

The mature thing to do would have been to tell him what I did so that he could offer a solution. Nope. Instead, I crept around the apartment in search of a mop or something resembling a cleaning supply, and hoped that neither Leonidas or his roommate would wake up to the disaster in the bathroom. After failing to find a mop, bucket, paper towel, or ANYTHING, I went and grabbed one of Leonidas’ old t-shirts from the dirty clothes pile. I was careful in my selection and made sure that the cleaning shirt of shame wouldn’t be missed, because not only was I going to use it to clean up dirty toilet water, I was going to burn it and toss the ashes over the balcony.

So it began. I soaked up as much of the mess as I could in absolute silence, and then went back to bed as quietly as I could. But not quiet enough. He woke up and went to the bathroom. I had to do something, and do something fast! I quickly came up with a list of resolutions:

1. I’d grab my clothes, my purse, and make a mad dash and deal with the fact that I’d probably never speak to him again.

2. I’d lie and say he made the mess in his drunken stupor but probably didn’t remember.

3. I’d lie and say I just took a shower and fell out the tub and splashed water everywhere.


I couldn’t move or think quickly enough before I heard the sound of our datingship come to a screeching halt.

“Why is the floor wet?”

“I don’t know sweetie, what are you talkin about?”

“The bathroom floor is damp and the rug is soaked.”

“Really? Wow, that’s weird.”

“Did you flood the toilet?”

“Huh? Yeah, no I think I did.”

 “You THINK you did?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. Sorry.” 

The conversation continued with him discovering the dirty t-shirt that I stuffed back into the dirty clothes pile. That’s right, I put that nasty ass shirt all over his other good clothes. He then went on to tell me how absolutely silly and childish this whole thing was and that it could’ve all been prevented if I would’ve just told him what happened in the first place. I got sad and asked if he wanted me to leave, but he told me to stay and cooked breakfast for me the next morning.  We never ended up getting together for several different reasons unrelated to this event, but in the back of my mind, I’ve always known that it’s kinda hard to wife up the girl who used your shirt to clean up pissy water that messed up your bathroom rug as a result of flooding your toilet. I wouldn’t date me either.


Stories: “Welp, That’s It.”

A few years back, I met this guy from Memphis who I later became somewhat attracted to. We met at a club and he had zero chance with me if for no other reason than he was wearing shades in the dark ass club, and he had a grill in. We danced a little, he failed at his attempt to get my number, and then I went on about my business. The next night, I saw him again at a different club, but didn’t recognize him as the guy with the shades from the night before.I spoke to him, and said something stupid along the lines of, “Hey, I know you!” Well I couldn’t blow the guy off at this point, because I was the idiot who initiated the conversation. We talked for a little while and eventually exchanged numbers. I told him that I wasn’t interested in dating (sleeping with) him, but he insisted that we remain “friends.” Normally in this situation, I’d politely inform the guy that I don’t want to be his friend and/or don’t need those kind of “friends.” This time, I decided that I was going to prove that I meant what I said and this was not going to turn into one of those situations where my mind could be changed. So we became friends.

We hung out, we went on a date, I slept over his house pretty often, and he had a great time. We laughed, talked shit, watched basketball, and shared a few kisses. He’s the one hat introduced me to “Blue Top” long before Jamie Foxx was singing about it in auto tune. Needless to say, this fella tried to get in my pants time and time again. I mean how could I have the audacity to come over, watch a movie, get drunk, sleep in his bed, and then leave the next morning untouched?! This went on for about 7 months before he finally gave up. As I said, I actually grew to like him. Nothing heavy, but I was attracted to his southern charm and humor.

At the time that I met the Southern gent, I was seeing someone else. By no means was this anything serious, more of a situation of “convenience.” However, I was intimate with the guy, and didn’t want to be the big slutbag sleeping with more than one guy at a time. This friend that I was already dealing with and intimate with ended up passing away in a motorcycle accident. Again, he and I weren’t serious, but we had been friends for about 9 months at that point, so I was naturally upset and didn’t want to jump right into the next situation. After I had time to mourn and made peace with the death of my friend, I decided that I was ready to be open to welcoming someone else into my life in the capacity that he fulfilled.

Who else to make the next step with but my Memphis beaux? So, after about 9 months of sex-less visits, I told him I was coming over, but didn’t share that I had the intent to initiate a physical encounter. I went over and we did our normal routine. We drank Blue Top, watched basketball, watched the basketball highlights, watched a movie, kissed and then got ready to turn in for the night. Only this time, the kissing didn’t stop. This was it. “It” was going to happen. When he got up to do what guys do when they get  up right before, I grabbed my phone to put it on vibrate, and grabbed the remote to turn up the volume on the TV (I can get a little out of hand sometimes 😉 ). When he came back, I welcomed him into my embrace, and it happened.

After about 45 seconds, he paused, probably to readjust, and then said to me, “Welp, that’s it.”


Wait,……….. what? “It like, that’s it, it?” He said a simple, “Yup”, and went to the bathroom. I let out a thunderous chuckle to myself, then went to grab my phone. Somebody HAD to know about this RIGHT DAMN NOW! Then I thought that I’m not going to be that one, and sometimes this stuff just happens. Understandable. He probably just needed to get that first one out of the way and then will come with it the second time around. Fine by me. He got back into bed, and after about 15 minutes, we started to kiss again. I was certain that this next one would give me something to talk about. Did it ever. Or did the lack of it ever. There was no second time. He was soon sleeping like a newborn fresh on the other side.

I watched the rest of Good Times.

I debated with myself over and over again whether or not I should wake him up and tell him what was really on my mind. I had so many questions, but most importantly, I wanted him to give me some gas money for driving 30 minutes for 30 seconds of disappointing nothingness. After all, I was still in school and gas ain’t cheap! I just felt like I was entitled to some kind of compensation for wasting my time and allowing him to add an undeserved notch to my belt, a belt that I didn’t want to have all notched up. But again, Im not that one. So I went home. As soon as I was out of sight, I called home to my boy Diondre. “Dre, what do I do about this?!” I honestly thought that this only happened in the movies. I never could’ve imagined that in the world of short and bad sex, that this would even exist. Dre told me that I could NEVER bring this up again. EVER. Not if I didn’t want to hurt his feelings and wanted to remain friends with him. And it was true, I knew this was humiliating enough without me forcing him to relive his moment of shame. So, I never brought it up. To him. I never mentioned it until he said something a few days later about being tired and I shouldn’t have waited so long to give it up in the first place, and blah blah blah bullshit. Needless to say, our sexual relationship didn’t last.

Although I granted him anonymity, I had to tell at least a couple of people. The situation was just too outlandish for me to laugh alone. The next person I told was my boy Ray-Ray who appropriately named my Minute-Man, Uno. He advised me to next time tell Uno to draw 4 and keep the game going.

Uno and I are still really good friends.