We all have our important firsts--our first love, our first kiss, our first "time"--these are usually pleasant memories that we can look back on and enjoy in our golden years. There are, of course, the unpleasant firsts--our first fight, our first breakup, our first time being pantsed in front of the whole school by Robbie Miller on the day we wear our underwear with the holes in it. This is a story of an unpleasant first.
As a child, I was quite naive--innocent and friendly to all, always believing that all things could be worked out through discourse and compromise. Of course, I went through a phase when "reality struck"--my first fight was around this time, as was the first time I truly realized that life isn't fair when I wasn't voted or even nominated for class favorite1
. Still though, I kept, for the most part, a sunny disposition. It was this very same outlook on life that I had in mind when I started going out with Liz during my junior year in high school. Liz was one grade higher than I was, very attractive, and Cuban2
. She was a petite girl, but very well built, and had strikingly exotic features. We got together near the end of the school year, when she was preparing for provisional summer courses for entrance to The University of Texas at Austin. When she left to start school, we were pretty convinced that we loved each other, so we decided to see it through and try to make it work.
The first time I went to visit Liz, I was very excited. I had never been to Austin on my own, and was quite looking forward to seeing my girlfriend again (it had probably been about three weeks or so since I had last seen her). I drove in on Saturday afternoon, and had plans to stay for the night before having to go back home for work on Sunday. Liz and I had some dinner together, I met some of her friends, and we got ready to go to a party that night. We drank a few beers in a nearby dorm room, and then headed to the party, which was being held outdoors behind what was probably a fraternity house, although I can't be sure as I write this. The details on the next hour or two of the story get hazy: I drank some very cheap beer, Liz drank some very strong punch that was served out of a garbage can, and I recall us making out in the middle of a crowd of people, and then sitting down on a ledge and making out some more. I was quite hopeful that we would sleep together that night, especially since this particular "first" story took place before the actual "first time" story. At some point, Liz and I decided to go back to the dorm and "spend some time together"3
, but as we walked home, it became clear that she was much more drunk than she thought she was. In fact, she could barely stand up, let alone walk. I ended up carrying her to the front of the all-female dorm, and she made her way inside to let me in the side door, since technically, I wasn't allowed inside. I sat outside for about thirty minutes, and I wondered the following things:
- Was Liz passed out on the hallway floor?
- Was Liz puking in the lobby bathroom?
- Was Liz being arrested for public intoxication/minor in posession?
- Was I going to be having sex tonight after all?
- Is there a toilet or a discreet tree nearby that I could urinate into?
- Where the hell is my car?
Luckily, she finally showed up, and the two of us staggered into the elevator and into the dorm room. She told me that she sat on the couch in the lobby and fell asleep/passed out for a few minutes, before remembering that I was waiting outside. When we got into the closet-sized room, Liz went directly to the toilet and threw up all seven glasses of trashcan punch she had ingested over the last two hours and fell into bed. In my limited capacity, which was clearly not as limited as hers, I attempted to console her, give her some water, and leave a garbage can next to her bed in case she needed to vomit again. The next thing I remember, someone was knocking at the door, and woke up and stumbled to the door. It was Vanessa, a friend of ours from high school (who, incidentally, I fooled around with once before I heard that she was into all kinds of ridiculous drugs like cocaine), who wanted to come by and make sure Liz was okay, and probably to take a ride on the C-Train even though I wasn't interested in her anymore. She got Liz a cold compress and tended to her, while I relaxed on Liz's roommate's bed. Vanessa left, and I think I slurred out a word of thanks to her.
An hour of sleep or so later, there was another knock on the door. This time it was Eliza, a friend of Liz's who I met earlier that day. Eliza was an overweight white-trash party girl who tended to drink a lot and gossip even more, according to Liz. Picture Violet Beauregarde in the original Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
movie, after she chewed the gum that tasted like a meal and turned into a giant blueberry. She was fatter than that, and she didn't have any blueberry juice inside her that I was aware of. The only other thing I knew about her was that she was arrested earlier that summer for getting drunk and breaking into Barton Springs pool one night and having a skinny dipping session with some friends, and then eating nineteen pounds of stovetop stuffing and a ham hock.
As I opened the door, she immediately started into a monologue about how her roommate was fucking her boyfriend in her room, and she needed a place to stay for awhile, and could she stay in our room? I didn't really care, since I was going right back to sleep, so without saying a word, I turned around and got back into the roommate's bed (I was fairly concerned that Liz would have vomited all over her sheets). Eliza was babbling about some guy named KC who was "being an asshole" to her that night, and apparently wanted my advice. I tried to stay with the conversation, but I the combination of my lack of interest, lack of sleep, and consumption of Milwaukee's Best and Natural Light put me on a one-way trip to snoozeville4
. When I left her, she was sitting in the desk chair near the bed, and I was laying in the roommate's bed.
More blank space exists in this part of my memory, but the next thing I recall is waking up to Eliza's legs wrapped around me, and her crotch grinding into my hip. Startled, I looked over at her.
"What are you doing?!?" I demanded.
"Oh, sorry," she said.
I remember thinking to myself that she had just said the stupidest thing that could be said in response to a demand for why someone was grinding their crotch into another person's leg. Shocked and more than a little disgusted, I got up and went over to Liz's bed. Observing the vomit on her chin and the trash can by the bed, I took the none-puke laden route: a spot directly next to her on the floor. It was very uncomfortable, but I didn't think that I would be followed, especially with such close proximity to Liz.
Oh how I underestimated you, Eliza. Most people would have given up after a disgusted refusal like the one I served to you, but not you. I have repugnance for your personal appearance, but a great respect for your dilligence and work ethic in attempting to force drunken teenage boys to submit to your elephantine desires.
Instead of more prudently taking the hint, she did, in fact, get up off the bed, and lie down on the floor next to me while I slept. It is also a fact that when I woke up, she was again rubbing her crotch against my leg, although this time she was also licking my face in the same fashion that she probably licked her dinner plate earlier that night
. Long, upward strokes of her tongue painted my cheek, and her chubby nether-regions humped diligently against my pant-leg.
"What are you doing?! Cut it out!" I whispered fiercely.
"What, you don't like that?" she asked innnocently. Gross.
However, being the nice guy that I was:
"My girlfriend is right there. "We"5
really shouldn't do this." How much more easier could I make it for her to realize that I wasn't interested? I suppose I could have done what I would do nowadays, which would be to chop her arms off with a hatchet, but I wasn't nearly as resolute a person then as I am now. I got up and went to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, I splashed some water on my face, and whispered to myself in disbelief,
"Is this really happening? What the hell is going on?"
When I came back in to the room, she was passed out on the roommates bed, which left me the floorspace next to Liz's bed, or the puddle of puke that my girlfriend slept in. I again chose the floor, and stealing a pillow from Eliza's bed, made myself comfortable as far away as I could from her. What happened next? You guessed it: when I woke up again, she was in her usual place, doing the nasty with my femur, only this time she was on top of me, crushing me into the small corner that existed from the joining of the bottom of the bed and the floor.
"Eliza," I grunted, shoving her away with all my might, "I really don't think we should be doing this." Gasp. Pant. Struggle. Bench-press. Repeat.
"She doesn't have to know about it," her big fat lipstick-smeared mouth said. "Do you have a condom?"
"No, I don't. Eliza, I really don't feel comfortable with this, I think we should stop," I told her. Finally, in a manner not unlike Superman throwing a ten-ton boulder into space, I heaved her off of me, and went back into the bathroom. This time I sat on the edge of the bathtub for about ten minutes, cursing the day I was born with my winning combination of boyish good looks and Cary Grant-like charm. When I returned, she was again sleeping in her non-leg-fornicating location: the roommate's bed. This time, I decided to put an end to it, and voted with my feet for sleeping in the oral excrement my girlfriend left in the space next to her in the bed. I was left unmolested6
for the remainder of the evening.
In the same way that I used my best skills of negotiation and diplomacy with Eliza because I was too nice to do otherwise, I didn't mention anything to Liz about my little rendezvous with death, because, as I legitimized it in my mind, Eliza was drunk and may not have known what she was doing, or something. A few weeks after my visit, I got a phone call from Liz.
"Oh my God, guess what?"
"Remember Eliza? That girl you met when you came to visit? It turns out that she does this really weird thing when she gets drunk where she tries to force herself on guys--she tried to make Monica's boyfriend have sex with her when she was drunk last weekend."
"...Somehow that doesn't surprise me."
I told Liz the story, and in her fiery Latina way, she told Eliza off, with what I imagine to be wild hand gestures and rapid speech.
Liz and I broke up shortly after the storied event took place, but I did take away one piece of wisdom from that situation:
Never let your girlfriend drink to much of that damned trashcan punch, lest you not get laid and instead be aggressively courted by a creature only seconded in size to the Michelin Man.
1This led to my "first time I realized that Democracy sucks" story.
2Which I interpreted to mean "a hot-blooded demon in the sack."
3By which I mean "penetrate vaginally."
4Mayor of Snoozeville: Sleepy Floyd.
5Quotation marks added to show that I wasn't actually involved in the decision to stimulate her genitals with any part of my body.
6 When I use the word "unmolested" I use it with both definitions of the word:
1. Not interfered with, disturbed, or harmed.
2. Left alone by big fat girls who were previously using their gorilla-like size and strength to get a piece of the sweet sweet Zane love.