Flashback Friday: The Sweater

I originally published this story back when I first begun blogging in 2010, but after everything that's been happening recently with bullying, and social media being such a strong contributing factor in teen suicides, I thought I should re-visit this memory.

Even now, as I re-read and tweak the sentence structures (oh-my-god-what-was-I-thinking-putting-that-comma-there-3-years-ago), I can't help but think I dodged a HUGE bullet having this happen to me before the age of cyber-bullying and social media. Something as silly as this could have easily spiraled out of control (even more than it already did) and caused some serious damage. 

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It took me until this incident to realize that although girls are always pegged to have serious peer-pressure issues; guys aren't that different after all.

In grade 11, I had a briefly lived friendship with Scott, a guy in my graphics class. Of course, I would have wanted more, but even being his friend was good enough for me. He was very cute, but also a little odd, which is why I guess I was drawn to him.

Scott and I really got along well; we had a lot of similar interests and I just found that I was comfortable talking to him. Shortly after we first started talking, he started to wait for me every morning at the top of the hill from our school and we would continue together from there. He usually skateboarded to school, so he would either weave around me and talk or just get off and carry it when we walked together. Either way, I really enjoyed our morning chats and looked forward to them.

During school, he didn't really acknowledge our blossoming friendship, especially when his mates were around. That part I understood and it didn't bother me too much – I was well aware that most of them were complete douchebags. He was a ‘member’ of the cool guy skater boy squad at our school, although only about middle-management, meaning basically that he was a puppet to the ‘higher-ups’. In order to have any kind of relationship with one of these guys, whether platonic or otherwise, the ‘higher-ups’ would have to approve, or some stupid shit like that. 

I assume the verdict came in that I was not good enough.

Our friendship had gone one step further and he invited me to his house after school a couple of times. I had met his mum and even had dinner with them. Of course, being the curious person that I was, while we were hanging out in his room, I had gone through some of his wardrobe drawers. We had a good laugh when I found a few old "nerdy" items and I also found a really nice black sweater. He said he hated it and that it was a bit "faggotty" for him, but I really liked it. He said I could take it, if I wanted to – so I did, and I wore it to school the next day.

He met me that morning as usual, and everything was cool between us... until lunchtime. I still have no idea how the ‘guy squad’ pieced together that I was wearing Scott’s sweater – it was a pretty generic all-black sweater – but they found out somehow. I guess that let the cat out of the bag, and from there on in, I could only speculate how things went down. I am guessing that they confronted Scott about me and they must have been extremely disapproving or made fun of him, because the next thing I knew, they were all approaching me – like a swarm of hyenas surrounding an injured gazelle. 

Then Scott yelled at me, “Hey, you stupid bitch! Are you a klepto or something? What they fuck are you doing with my top?” 

I really wasn't sure what was going on, and I didn't answer for a couple seconds; I was completely stunned, confused and terrified. This guy was supposed to be my friend. I just had dinner with him and his mother the night before, for fuck's sake! 

Then, one of the upper-management assholes took over, “Answer him, Klepto Bitch! What the fuck are you doing with his shit?” 

I didn't even think that trying to defend my honor would have served a purpose. I just kept leering at Scott, like I was telepathically begging for his help or something, and he didn't even flinch from his stare of hatred that he reciprocated back in my general direction. 

Luckily, I was wearing a T-shirt underneath that damn sweater, and I quickly pulled it off over my head and threw it back at him. The only thing I drummed up the courage to say was, “You can take your stupid fucking sweater, assholes!” And then I ran away, so as to save myself from getting my ass kicked by a bunch of guys (which I wouldn't have put past them) and also so that Scott or the others couldn't take any satisfaction in seeing my tears of pure rage that began to burn down my face. 

I could hear them yelling and taunting me as I ran away, as well as them victoriously high-fiving each other.

The next couple months felt like an excruciating eternity. 

They called me ‘Klepto Bitch’ for the longest time. I tried to ignore it, but it really drove me a little insane. I couldn't sleep and was having serious stomach and digestive issues. I tried to avoid them whenever possible, and if I did see them travelling in a pack, I just cringed and got ready for the insults to be viciously hurled at me. Of course, they were fine when it was just one of them; it was "the herd" that I had to fear. As for Scott, I didn't even try to approach him about the situation. It was clear that his role as a ‘puppet’ was far more important than any scrap of friendship that we had developed. If I was forced to come within close range of him in class, he pretty much ignored my existence. It was so utterly disappointing. 

I hated him. 
I missed him.
And I felt sorry for him, all at the same time.

Eventually, their herd started to ignore me in the halls — I guess the joke got old, even for them. It took about 3 months, but it did come to an end, and it was so gradual that I barely noticed when it had been weeks since any of them taunted me. Those locusts likely had moved on to someone fresh and new to devour. 

I was usually out-going, the life of the party — but they paralyzed me and for once in my life, I welcomed obscurity.

Hey Mama, Just My Luck

It's time for a workshop prompt - "a time I got lucky" and just to prove Mama Kat wrong, I'm NOT going to recount a story about my skanky sexy times... for now. Sorry.

The summer between University and my post-graduate studies, I landed a job bartending at the 4-star restaurant just around the corner from my house – great score! On my first night, I was out having a smoke on my break and one of thee hottest guys I have ever met came to join me, and he was friendly.

Right then, I really, really, really liked my new job.

He was like a version of Ray Liotta with his piercing blue eyes, but with softer features, better skin and a whole lot of sex appeal permeating out of his every pore. Even MY MOTHER had a hard time sucking back her drool when she came into the restaurant one day and met him.

Yes... he was THAT hot.

In my usual fashion, Carter and I hit it off right away and we even started spending time together outside of work. I dropped shameless hints about my true feelings and he never responded. I kept hanging out with him for a while but it was difficult to not come off as ‘stalkerish’; he was like a drug and I constantly wanted a fix. Just being in his presence made me wet my panties.

Surprisingly, this story isn’t actually about him, but I had to set the scene. Ahem.

We had been working together for about 3 months at this point, and there was a summer-end staff party at one of the employee’s farm. It wasn’t a huge gathering – maybe 20 people at the most – and the handful of us "herbal enthusiasts" easily found each other as we gravitated to this fantastically quaint twin hammock set that were hung between 3 trees. I had brought my lucky Zippo with me (as it had been everywhere else with me for the better part of a decade), and rested nicely in my back pocket.

Carter and I cozily shared one of the hammocks like 2 stoned peas in a pod. Guuuusssshh. Others came and went, but the two of us stayed there for a long while, together. In my fantasy universe, it was actually a pretty romantic setting and all it needed to be complete was for him to lean in and plant a big juicy one on me – but of course that didn’t happen.

When I got home I realized that my Zippo was gone. SHIT! I really loved it. It had a magic mushroom on one side and my name was even engraved on the back. Yes, I was THAT pretentious smoker. Shut it.

It must have fallen out of my back pocket when we were on the hammock. I quickly called the host of the party the next day and I was slightly taken aback as he was able to complete my sentences.
“Did you happen to find a Zippo by th...”
“By the hammocks? YES! And I’m afraid that I ran over it with my ride along lawnmower and gave me quite the fright!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! By any chance did it happen to survive the lawn...”
“The lawnmower? Are you kidding? It’s in about 4 mangled pieces.”
“And just to make sure that it’s mine, can you make out what was on it?”
“Yes, it looks like it used to be a mushroom of some sort. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right. Thanks anyway. You can just throw it out if you haven’t already.”

I was dejected; it was one of the few objects of mine that I truly loved and felt a genuinely strong owner-to-object bond with it. I didn’t want to buy a new one; my Zippo days were now done. I needed to quit smoking anyway. Pssfft.

About 6 months had past and I was going through my ‘junk drawer’. I rarely went through it – it was like all the crap that I didn’t use but still didn’t want to throw out just yet. I can’t even remember what I was doing in there to begin with, but while I was sifting through it I found an old blue bandanna – I hadn’t worn it in a few years and it was tucked away in the back. Underneath the bandanna WAS MY ZIPPO – completely intact and as shiny as the day I bought it. I have absolutely no reasonable explanation as to what happened. It really freaked me out but I still believe to this day that it truly was my lucky Zippo.

Duh. Duh. Da–Duhhhhhhh....

I never used it again.

The Littlest Survivor

Since there seems to be a growing popularity of these special little people on TV as of late, (ie. Last night's midget being tossed into the ocean scene from Survivor that I will be having a nightmare about tonight was very entertaining, and only one step away from being shot out of a cannon, which I'm sure will be next week's episode.) I thought it was quite called for to do a little Flashback Friday for you all. Yes, yes, it's coming out a day early. Shut it! Cars are released an entire calendar year before their model date, so there.

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Picture it: It was a soggy Melbourne winter night in 2000. I had just gotten off work at the dinner theatre where I was bartending and I was waiting for the tram to go home - the last tram of the night. It was cold and I was tired and a bit zoned out when the tram finally glided to a stop in front of me. The doors opened and I briefly looked up just in time to see a tiny flash of red glitter slip and fly on to me. It was a midget, oh sorry, a little person and she had slipped ass over tit from a combination of a wet floor and what looked like 6 inch platform heels.

WHAM! Right on top of me!

Her chunky legs practically straddled my torso while I was laid out on the pavement in a pool of rain water mixed with dirt, oil and god knows what else; knowing Melbourne on a Saturday night, probably an additional splash or two of urine. She quickly got up and was embarrassed equally as I was traumatized, "Sorry, luv!"

I managed to mutter a fake, "No worries" as I peeled myself off the street.

But it WAS a worry - a big motherfucking worry! 

That was the beginning of the end. I was already iffy about little people due to a strange love/hate relationship I had with a guy that was 5 foot nothing (which is a whole other story I'll be getting to later this year), but this incident set me over the edge.

Thus, I am terrified of little people.

There. I said it (again).

I don't like watching them on TV either; I get very uncomfortable.

If I see one in person, I try to act normal, but I usually hold my breath for some fucked up reason. It's not because I think they smell, but I'd like to think it prevents me from hyper-ventilating.

My family and friends are aware of this quirk and absolutely LOVE to point them out to me in public. Yeah, thanks for that... love you too, jack asses.

I'm sure some will misconstrue my phobia as me just being a bigot or some shit like that - well, what the hell would you have me do? I am what I am, and that just happens to be someone who would likely pee my panties if a little person came up to me and gave me a hug. 

Fuck. Sorry.

I'm sure they're all lovely people.

And no, I have never watched The Little Couple. Or Big World, Little People. Or whateverthefuckelse they have on TV.

PS. To The Bearded Iris,
I'm sure once your son gets too emotionally scared tall to tell you about your crotch rot, you can always find... well... you get the picture. Ahem.

Hello there, Drama!

Here's one of my less-than-stellar flashback moments. Please! I encourage you to cringe enjoy at my expense.

I had just broken up with Jim; my first love, blardy blar blar. I was 16 and ridiculously devastated. We had broken up mid-week and that next weekend was Halloween, complete with a huge party filled with horny teenagers and a lot of alcohol. I somehow ended up having a “deep and meaningful” chat with one of the guys from my school (that I had zero interest in, romantically). The low-down of his sob story was that he had been with his girlfriend for almost 3 years by that point, and she wanted to wait until they graduated high school before they consummated their relationship. Needless to say, he was getting ants in his pants.

Ingredients for disaster:
1 sexually frustrated 17 year old male with a long-term girlfriend that had gone home for the night.
1 heartbroken 16 year old girl, who was so freshly off the rebound that you could taste the spiked Gatorade.
1 bottle of vodka
1 sleeping bag

So, in my very drunken lack of judgement, I suggested that I do him "a favor" and I would have sex with him, but it had to be TOP MUTHERFUCKING SECRET. I wasn’t going to be a part of any drama. It was purely a friend doing another friend, so he can get some “relief”. Ahem. I was also so upset from my break-up that I actually thought this might be good for me, seeing as then my ex-boyfriend wouldn’t be the last person I would have then been with. The logic is there, although sad and hormonally skewed. Anyway, so we had sex. It was uneventful, awkward, clumsy.... and quick. And I thought that would be it.

The next morning, I got a phone call from this guy.
He confessed to his girlfriend.
Broke up with her.
And was in love with me...

DUDE! WHAT THE FUCK? 

Yuck! I was completely up shit creek now. Did I mention I was still living with Jim? Hello there, Drama! I felt so nauseous and stressed out that I spent about 2 hours kneeling over the toilet, and metaphorically watching my social life circle counter-clockwise down the toilet while I dry heaved into it.

Lucky for me, their group of friends weren’t very extensive and pretty contained. My school also turned out to be surprisingly less caught up in the gossip of other people’s misdeeds than it was at my Canadian school. Minus about 5 people that now hated me, I was OK. I survived the promiscuous shit storm and came out the other side. Life went on...

On a side note, that couple eventually got back together a year or two later, and they are married now with a couple of kids. Thank you, Facebook. So, in the span of their relationship, I am that big permanent glitch. If you read it closely, it would say something like: “That cheap skank that broke-up mommy and daddy long before you were born.” Yep, that’s me.

I wonder if he will add THAT to his Facebook timeline...

The Canucker Fucker

During my dating career (I use the word career because it felt like an eternity and it was really hard work) I had come to label certain characteristics of men in order to slot them into categories; I’m sure we’ve all done this, both men and women.

Jocks. Metalheads. Burnouts. D&D Dorks. Skids... and I could go on for quite some time, but I’ll restrain myself. The one that came to piss me off the most is what I’d like to think is an original term of my devise:

The Canucker Fucker

The Canucker Fucker has 3 very particular traits that, although not overly annoying on their own, putting them together made me dry heave.

1. Excessively listens to The Tragically Hip (If you don’t know who they are, they are like Canadian music rock royalty... and I hate them.)

2. Loves the Toronto Maple Leafs

3. Wears car logo hats.

Perhaps it was because this pretty much described half of the guys from my high school, but no matter, I tried my damnedest to steer clear of any guy that shared this lethally annoying combination.

On the third date with a particular fellow, I felt it was about that time I put out; he had failed to disappoint me up to that point, so that was a good sign! After the initial make out session on his couch, he led me to his bedroom. When he opened up the door, this is what I saw:

1. Giant (24x36in) framed gig poster of The Tragically Hip hanging over his bed

2. Toronto Maple Leafs pillowcase & duvet cover

3. VW baseball cap hanging on the bed post.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I tried not to be horrifically disappointed and I powered though the sex...
and then a while later, I married him.

Apparently, he truly was a Canucker Fucker and I just so happened to be the Canuck.
Does that mean the joke’s on me?

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Originally posted on Finding One's Way.

When I Got Popped

My first half of grade 12 was strolling along nicely, I was doing OK but then just after mid-terms I started feeling incredibly tired... all the time. This wasn’t the normal tiredness that often afflicts teenagers – it was a super-natural force of anti-energy and I was powerless to fight it. My mother was on my case for a couple weeks and then even she couldn’t ignore that it wasn’t like me to be this way. She took me to the doctor and he concluded that I had a pretty bad case of Mono (Glandular Fever). All I could really do is stay home from school and sleep. 

Hummm... I think that can be arranged! I did get some of the important assignments sent home for me to do, but for the most part, it was just me, my pyjamas and Days of Our Lives.

Anyway, after the month was up, I went back to the doctor and apparently I was fine to go back to school, but my spleen was enlarged. This is a common symptom of Mono, but mine was really, really swollen. It was actually noticeable through my body – so gross! My instructions were simple – go to school, but that’s it! No sports.

No basketball.
No hockey.
No volleyball.
Noooo sports! 
He stressed it about 3 more times before I left his office. Thanks! I think I got it; no sports!

When I got back, it was nice seeing all my friends again. A month in high school time was a like an entire season of 90210 – I missed so much! I talked to a few on the phone, but it definitely wasn’t the same. At lunch break, I finally got to see Justin.

Oh, Justin.

He was 6’11” of pure hotness with crystal blue eyes and a smile that set my pants on fire. I would have gladly contracted my Mono from him, but sadly my sexual liaisons with Justin occurred only in my head. We were really close friends, of course - story of my fucking life. He was not hard to miss since he towered over most people at school; I saw him near the gym doors at the end of the hall. I yelled for him before he entered the gym. “JUSTIN!”

He looked over and shot me one of his million dollar smiles. “Heeeey! Look who’s finally decided to come back to the land of the living!” He ran towards me and swept me off my feet, literally. He gave me a bear hug and then threw me over his shoulder, into the fireman’s hold. A few of the other basketball guys were there and they all thought it was entertaining. Of course, I loved every second of this hands-on attention. He opened the doors that led outside and tossed me into a tall snow bank. We both had a good laugh and then we went inside together. I sat on the bench and watched them – since I was forbidden to play.

I started to feel uncomfortable later that afternoon and by the time I got home, I was hunched over it absolute agony; I could hardly walk. My mother arrived home to find me curled up in the foetal position and screaming in pain, so she took me to the hospital. I was still crying and wincing when they put me on to the gurney.

My doctor was there; he pursed his lips in disappointment, “You were playing sports, weren’t you! I knew it. I knnnnnew you wouldn’t listen to me.”

“No! I promise! I haven’t... Owwww! I didn’t... Ahhhhh!”

“THEN WHAT DID YOU DO TODAY?”

I really couldn’t concentrate long enough to think about what I did... and then it finally hit me... Justin’s bear hug. I told the doctor and he rolled his eyes profusely. My spleen was like an over-inflated water balloon and when Justin hugged me, it popped.

Well... in reality, it was more like a tear. I had to be admitted into the hospital but at least they didn’t need to operate – luckily. I stayed doped up on pain medication (maybe a bit more than I actually needed) and there I was... for yet another week off school... although this time I got daily phone calls from Justin (fuelled by guilt no doubt, but his concern for me was heaven) and the second best part? 

I was back watching Days of Our Lives, which I must say, whilst high on Demerol, was marvelously more entertaining .

Justin's note for me on the back of his school photo ;)

Turd is the Word

This is probably one of my stories that was in the Top 5 most difficult to reveal - or even to actually have it physically written down since I began writing this blog. I'll never forget this, ah-hem, event, but that doesn't mean that it's a good thing.

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I had a relationship with a guy when I was 17 that was more comfortable rather than passionate... more like 2 best mates that also had sex, a lot. We would try different things and often discuss it afterwards; what we could differently or try in the next round. 

He had exceptionally boney hips, and it got to the point where my inner thighs were so bruised from sex that it hurt to walk. The suggestion of having more missionary sex at that point made me cringe at the sheer thought of pounding against those aching wounds. We switched to doggie-style for the next few days and then the inevitable question was proposed.

“Wanna try...you know...up the arse?”

“Well, OK, but we’re going to have to use lots of lube, and go REALLY slow and be gentle!”

I should also add that his older brother’s nickname was ‘Horse’ and that similar genetic features were strong in his family, which didn’t appease my fears with what was about to happen. We got the lubricant out and even though he was very gentle, after about 3 thrusts in about 5 seconds, THAT WAS ENOUGH!

GET IT OUT! OWWWW-EEEEE!

So, take the sensation of the most painful shit you’ve ever had, and then double it. I had gathered a lot of people enjoy that feeling, but it wasn’t for me. Don't get me wrong - I do enjoy a good shit, but that's because it's coming OUT of me in an entirely non-sexually euphoric kind-of-way. Apparently, there is a G-spot somewhere up there too. Umm, yeah. I will gladly be leaving mine up there, alone and undiscovered.

Also? My boyfriend was uncircumcised.

As he was cleaning the lubricant off himself, he discovered a tiny chunk of turd under his foreskin. He jumped up like he was on fucking fire and proceeded to run around the house naked whilst squealing like a terrified little girl - very loudly. I was mortified, since it was, in fact, my turd, but I surprisingly dealt with it by laughing hysterically at the utter spectacle that he was making of himself. In hindsight, I don’t see why he was so shocked, considering where his dick had just been.

If you go digging in certain holes, you’re bound to find some dirt.

Introducing Flashback Friday

Firstly, go check out my guest post over at I'm Gonna Kill Him! Hooray!

OK. So this is a new feature I will be doing twice a month - well, that's the plan, anyway; I always have the best intentions.

I really didn't know what the hell I was doing when I first began this blog, so day after day, I rolled out some of my juiciest stories - and almost no one got to read them. In hindsight, I would have held my cards a little closer in my panties to my heart and been more selective on rolling out the goods. This girl's well is surely deep, but it ain't bottomless! What can I say? I've always put out too quickly. Wahh, wuhh, waaa.

So here's the deal:
I will do a quick 'n' dirty version (isn't that the best way regardless?) of a post from last year ever other Friday. I won't be doing a link-up, mainly because Life in a Pink Fibro has that covered with her fabulous Weekend Rewind. If you haven't checked that out, I highly recommend it.

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Friends with Benefits

Most people will say that the concept of "Friends with Benefits" is nothing but a myth. This is not true; it is actually possible, however rare, like an exotic endangered animal.

I was able to have a successful FWB arrangement with a close friend of mine during the summer of our final year in high school (and it continued off and on for about 6 years). There was an in-door pool, sauna, hot tub and a couple acres of land and forest. Mark and I ended up being the only 2 in the hot tub and were exchanging harmless sexual innuendos and banter, which was entirely normal for us... until I responded to one of his insults with the very original, “Screw You!” He laughed for a second and then stopped abruptly. While still smiling, he replied, “Alright.”

“Alright what?”

“Screw me.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me! Let’s do it.”

And we jumped out of the hot tub. There were a lot of people doing their own things at the party and no one noticed the two of us heading off into the woods.

There is one thing that I need to mention about the great Canadian woodlands...it is always fully stocked with mosquitoes...and they LOVE me. I was wearing a one-piece bathing suit, so in order to engage in some sexual liaisons, I had to get totally naked. My holiest of bits were on display for all the little blood-sucking insects to see. We managed to have a great little quickie that night; it wasn’t exactly the ideal setting for a slow, comfortable screw.

I did end up paying for it the next morning, however. The sex was fun, but there was not much quite as unpleasant than a half dozen giant itchy mosquito bites wedged up high between my butt cheeks, that was for certain!