Reflexes- In the past

It’s raining. I hate the rain. My friends always tell me, “Stop saying you hate everything. Hate is such a strong word.” “But it’s the only word to describe my level of distaste for things,” I usually respond.
While we are on the subject, I’ll name a few other others I hate, in order of irritation.


1. As stated, rain. I hate being wet unless I’m bathing or in a swim suit (even in a swim suit I would rather lay on the beach then get in the water).


2. The 1st snow. This is quite confusing since I live in a city that receives ample snow. Here is the issue: I hate the sound of the snow under my boots after the first snow–that "crunch, crunch, crunch" noise as you walk on the snow–it sounds like you're stepping on water bugs, and it makes my stomach hurt.


3. Animals (sorry). I hate anything that you must take care of for the rest of its life (I’m still on the fence about children). This mostly applies to dogs and cats, but also includes pigeons, squirrels, and fish.


4. Sweating. Anytime I’m hot and I don’t have on workout clothes, I’m annoyed. I keep my air at 60 degrees in the summer whether I’m home or not (What’s the point of working if you have to monitor the thermostat?)


5. Self check out lanes. If I wanted to scan items, punch in coupons, and bag I would work at the supermarket.


6. Waiting. I shop a lot, but I also save a lot because I refuse to stand in line for full price clothing. If it's on sale I feel like the long line is part of the deal, but when I’m paying $75 for a t-shirt I should be granted immediate access to a register.

But I digressed, where was I… oh the rain. What a foolish day to wear khakis. Although they are only khakis, they are still full price Banana Republic khakis that I would hate getting that muddy rainwater that splashes on the back of your lower pants leg on. "I should go back home," I think. I look at my phone. It’s already 8:15a.m. I start work in 15 minutes, and I’m nowhere near the office. I can tell this is going to be a shitty day. I’m at the bus stop and there are only a few characters–no cuties or even remotely stylish people, so I pull out my book. An older woman with a cane is slowly crossing the street. Actually, as she gets closer I see that she is not so old and that the cane is more to support her huge frame. “Move; I want to sit down,” she barks at a punk rocker teen. "Feisty," I think at first, though in general I do think that kids have gotten a little lackadaisical with respecting adults. As she waddles to the bench I find myself slightly staring at her. "I bet she’s married," I think. This is always my first thought when I see someone unattractive, rude, underweight, overweight, or freakishly weird. They always have someone. (Life is so unfair like that!) The bus is approaching and I’m positioning myself in front to get a seat, with teenage punk rocker next, followed by an unattractive woman to the left and a bald guy to the right–semi old, huge, rude lady still sitting on the bench behind us. As the bus nears I’m hoping it’s a man driving (they are more likely to stop in front of women). Jackpot. The doors open, and as I step up with my right leg I feel a sharp pain. “I’m first on the bus,” I hear the semi old, huge, rude lady shout. My leg caves and I feel myself bracing as I’m falling forward toward the bus steps from the impact of her wooden cane against the back of my leg. I black out–well, that’s how I'd explain it. Regardless, 15 seconds are unaccounted for. When I come to, I have the cane in my hand, hovering it in the air above her head, ready to strike. “No, don’t hit her!” screams the unattractive woman. I snap out of my trance– How did I get this cane? I’m furious. If this were a cartoon, steam would be coming out of my ears and mouth. I can’t believe this old cow hit me with a fucking cane! I weigh the pros and cons of killing this lady; pros: revenge is so sweet, cons: I’ve been working so hard on getting into heaven–mass every Sunday, saying my prayers every night, and volunteering on weekends (okay, I’m not currently doing all of that yet, but its on my to-do list, and killing a stranger would definitely be a huge setback). Everyone is waiting on my decision–the bus driver, the unattractive woman, the punk rocker teen, and the bald guy. I decide against it–today is not one of my better days, and I would hate to be on the 6 o'clock news with muddy khakis and puffy rain-hair. Maybe if I'd had on my black pencil skirt, pink and black pinstriped blouse, three inch heels, and a fresh blow-out I would have reconsidered. But as it is, I yell, “Are you crazy? Don’t you ever hit me or anyone else with this damn cane!” and with that I throw the cane in the opposite direction of the bus, across the street. “My cane!” she yells to the bus driver, “She threw my cane! I demand you call the police!” I'm thinking, "You attacked me first, you crazy bitch." “I have to get these people to work,” replies the bus driver with a smirk. “All aboard!” he says. "Wait, don’t leave me," she yells. "Sorry, there will be another bus in 5 minutes," the driver said. I knew this was going to be a shitty day!

Allergies- in the past

I really liked this guy. Okay, so he really liked me. Whatever, it’s all the same. I met him on the way home from work. He looked at me and I sorta looked at him. He asked for my number and I obliged. A perfect meet-cute nonetheless. He was small in stature, but I had given up on only dating men who towered at least 6’1. He was much shorter than that–he said 5’8 which means he was 5’7 because men often lie about their height. I never could understand why–if we meet, I’m positive I’ll recognize that you’re not a staggering 6’3–it’s an unnecessary lie. We chatted and I later came to find that he had been watching me for months–same bus route, small lunch spots, same trains. I was flattered! We dated for 4 weeks, and he was very much into me–he wanted to pick me up from the gym, go to museums on the weekends, and have dinner after work; just what I’m looking for. I could tell he was "lusting" more than I was, but I decided I was on the fence so I told him there would be no sex until I was ready. Plus, we’d only been on 5 dates, so he was only ½ way to my 10-date rule. He agreed. One night, he decided he just needed to see me. I had gone out with my friends and wasn’t able to hang with him.


“I won’t be home until late,” I told him.


“I can spend the night.”


“We are not sleeping together, remember?”


“I know, but I want to see you."


After weighing all the pros and cons of a sleepover (Pros: someone to wake up next to and kiss goodnight; Cons: the dreaded sex fight–you know, the one where all night he’s tugging at your panties trying to convince you that you want it as much as he does, and after hours of tussling he finally goes to bed pissed even though you told him it wasn’t going to happen), I told him


“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”


“Why? I promise I will behave, I have to see you. I want to see you waking in the morning.”


I thought, "Really, because 4 weeks ago when you didn’t know me you were sleeping without me just fine."


But I caved. Like a man I made up a slumber stipulation––you know how men do; they say things like “I’m playing golf in the morning so I have to get up at 6am” or “Sunday’s I drop my grandmother at mass so we have to be up early." My excuse: running, of course. Everyone knows runners have to get out there before the sun is beating on your back.


“I have to meet my running group at 7am.”

“That’s fine.”


It was midnight before he arrived. I answered the door and he was standing there, smiling, with the largest duffel bag I had ever seen––bigger than any gym bag; big enough to take on a weekend trip skiing in Aspen–it was bursting at the seams with things. He couldn't even zip it up.


“Umm what’s in the bag?”


“Oh, just my sleeping stuff.”


I thought, "Sleeping stuff. Are you gay? I’ve gone home with men with a clutch filled with panties and a toothbrush." Instead, I said “Oh, are you going somewhere when you leave here in the morning?”


“Naw, just home.”


“Ok, so the bag.. What’s in it? “


“Well, my stuff for bed and my stuff for the morning.”


“Stuff like what? You know what, forget it. Let’s go to bed.”


I was so irritated. He went into the bathroom for awhile (washing up I guess) then emerged with matching PJ’s, a clean face, and fresh breath. I was thinking, "Who is this person?" By that point, I was drifting off, breath stinking, face caked with the day’s air, wearing some lounge stuff I just pulled off the shelf–I don't even know if it matched. He pulled the covers back and hopped in the bed, and not a second passed before he started sneezing.


“Hachoo.. Hachoo..HACHOO.."


“Are you ok? "


“Yeah I’m fine. "


“Hachoo.. Ummm, are your pillows down filled?”


“Yes.”


“I’m allergic to down.”


WTF!!! Allergic to down…


“Do you think we can put the pillows on the floor?”


“I don’t care what you do with the pillows on your side of the bed, but I sleep with 3 pillows.”


I should tell you: I hate men who aren’t manly. First, the matching PJ’s, then the 15 minute bitch bath, and now allergies. He continued to sneeze and with each sneeze I became more infuriated. I would rather do the no sex tussle then have someone sneezing all fucking night.


“Maybe you should just go home.”


“No, no. I’m ok. Hachoo!”


I barely slept-he's a cuddlier. Cuddling is fun for the first 10 minutes before you go to bed. I take that back–cuddling is only warranted after you’ve had sex, and only for the first 10 minutes before you drift off. After that, it’s uncomfortable. Sleeping on someone’s arm or having their leg intertwined with yours is not my idea of a good night's sleep.
We awoke. Well, I awoke to him looking at me. It was 6:30 a.m.


“How did you sleep?”


“Ok I guess. “


“So what are your plans today?”


Didn’t we discuss this last night? “I’m getting up in 15 minutes to go run, remember? You?"


“I’m going home.”


“Do you need to use the restroom?”


“YES.”


I fell back asleep. Twenty minutes later, I went to the door.


“Are you okay? “


I cracked the door and saw beauty products sprawled everywhere–Clearasil, toner, moisturizer, lip balm, mouthwash, toothpaste, floss.


“What is all this shit? Where are you going?”


“Home. I told you.”


I’m pissed now. “Can’t you do this at home?”


“I’m not like you; I don’t just roll out.”


“But you’re going home."


He was in the bathroom 4 more minutes–I counted. He came out fully groomed and gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. I turned my head. He reached in his bag, looking for something.


“What’s wrong?”


“Nothing. I told you I had to run this morning and you’ve been in the bathroom for 30 minutes.”


“Oh, my bad. Let me just apply this cream to my hand. It’s inflamed from the pillows last night."


“Cream?”


“Yeah, my allergy cream––I never leave home without it.”


As he stood in front of me applying hand cream to his rash, I said, “GET OUT! I can’t do this."


“Do what? “


“Do you, this? This is not working.”


“Why are you so angry?”


“Can you please just leave?”


“You're overreacting."


As I shut the door, he sneezed again.


"Hachoo!" Allergies...

The Feather- in the present

When I was a child there was a woman on my grandmother’s block that always kept male company. I recall her being an attractive woman even for her age. She had a decent figure–broad hips, small waist–definitely curvy by anyone’s standards. My grandmother would tell my aunt's boyfriends to stay away from the “loose woman,” as she called her. One day I saw my aunt’s boyfriend laughing and chatting with the woman in question at the end of the block. There was this empty lot there that you could cut through by hopping a small fence to get to the corner store. It saved you a block’s walk at least. (Now I’m starting to see where my laziness came from) My aunt's boyfriend was a police officer–a nice guy then, but knowing what I know now, he was a pervert and probably looked at me and my other cousin in ways that was not appropriate. I told my grandmother that I saw him talking with the woman and that they seemed very friendly. My grandmother immediately told my aunt to watch the relationship. A few months later he stopped coming over, but I always saw him whenever I went to the store, laughing and talking to the lady. I remember telling my grandmother,


“I saw him again with her”


“I’m sure it’s too late now. He already knows about the feather. “


I had to be maybe 12 or so when this happened. I never knew what "the feather" was. Over the years I would hear my mother or aunts make reference to "feathers" belonging to them or other ladies, and they would all erupt into laughter. It wasn’t until much later in my adult life that I found out what all this meant.


Fast forward: My friend and I were going to Target the other day. She has a lot of dating tales, so any outings with her are filled with some story or another. She’s actually a private person but if she lets you in she will share and tell you the world. I love people like that––not shy or inhibited once they know you. She’s one of those friends you can not talk to for months and get back together like you never lost touch. So of course I asked her if there was a man in her life.


“Oh, did I tell you about Mr. Man?”


“No, who is he?”


“You know the one that has the kids.”


"Oh yeah. You're still doing that––I thought you didn’t do men with kids?”


"I know––that's part of where this huge fight came from.”


She went on to tell me how she had called him after having had a horrible day at work when she just needed someone to talk to; someone to vent to. He half listened for a bit and said “Let me call you right back––I’m taking the kids to practice.” She responded, “No, I really need to talk.” “Ok," he said, "but I’ll call you back.” As it turned out, he did call her back, but it was hours later and by then she was pissed. (Let me stop here and tell you that when my friend is pissed, all bets are off. She’s one of those people that doesn't know how to argue with the opposite sex––I have a guy friend like this too. They say things that are often below the belt and, to most people, unforgivable.) She told him that the relationship was not going to work. She was tired of playing second fiddle to his children. The conversation went like this:


“I need to be #1 in your life sometimes," she told him.


“My kids come first––you should applaud me and every man who is a good father.”


“I don’t have children, and I’m not impressed––you don't get brownie points for doing what you’re supposed to do. Maybe if I were a mother, I would find your parenting redeeming, but I’m not, so I don’t care what you do for them. I need someone that does for me. “


“Well luckily God has not blessed you with a child because you would not be a fit mother.”


He continues after some thought,” God has also punished you by making you dependent on medication to control your breathing” (she suffers from asthma).


And that was what it took to ignite her. She responded: “If your cripple mother" (she has multiple sclerosis) can be a mother, surely I can.”


And then the line was silent.


I interjected, shocked: “You did not––you did not say that!”


“Yes, I did. I was pissed. “


“You can’t talk about people’s mothers!”


“He stabbed first.”


“He talked about you––your health, not your mother's. I can’t believe you.”


“Well, he took off the gloves first.” She continued to relay the conversation to me.
“You spend your days trafficking around your talentless ass kids and that so-called basketball star of yours can barely control the dribble out of his mouth, let alone the dribble of a basketball.” And at that, the conversation ended.


“You said WHAT," I said, shocked. “You know you will have to justify those comments to a higher being one day...”


She laughed and we split up, shopping for different things. Before I knew it, 30 minutes or so had passed, and I couldn't stop thinking about her words. They hurt my feelings, so I knew Mr. Man had to be hurt. I found her again in the toiletries aisle. She was searching her flawless Chanel bag.

“What are you doing?”


“Oh, looking for my phone, I need to see if Mr. Man uses Magnums or Trojans.”


(WTF!!!) “He’s speaking to you? “


“Oh yeah––he called later and said that he thought about what had transpired and that he realized I must have really felt alone during my time of need. We admitted we'd both said things we didn't mean..."


(Ummm you called his mother a "cripple"...)


"...and that he was sorry and wanted to talk in person. “


My mouth was open, but then it came to me: some women have special powers that allow men to experience something that they will never experience again sexually. It’s like a drug addiction––once known, they spend their days on earth searching for the lady at the end of the block. So now I know my friend is one of them; she has a fucking feather down there!

Jack Rabbit- In the past

Everything was cool until about 1 a.m.––late night will get you in trouble every time. But before the bad news, I'll deliver the good. It began with him picking me up from the BART and taking me to his cute, but small and overpriced townhouse that was packed with lots of books and papers. But I guess I should back up and tell you how I got there in the first place. A friend had introduced me to this guy. She thought we would be compatible and she was correct. Unfortunately, he was moving across the country for school. We chatted for months via the phone and email. I decided to take a trip to L.A. to hang with a good friend for the weekend, so stopping for a day trip to meet him on the way seemed innocent enough. So there I was. After we left his townhouse, we had dinner at a cute Mexican place. The weather was gorgeous–a warm 72 degrees and sunny. We walked around campus which is huge by the way–makes me want to quit my job and go back to college. Later that night we went to this networking event at the museum. It was so unbelievably amazing–the museum I mean. The event was sponsored in conjunction with the school but also brought a lot of locals out. Very shi-shi-fru-fru-high- intellect kinda thing–you know, with overly intelligent people with way too much useless knowledge. We stayed most of the evening just talking and socializing. I guess I should add how I was feeling about him at this time–I thought he was super sweet, hella smart, and had a great sense of style, but in an effortless way. So I liked him!!! He hadn't tried to make any advances toward me but I knew he found me attractive. He watched me as I walked in and out of the gallery rooms at the museum, seeming to be a bit overprotective when men were talking to me. Afterwards we walked around town and decided, since the temperature had dropped, to rent a movie. We picked Match Point, a favorite film of mine. The movie is rather long, and it was almost 2am in the Midwest (so midnight there) and I could barely stay awake. I took a shower and got in the bed. He did the same. He kissed me for the first time–really soft and sweet. I was actually quite surprised–see, though he had shown a slight interest, he also played the role of “shy guy." The kisses were nice and while all of this was happening I was trying to decide if I should go all the way. Now this was a huge deal because rule # 21 (one of my many rules) says if you travel over 150 miles you should expect that sex will be in the picture. But at the same time this was the first time we met face-to-face and he was a graduate student in a PhD program––a potential real boyfriend. I knew I was thinking too much, and at the same time I was contemplating this, I realized we had moved to second base. It was getting heated. "Ok make a decision, make a damn decision," I thought, but then I noticed that even though he was getting really heated, I wasn't being poked by the "one-eyed monster." "Oh, wait," I thought, "I guess that's it. Wait, is it?" Now, in all of my years of sex I must admit I have not had much experience in the small-penis arena. I've heard stories, but I guess I have been blessed not to have actually experienced one or, if I did, I must have put this, along with many other bad experiences, out of my mind. So now the question was still "Do I really move forward?" Then I recalled an article I had recently read in an old Glamour magazine that said something about size not being everything and, if a man knows how to work with what he has, then that's all that matters. As I was thinking about all of this, we were moving slightly outta third base. "Okay, what are you gonna do," I asked myself. "Well, why not? I mean, I don't have sex that often and I have hit a few rough patches post the last boyfriend, plus Glamour said it doesn't matter, right???"
WRONG!!! He was a fucking jack rabbit––I mean like the fastest thing I've ever seen. I was so surprised. I was thinking, "Dude––the soft kisses, the rubbing my face, where is this coming from? Who moves this fast? Is this what you do with a small penis? Fast movement = she won't think my dick is small?" Plus, he was a sweater. I hate sweaters; they make me hot and mess up my hair. So, as he was stabbing me like a piece of roast and sweat was dripping on my fresh blow-dryed, bone-straight hair, I was just there looking like a deer caught in headlights. "Think, think! What I am going to do? Okay, you got yourself into this mess, and now you have to get yourself out." Plus, I remembered once in an e-mail exchange I put under the category of things I'm good at, in order of preference, "sex." I thought, "Am I going to let this guy ruin my rep? Snap outta it and participate!" I tried to take control of the situation by getting on top. I thought I'd set the pace and maybe, just maybe, he'd slow the hell down. Nope. He got even more excited. He had the nerve to become a talker and an ass smacker. Now, there is nothing wrong with a little ass smacking and dirty talk, but it has its place. That place is with a man with a large penis who is not stabbing me to death. At this point, I was grossed out, thinking, "you need to stop all the talking and slow down!" He was going a mile a minute and not really even doing much. So I did the unthinkable: I faked an orgasm. Now, the thinking here was, "fake an orgasm, and then he'll be so turned on he'll have to have one as well." Wrong again. I guess the mind of the small- penis man works differently from that of a large-penis man. He got even more excited and said, "I want you to cum again." "You can't be serious," I thought. But he flipped me over and then just started going full speed––faster than lighting. So there I was; dry, the condom bothering me, not sure I’d ever be able to have children; it was not good. I decided I was just going to have to ride this one out, and after what seemed like another 40 minutes, he finally came. WTF!!!