Adventures In Dating VI: Baconalia III

She kept texting. She kept sending photos. After I while I just went to sleep and let them accumulate. The next night I met a friend at a bar to watch the Bulls game and they started up again. She asked me if it was okay to text me or was I with another girl. I told her I was not, and she asked if we could get together the next night. You won’t believe me when I say this, but I was way more interested in seeing her again for the bizarreness factor than I was interested in getting laid. Don’t get me wrong, I thought she was cute, but the book on my sexual history isn’t exactly filled with tales of one-night stands and flings with girls for whom I had no feelings. Well…at least until recently. So I told her sure we could get together. I asked when and where, and her response was my first hint that maybe something about this situation wasn’t normal. She told me there was a park near her house on San Fernando. We should meet there.

Uh…at a park? At night?

The next night I pulled into the lot at the Carl’s Jr. next to the park and waited her out. She texted maybe ten or fifteen minutes after I arrived asking where I was. When I said I was at the Carl’s Jr. she said to drive across the street to the parking spots along the perimeter of the park and look for her car. So I did. I parked a few spots away, got out and walked towards her car.

She unlocked the door for me and I slid into the passenger seat. She was wearing a white tank top, a grey hoodie and black and white patterned short-shorts. Her fake eyelashes seemed shorter than the gaudy ones she wore to Denny’s, but the fact that she had fake eyelashes on was baffling because as soon as I sat down she told me she’d just come from the gym. She touched her hair and made a face and said she “was gross.” I took this to be a clear warning to not make any moves. She started clicking around on her iPod and asked me if I liked whatever music she was playing. I said it was not what I’d choose to listen to but I didn’t hate it. I lied. By the way, you might have noticed I keep using the pronoun “she” instead of using her name. Honestly, even though we’d talked on the phone a couple times and met for Baconalia I couldn’t remember her name. I didn’t want to do the obvious thing and randomly start a conversation about whether or not she was named for anyone in her family. That would have been a dead giveaway. I decided to wait it out and hope I wasn’t called on to call her by her name.

Unfortunately for me the waiting out period didn’t last long. A few minutes later after some bullshit talk she reached for her iPod again and changed the song. Once it started she lunged at me, climbed over the gear shifter and into my lap and started kissing me. We went at it for a few minutes before she asked me if I wanted to see her house. I said “Sure.” I said it just like that, too. In a “Meh. What else am I going to do? Fuck you in your car?” kind of way. She backed off me and told me that we needed to be quiet because she lived with her parents. I said that was fine, and she followed up by saying, “No. Seriously. I don’t even have a bedroom door.” Shit. This had disaster written all over it. To slightly change the subject I asked if I needed to duck my head down while she drove through her hood. She laughed and said “No, chulo!” and in turn I had to ask her what that word meant. Apparently it means “cutie”. Oh. Okay. Cool. She climbed back into the driver’s seat and we were off.

Her place was a few miles away, a dumpy little house with a concrete front yard and a big gate she needed to open and close in order to pull her car into the driveway. She led me in a side door that opened into a kitchen. Small. Old wood cabinets. I kept my eyes trained on the ground in the event that we bumped into a family member. She led me to the stairs and started up ahead of me. She looked back as if to imply that I needed to tip toe my way to her room. At the top of the stairs she glanced to her right and gave me the “okay” signal which I suppose meant her parents’ door was closed. She walked straight ahead and I accompanied her into her room. It was worse than I thought. Not only didn’t she have a bedroom door, her room was catty-cornered to her parents room. Meaning they shared a wall.

Her room had white walls and one large window overlooking the street. The shades were black and fully drawn. There was really nothing flashy to the room: a full-sized bed in the corner next to the window with nondescript purple-ish sheets, a computer desk on the opposite wall, a bunch of milk crates housing her records and two turntables on a stand-alone table. I couldn’t believe there was no fucking bedroom door. She took my heart racing as a sign of excitement but in reality I was scared to death some dude was going to charge in with a gun or a knife or something and kill me. Why the fuck did I just get in her car and let her drive me to an area I didn’t know. How the hell did I even know this was her house? What if the whole thing was a front? A setup? What if this was some kind of sick gang initiation and I was going to get murdered for fun? How the hell could I perform under these conditions. I was now fearing for my life. By the way, she had her name written on her decks so I finally figured that out. To protect her identity (not that she’ll ever find this) we’ll call her Siena.

I won’t bore you with the details because they’re not significant to the story. It happened. It was good. She turned out to be a fucking freak with by far the filthiest mouth I’ve ever encountered. Which surprised me because she had given me the “no noise” disclaimer. And what’s the deal with the whole “Papi” thing? Ugh. Fucking weird. No one charged into the room with a gun or a knife, and when it was over she knew well enough not to do anything girly like ask me to stay the night. Within five minutes we were back in her car heading back to the park near the Carl’s Jr..

We didn’t even kiss goodnight, I just leapt out of her car and hopped into mine. My phone was sitting on the passenger seat. Jesus Christ, I didn’t even have my phone on me? What if it was a gang initiation and I’d been attacked!? I wouldn’t have been able to call for help! Not that help would have done anything for me if I was cornered in an unknown house with no sense of my location. I had a missed call and a few texts waiting for me. Some friends had met up at a neighborhood bar and wanted me to join them for a drink. I figured it’d be fun to unload this story on them, so I went there instead of heading home.

When I got the bar I slid into the seat next to a female friend, and she looked at me and her eyes widened. Her first words were, “Why do you smell like a Puerto Rican whore right now!?” I smiled and said, “Guys…I have another story for you.”

I went through every insane little detail, from the first meeting to pictures she texted me and the sick shit she said in bed. When I was done my friend asked from across the table why she didn’t come out for a drink afterwards.

“She said she needed to be up for work early in the morning.”

“Oh my God,” another friend began to say, “Are we going to meet her?”

“Definitely not,” I said. “She told me she doesn’t like to drink and plus I’m thinking this was a one time thing.”

“She doesn’t like to drink?” The guy across the table from me asked.

“Yeah, or so she says,” I responded. “…Plus she told me she hates driving on the freeway.”

“Wait a minute,” my friend said, eying me suspiciously. “This girl kicked you out because she had to work early in the morning. She lives with her parents, doesn’t have a bedroom door, doesn’t like to drink and hates driving on the freeway?”

“Yeah…” I said, not entirely sure where he was going with this line of questioning.

“Dude. Did you just fuck a sixteen year old?”

To Be Concluded…

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Iggy Pop – Sixteen