I introduced my friend … let’s call her Sally (because I promised no real names) … to one of my best guy friends.
He’s a dirty, dirty whore, I said by way of introduction.
A couple hours later I asked if she was interested in him. No, Sally said. I’m just not attracted to him. Sorry.
That’s cool, I said. Because I can’t whole-heartedly endorse him. Great guy to be friends with — but not to date. Every girl who sleeps with him cries.
Why? Are they in pain? another friend asked with sudden interest.
While I don’t have any first-hand knowledge. I think the pain is more emotional.
One girl he slept with and never called went to his office. He wasn’t there, but his dad works in the same building. She told his father that his son’s an asshole. DDW just shrugged, “My dad knows who I am,” he said.
Whenever I date guys, I always worry that they’re really DDW — but I just don’t know them well enough yet.
A couple hours later, after DDW told us about getting roofied in Phuket and waking up on a beach with a whore not knowing who he was, or where he was…. Sally started telling stories about all the different kinds of sex she had all over air planes. I mentioned an upcoming tubing trip. She mentioned the sex she had in rivers. DDW talked about his inability to successfully have sex in his bathtub. Sally talked about the scar she has on her hip from the last time she had sex in a bath tub.
So, red heads are your favorite, she said.
Yeah, I told her. He really likes red heads.
We stopped by her house to get her dog. (But then she remembered her dog has fleas.) She came back to the car without any jammies or a change of clothes. That’s the moment when I figured she probably wasn’t going to join me in the guest room.
They started drinking vodka. I went to bed.
Around 5:30 a.m. I heard Sally screaming, “That is not funny! That is not funny!” over and over again.
She sounded mad. And, since I know DDW — I felt I had to go check to make sure he wasn’t doing anything she didn’t consent to.
I walked out into the hallway; they were naked in the jacuzzi tub. (They hadn’t closed the bathroom door. He has this amazing bathroom, with a giant bath tub facing a flat screen TV. I want his bathroom.)
“Come in,” Sally said. “Join us!”
Oh God, no, I said, covering my eyes. I was just making sure you were okay.
The thing is, I hadn’t really wanted to stay alone in the house with this guy, so I was glad she came home with us. In the morning, I felt like I had sacrificed a baby lamb. (Kind of like when I didn’t want to play on my boyfriend’s softball team, so I helped recruit sporty girls.)
I debated not waking them up to say goodbye when I left in the morning. But I figured they had woken me up. I put my hands over my eyes and walked into the room and said, “Bye, y’all!”
Where are my clothes! Sally said.
Yeah, I don’t know that.
Are my clothes at my house? she asked.
?
Before I left, I snapped a picture. (And if I could figure out how to photo shop black bars over their eyes, it would be posted right here. I double dog dared them both to make it their Facebook profile picture, but they refused. Even though they both texted me that afternoon asking how the picture came out. )
Sally called me later that day (but I was at a birthday party surrounded by 4-year-olds, so it wasn’t the best time for a morning after talk).
It was actually, quite good, she said.
Eew.
And I haven’t cried, she said.
Not yet.
