Playing With Matches

Thursday night, I didn’t feel like driving. So, I took the bus to the metro to the bar my friends go to every Thursday.

The very muscular guy who kept trying to kiss me the night I met him  offered to drive me home.

Just two more drinks and we’ll go, he said.

We’d been doing shots. The After-School-Special in me didn’t think he should be driving.

Do you really want to take the bus? Don’t you want a massage? I’ll give you a massage, he said.

I always want a massage. And I didn’t really feel like taking the bus. 

So, even though it was against my better judgement I took a ride home. Walking to the car, he stopped to pee. (Which, I can understand, guys like peeing outside — it’s my 4-year-old nephews favorite thing to do. And, it is like a 30-minute drive to my house.)

We got to my apartment. I got out of the car, and he was standing there peeing in my parking lot.

We went into the apartment (where I have a restroom).

We kissed a little. He’s not that good at it. I wanted to go to sleep.

I went to the bathroom, came back, he took off his pants and started masturbating. 

Tickle my balls, he said. Play with my asshole.

I told him I really didn’t want to. I wanted to go to sleep. 

I kept almost falling asleep, he kept waking me up. Hours later, I was like, “Seriously, you should just give up. It’s not going to happen.” He drank too much, he wasn’t making it to the other side. He said he wasn’t a quitter. To quote the Chapelle Show, he was just beating it like it owed him money. 

But he said he couldn’t go to sleep until he came.

Just close your eyes, I said.

I can’t, he said. I drank too much Red Bull and Vodka. You either have to help me, or I have to go home.

Drive safe, I told him.