As we go careening through this little lifetime of ours, it’s easy to sit back and fixate on all the people who have jacked us up. Whether it be for a night, a weekend, a few months, or even years, our worlds have collided with those who are not so good for us—or to us.
Rarely, if ever, however, do we stop to reflect upon the masses who we have fucked over. I know this may sound hard to believe, gentle reader, but I’m no angel.
I practically threw a guy out one morning after the worst one-night stand of my life; I called this guy “inadequate” after a lackluster round of oral sex; and I even put a boyfriend on a Greyhound bus out of Vegas after I kicked him out of the apartment—I’m pretty sure I fucked up his life for a while.
A little something happened over Halloween, and while it is completely inconsequential to me, it is very likely that I put some serious fuckwittery into someone for maybe the rest of their days.
Or, at the very least, I kinda messed up their night.
So, I’m dressed like Joan Jett. We are at some horrible bar in the Village after the parade—you know the kind of place that is wall-to-wall sexy nurses, vampires, etc., and finance and banker guys—and I’m thinking, “Ugh. One Drink. Tops. Then I gotta take my leather-clad ass back to Brooklyn.” Some dude approaches me who is dressed like the Love Guru, or that’s what he calls himself. He’s in this long, belted white robe.
“So, what are you supposed to be?” he asks me.
“Who do you think I am?” I say.
I am annoyed with him already for that, but he persists. “I am Joan Jett,” I say.
“Come on Pat Benator/Joan Jett,” he says, stroking his fake mustache. “Let the Love Guru show you path to wisdom and love!”
“What makes you think your path the right one? Or that I even want to get on it?”
“I am the Love Guru! My path is the only true one. Once you have the sex with me, there is no going back to anyone else.”
“So, what do you do for a living anyway,” I ask, fairly bored.
“Finance,” he says.
“Um, no shit?”
So he keeps chatting with me, and finally, I say, “OK, Love Guru, let’s see what you got.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What’s under the robe? Because I’m telling you right now that if you aren’t packing sufficiently, then Pat/Joan isn’t going anywhere with you.”
Now, I had no intention of going anywhere with the Love Guru anyway. But, if you are pissing me off, and I’m feeling a little nasty, then well, there’s no telling what I will do—and there is nothing more I love than fucking with these Wall St. types.
“Well, why don’t you check it out?” he green-lighted me, so I put my hand up and under his robe and started feeling around for his package. It took a while, but I found it and must’ve made a face. “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t think that’s gonna do it for me.”
“Well, why don’t you take another look?” I go back in and really try to give him a good feel around this time, thinking, shit, he should start getting somewhat hard by now, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt–maybe he’s a grower? You know that guy who doesn’t look like much, but then gets hard and you’re like, “Damn! Where’d that come from?” But, sadly, no, I felt just a mushy bunch of boy parts—and I’m not really a fan of the flaccid penis to begin with.
“Sorry,” I say, shrugging. “Doesn’t do anything for me.”
“It’s not even a little big?” he asks. I’m shaking my head “no” at this point, watching his face deflate. “Well, Ok, I gotta go!” I say and bolt.
Then I left and went to Brooklyn, where I drank more beers, ate two Dunkin Donuts and about 20 pizza rolls. I woke up the next morning, with vague thoughts of the entire night’s events rolling around in my head. Then I remembered the Love Guru. Was I too hard on the Love Guru? What if I have given this guy a complex for the rest of his days? And while I don’t remember his real name—or what he really looked like—he will probably remember the bitchy girl who felt his package on Halloween every time he hears Joan Jett and/or Pat Benatar for the rest of his life.