I unlock my dorm room door and push it open. “Andy, look who’s here to see you,” I announce while pulling my key out of the lock.
As I turn toward my side of the room, my heart does that thing where it beats twice at one time instead of beating at its normal rhythm, right before it sinks to the bottom of my stomach, and suddenly, I want to vomit.
Andy is here, but he’s definitely not helping me pack. He’s in the middle of my three-hundred-dollar Pottery Barn comforter, butt naked, in the company of not one, but two naked girls. He has his face buried in one girl’s crotch, and his cock in the other. As I focus on the horrifying scene, I know it will be burned in my mind forever. It’s Lara and Kari from next door—with Andy—on my bed, on my comforter that cost me a whole month’s salary. There’s a naked ass on my pillow, and two sets of breasts furiously bouncing in the air. I feel totally disgusted and violated.
Not one of them heard the door open, or my voice as I announced my entrance. They must be be having a really good time.
Jade walks in beside me, and I shove the door closed, causing a loud thud. In response to the sound, body parts begin to fly and untangle as the three of them sit up, all with looks of utter shock. Are they actually surprised to be caught having sex on my bed? Did not one of them consider that I might get out of my exam a few minutes early and catch them? Oh my God, how long has this been going on?
“I can explain,” Andy says.
Explain? I take a few steps forward, feeling bewildered, hurt, and raging mad. “Explain what? How Lara’s crotch fell on top of your mouth, and your cock fell into Kari’s? Is that the story?” I’m not sure how I’m even holding myself together right now and forming understandable words, but I never expected to see a threesome—especially on my bed with my boyfriend and two friends from next door. “You’re such a fucking douche bag,” I yell. “And you two skanks . . . I thought we were friends. Kari, I held your ratty hair last week while you vomited in a bush on the quad. What the hell are you doing?”
"Oh man, she's totally going to kill all of you," Jade mumbles to them as she twirls her hair around the back of her ear.
“I’m so, so sorry, Julia,” Lara says.
“Sorry? Out. Everyone out.” I feel the sobs creeping up my throat, so I grab what’s closest to me, which happens to be a keyboard. I tear it from the computer and throw it at them, missing all three.
“Jules, you know you have a bad throwing arm. That’s not going to work,” Jade whispers in my ear.
I take my phone out of my back pocket and snap a picture of the horrifying scene on my pretty comforter. “You’re right, Jade. It’s better to post this picture on Instagram later, so everyone knows how slutty these three are.”
“Guys aren’t usually called sluts,” Jade whispers again.
“Shh,” I tell her.
“Please,” Lara begs. “I’m up for a scholarship next year for the community service projects I’ve done this semester. This will ruin my chances.”
I laugh. “Fuck you.”
“Babe, let’s talk this through,” Andy says, standing up from the bed in his full glory. He quickly moves across the room and grabs my arm, pulls me into him, and presses his lips to my forehead. “I love you. I was just—"
"You were just testing out the skanks from next door instead of helping me pack?"
"Well—"
“Get the hell off me,” I seethe, trying to push him away. His grip is tight, and it’s pissing me off even more than I already am.
As I try to squirm away, he tightens his hold. “Please, Julia.”
Fine. So be it. I knee the asshole so hard in his exposed balls that he flops to the ground like a jellyfish, moaning in pain. “Don’t worry; your little pecker problem never did much for me anyway.” I snap one more picture to make one of those cute collages, then take Jade by the arm to leave. “I told you all hot guys were assholes,” I remind her as we walk out the door.
“Only the hot guys you seem to find, sweetie.”
“Fuck all hot guys. No, wait. I will never fuck another one again.”
"You just handled that so well. I could never do what you just did," Jade tells me.
I learned long ago that it's either tears or anger—weakness or strength. I've been gutted before, and I know anger is the best way to deal with the pain draining from the core of my heart. "Don't be fooled to think I'm okay," I tell her. "I don't ever want to date again. I’m swearing off all guys, especially hot guys.”
“Oh—uh, okay well, let’s just get out of here for a few minutes, so you don’t say anything else you’re going to regret,” Jade says, trying to pacify me at this life-altering moment.
"It's true, Jade. I will never make this mistake again.” Three men, all too into themselves to care even just a little bit about someone else—me. Andy, though, he's the icing on the cake made of douchebags, and this heartache I'm about to go through will be enough to last me a lifetime.
CURRENT DAY
There you are. I slide my hand into the back of my bottom drawer and pull out the one thing I’ve been hanging onto like a childhood blanket. There was a point in time when I avoided the thought of a little treasure like this because of the naughty behavior it’s used for. Then, I broke up with Andy, and suddenly there was an ache between my legs that needed a type of attention it wasn’t getting anymore. Seeing as how I've crossed out the idea of dating, my mind was on overdrive, causing me to have wet dreams—because, evidently, it can happen to women too. However, this issue morphed into nightmares that would end with the equivalent of whatever blue balls are for women, which I’ve proclaimed to be a purple peach. Hey, Just go with it, okay?
Anyway, I could either fix my problem with another guy who would break my heart, or I could solve my own problem. Seeing as I’m a DIYer, I’m all for finding alternative solutions.
About a year ago, I pulled up Amazon and searched for vibrators. Little did I know, there are at least a hundred different varieties; some are simple and get the job done, others . . . well, some are big, and some are small, some are quite fancy, some have numerous features, and then there are the types that I couldn’t make heads or tails of (pun intended). I went for simple and cute, figuring it was my best bet, but it was like a dying battery in an electric razor. I needed something with a little more power. So, I moved up a few levels and felt like I was being pried open by the thing. Anyway, it took five tries, but I finally found the “one,” which I call Shermanator because I’m one of those people who need to give everything a name, and I’m just that lonely. In any case, my problem has been solved—no more purple peach.
Now that it’s been almost a year since I found Shermanator, he hasn’t cheated on me once, and I don’t know what I’d do without him. Changing the batteries once a month is way easier than putting up with the good-looking men I tend to be attracted to, and the typical issues come along with them. I know I’m discriminating against hot men, but they have a track record with me, and it isn’t good.
After burying Shermanator under my clothes, I zip up my last bag and hoist it up on my knee to get a better grip, then clamber out of my bedroom and head down the hall to the front door. “That should be it,” I chirp, before tripping over a stupid random shoe lying on our matted, green shag carpeting.
As I’m flying forward and my bag is tumbling through the air, I realize I’ve been so busy packing these last few days that I haven’t had much time to clean up. It’s right this second, just as I’m hitting the ground and temporarily branding my clumsy body with a new bruise that the guilt settles in—or was settling in until the big gasp Dad always makes every time I fall or walk into a wall. You'd think I was getting hit by a car every single time I have a Julia-moment. His gasps are so loud that they actually scare me enough to make me jump. Yup, that's Dad.
"Oh, dear God," Dad shouts, running toward me. "How have I managed to keep you alive for twenty-two years. People are going to think you've been raised by wolves who never taught you to w
alk. Are you okay?"
"Dad, I'm fine," I tell him, pushing myself up to my knees. I love him to death, but he can be very overly dramatic at times, or sort of all the time.
“Let me get that for you, Jelly-Bean.” Dad takes the heavy bag from the ground. Thankfully, it didn’t fly open. Obviously, the only thing that could make this dramatic scene worse is if Shermanator had flown from the bag and fallen in front of him. I can hear it now: What’s this Jelly-Bean? Is it one of those funky, thick pens with all the different colors, like the ones you had when you were a kid? I didn’t know they were still around.
“I can get my bag, Dad, really, it’s okay.”
“I don’t want you falling again, walking into the closed door, tripping down the steps, or . . . seriously, Jelly-Bean, please try to be more careful. I’m not going to be with you in Maine to scrape you off the floor every ten minutes.” Yeah, yeah. My clumsiness is nothing new. Some people have two left feet, some people constantly have their head in the clouds, and some people are lucky enough to be a part of both categories. That would be me. However, I did survive four years of college, so I'll be okay in Maine too.
I meet Dad at my little, circa-1995ish blue coupe—it’s my other pride and joy, or piece of shit, as Dad refers to it, but right now, it’s my ticket to freedom. “This thing is going to shit itself on the way to Maine. You have that AAA card I gave you, right?" he asks.
"It's not going to die, and yes, I have the card," I groan.
"All right then, I think it's time for you to hit the road, kiddo. Let's get moving."
I give him an odd look because he's rushing me. Dad doesn't rush me away from the house, ever. He's usually trying to figure out a way to make me stay longer, unless—"
Dad opens my car door and pats my seat. "Who is she?" I ask, grinning with mischieviousness.
"She? Who? What are you talking about?" Dad replies, looking so confused, yet I can tell he's lying.
"Okay, Dad. I'll play along."
I slide into my seat, and he slams the door closed, but pokes his head in through the open window. "You know, you were supposed to leave an hour ago, right?"
"Am I raining on your lady friend parade?" I crank my seat back and rest my hands behind my head. "Is it a little bit of Monica who's in your life?"
"Julia," he says with a hint of haste.
"Ooh, do you like Erica by your side?"
"Julia, please, mind your own business."
"Rita. You said she was all you need."
"Okay, now you're acting ridiculous. You're going to hit rush hour traffic if you don't get going."
"Oh my God, it's Tina you like to see.
Dad pushes away from my car and folds his arms over his burly chest. "Let me know when you're done singing Mambo #5.”
"Fine, is it Sandra, Mary, or Jessica?"
"Okay, now you're just being annoying. It's none of those women. God, you're just like your old man."
"Can't blame me for that," I say, batting my eyelashes at him.
"Seriously though, you should leave. Just remember, I'm proud of you for getting this big newspaper internship in Maine. I know you'll make me proud and eat lots of lobstah’s.”
Internship . . . sitting on the beach all summer with Jade . . . same thing, right? "I'll have a great time in a chilly office space under fluorescent lights all the way up in Maine. Maybe I'll even get to write a piece about shark attacks."
"I don't think that's a thing in Maine," he says, looking past my car and down the street. I can’t believe he’s nervous. Now, I have to see who she is. If I just draw this conversation out a little longer, I'm sure I can make it happen. He always tries to hide his dating life, but I know what's going on.
"Well, I do wish I could have met this woman of yours, but you're right, I don't want to hit traffic."
"Maybe some other time. Okay, I love you. Drive safe, and don't look at any truck drivers who pass you. You'll give them the wrong idea."
"What, that I'm like driving in the lane next to them?"
"You know what I mean."
“She's a lucky woman, Dad. I can imagine how many ladies must be knocking on your door. You can't fool me." I give him a wink and his cheeks burn red.
Dad looks down at his overgrown gut and grabs it like a bag of sand. “There aren't that many ladies who are that eager to scoop this up, sweetie.”
“No one cares about those few extra pounds around your midsection. I mean, you might want to shave at some point and get a haircut, but then you’ll look so good you won’t even need a wing man. Unless, you're going for the beard and man-bun look, but I don't think that’s the right look for you.
“Actually, I understand that look is quite popular with the ladies. You forgot to forward your subscription of Glamour to your school this past year, so I've been forced to read every article for the past eight months. I know what's hot."
“That’s disturbing,” I tell him.
"It is what it is," he says. “Okay, Jelly-Bean, I will see you in fourteen weeks." He couldn't sound more eager to get rid of me. “Just, don’t forget about me, now.”
"I’m not Mom,” I assure him as I slip the key into the ignition.
“Dad palms the top of my car, causing an echo to bounce around inside. “No, sweetie, no you’re not. I know you don’t have a thing for strapping young men with chiseled jaws and lifetime memberships to the gym that Planet Fitness sends gluttons to.”
“Exactly, I prefer the guys cleaning the toilets at Planet Fitness, Daddy.”
Rolling his eyes at me, Dad leans back in through the window and kisses me on the forehead. “Call me when you cross into every new state until you get there. Oh, and don’t get pregnant, and don’t come home married or something because you found the perfect guy.”
I lift my phone from the cup holder, making sure I haven’t forgotten it like I always do. “I can’t get pregnant if I’m not even looking at guys this summer,” I tell him.
“Yes, you can. I’ve heard of it happening before. It only takes one moment of weakness . . .”
“Dad, I’ll be fine,” but I’m fully aware that I have a horrible track record of not being fine. “Don’t worry. I have crossed good-looking guys off my to-do list forever,” I tell him.
He clears his throat and lifts a brow. “To-do list?”
“I didn’t mean it that way.” Thank God I have Shermanator. He fixes most of my dating issues anyway. If only he would cuddle after . . . “You can trust me,” says the girl who dated a douche bag that trashed our house during a keg party the one weekend my dad had to work an overnight shift. He only peed on our couch, stained three carpets and broke two windows, but I still loved him because I’m stupid, naive, and blind. The threesome threw me for a loop, though. Dad doesn’t know about that part, which is probably a good thing since he’s still not over the whole peeing on the couch bit, but I've finally learned my lesson.
“It’s not you I don’t trust,” he says in his fatherly tone. I know, it’s every penis walking around out there that he doesn’t trust.
Avoiding his favorite line about walking penises, I let out the first, “I Love you, Dad‑d‑d‑d,” and place my hands on ten and two.
With the vision of a car in my rear-view mirror, I pause with curiosity, but Dad pulls his head out from my window and kicks the front tire. "Go, get out of here before my woman realizes I'm old enough to have a daughter who just graduated college.
"Oh God, Dad." She must have three boobs or something. Lovely.
“I love you, sweetie.” Dad takes a few steps back and waves me off. “Oh, and don’t trust the penises walking around!” It’s the last thing I hear as I drive off into the sunset toward penisville . . . I mean, Maine.
Almost there. I Just need to stay awake a little longer. If feels like I may be asleep, but my eyes are still open, and I can still see the road. My head is bobbing a little, but—no! I can't pull over now. I'm so close. Focus, Julia, come on. Wake the hell up. I slap the side of m
y face, trying to knock myself out of this partially comatose state I'm falling into, but it doesn't seem to do the trick. I open all the windows, feeling a coastal chill run down the length of my arms, then turn the AC on full blast and crank Carrie Underwood up to the highest volume. The irony of listening to her sing "Jesus Take the Wheel" is what pulls me from most of the haze, and I chuckle to myself.
I glance down at the GPS for the millionth time and find my exit is only three miles away. I can do this. I slap the side of my face a few more times for good measure, just to make sure I don't fall back into my zombie-like state and drive off the road.
As I become more aware of my surroundings outside of the straight path I'm focused on, I sense a pair of eyes staring at me from the next lane over. Instinctively, I glance to my left, finding an older man looking at me with bewilderment—as if I'm crazy. Ha. And Dad was so worried about me looking at men, specifically truckers, in the next lane over that he didn’t consider they’d want to avoid me because they think I’m a lunatic.
"What? Haven't you ever seen a person slap themselves awake on the road?" I shout through my open window into his. I don't know if he heard me, but, God, cut me slack, old man. I suppose maybe he's giving me a look because of the "Jesus Take the Wheel" song he might have heard. In any case, I'm awake now, so clearly, it all worked.
"In one mile, take exit seven," Siri speaks for my GPS.
Thank God.
After seventeen hours of driving, one seedy hotel room with a peephole in the shower, four sketchy gas stations, a sticky bun, two coffees, five Taco Bell tacos, three bags of Doritos, four bottles of Mountain Dew, fifteen calls from Dad, and five calls from Jade who’s waiting for me in a town called Ogunquit, I’ve made it to my exit. Awake.
Knowing I’m less than a few miles away from the hotel I’m supposed to stay at tonight, I grab my phone from the cup holder. “Siri, call Jade.”
"Calling, booty shaker's cell." Jade. I completely forgot she changed her name in my phone before she left last month. I haven't had Siri dial her yet, but hearing it out loud makes me smile with excitement to see and squeeze her in a few minutes. This is the longest we've been apart since we became friends a million years ago.
The Man Cave Collection: Manservant, Man Flu, Man Handler, and Man Buns Page 2
