The One - No one said it would be easy

by Goldsmith, J. F.

  After the surprise pony I sent him a text message, which started a game of lovey-dovey-text-message-flirting ping-pong. We made a telephone-date for the evening. The phone conversation lasted three hours until late into the night. We told each other lots of things about our respective lives and I was lying on my mobile, smiling happily. We made a real date for the next evening, when he’d simply come home with me after work. Like this was the most natural thing in the world. Not a date on neutral territory, no, we’d get right to it. I was in love, at least that’s what I told myself, and it all felt quite good and quite right. I resolutely pushed aside all of the following: that I would never ever voluntarily introduce this guy to my girl friends or, heaven forbid, to my parents; that the guy was a pleb; that he still lived at home, in the basement of his parents’ row house; that all together the guy was a total disaster area and that he didn’t remotely suit me. Love isn’t just blind; above all, it is stupid. Although in this case, love doesn’t even come into it. It was a clear case of total lapse of taste, induced by singledom.

  However, it’s pointless me kicking myself for this until the end of my days; it happened, I can’t change that. I have no idea what the point of it was – it remains a mystery to me to this day. Next evening, after an exciting day on set with much intense eye-contact and many flirty text messages, Number Twenty-four appeared at my doorstep. We kissed straight away. I can’t recall what that was like, I’ve repressed the memory. I guess it was OK. When he took off his shoes and his grubby clothes, I noticed a fairly strong and unpleasant smell. Exactly the sort of smell that used to emanate from little boys in kindergarten, unwashed and yucky. Boys smell after all! Abashed, I averted my eyes but didn’t say anything, although a “Holy shit that guy stinks!” shot through my head. Naturally I didn’t say this out loud, I was being way too nice again. I pretended nothing was the matter and when he walked off to take a shower that seemed to be the end of the matter. Oh how I wish I’d made a snide comment concerning his absence of olfactory finesse! Because, some time later we had sex, he stayed the night and the next morning the bed and everyone in it smelled like sex, such is life – you don’t come out of a night like that smelling of roses, and he wrinkled his nose and said it might be an idea if I washed every once in a while. He wasn’t being funny or sarcastic or anything – no, the asshole was quite serious. My jaw dropped. Who the hell did this fucker think he was? He dares turn up here smelling like a cesspit and then, after he’s squirted his smelly gunk all over me, he has a go at me! Instead of saying all that out loud, stupid cow that I was, I kept quiet. I was so taken aback by his impertinence I didn’t know what to say. That would have been a good time to kick the moron out of my bed and my life. But, as I mentioned, I was stuck in some masochistic phase of suffering. I turned into a complete pushover.

  But back to the beginning. The stinker came out of the shower, he’d put on my fluffy white bathrobe, even the hood, and Pumuckl with dwarf’s hat on looked so cute and funny that I had to laugh. And he had me again. Minus his stink, he crawled into my bed all fresh and clean, where I’d already made myself comfortable. We went at each other and I seem to remember that it was quite good, and naturally one thing led to another. Number Twenty-four turned out to be quite handsome, very muscular, with six-pack and similar added values, and the equipment between his legs was quite handsome, too. Perfect shape, like a drawing. We were groaning and moaning and giving it all, getting down to business quite quickly, I sat on top of him and we just did it, and it was quite OK. When we were done, he looked at me and then he said: “Oh man, I didn’t want that.” I was confused. “You didn’t want what?” I asked. “Well, to sleep with you during our first night. I don’t do that kind of thing.” Sounding totally reproachful.

  I looked at him in complete bafflement. What the hell is up with this guy? I mean, all right, it’s up to him if he wants to be Mr. Touch-me-not, but what isn’t all right is to go along with it all, enjoy the whole thing and then, afterwards, say, nah, I really didn’t want that, that’s not what I like. So now I was the baddie who’d cheated poor, poor Pumuckl out of his oh so noble principles. I was the bad nymphomaniac sexmonster that didn’t consider Pumuckl’s feelings. I was so taken aback yet again that again, I couldn’t think what to say. I should urgently take a course in quick-wittedness: “How to verbally knock out your idiot conceited lover instantly and immediately” – that’s what I should do. Plus, his I-don’t-want-to-rush-into-things rosy-posy behavior didn’t suit him in the slightest. Whenever the idiot was out and about with his mates from the film crew, he came out with the most crass stuff, and every passing girlie was given the once-over and hit on. But sure, he’d only come over to play a game of Uno.

  The unpleasant affair with Number Twenty-four took its course, for a few weeks we tried to be something resembling a couple. I admit to trying to keep this a secret for as long as possible, because I felt embarrassed to be seen with him. Naturally, it didn’t take long before it was all over the company and I was distinctly uncomfortable with everyone knowing that there was something going on with us. Of course there was gossip. And I allowed it to really get to me. At the time, my self-confidence was buried someplace deep in the Kalahari desert. Number Twenty-four and I met up a few more times, always at my place since he still lived with his parents somewhere out in the sticks. How un-sexy. Deduct another hundred points. And STILL it didn’t make me run screaming for the hills. In spite of a zillion minus points, I stoically continued to endure Number Twenty-four.

  Bizarrely, Pumuckl also worked part-time as a sales assistant in a sex shop. When he first told me, I thought he was shitting me, but no, the shop belonged to a mate of his and so he worked there sometimes. I seriously must be in the wrong movie. I mean, hey, the guy works in a sex shop – what more is there to say? I decided to be practical about the whole thing, and about the presents he brought from the shop. There followed my first encounters with lubricating jelly and penis rings. I loved the lube jelly but the penis rings were funny. Pumuckl pulled one of them on, and it pinched off half his little Pumuckl. The squashed look didn’t do it many favors visually, but if it helped to prolong sexual pleasure – yo well, why not? Apparently, the plastic knobs on the ring thingy were supposed to boost stimulation for the ladies, but I never noticed any difference. Just amazing, the useless bits of kit the sex industry keeps thinking up. In any event, none of it made the sex any better. And since I am none too keen on long drawn-out screwing sessions, the effect of a penis ring on me is more one of amusement than of heightened sexual arousal. Number Twenty-four and I also tried my favorite sex combo: smoking dope and sex. But even that was kind of stupid with him, I was astonishingly turned on and he just screwed away halfheartedly and made fun of me for being so on heat.

  Actually, Pumuckl constantly made fun of me, and not in a good way. Not tongue-in-cheek or nicely wicked, like you do when you’re a couple. No, he was downright mean and nasty. Once, as I stood in front of him, he looked me up and down and said in all seriousness, that they were slagging me off at work because I’d stacked on so much weight, and that they were quite right, and that he really only liked skinny grunge girls. Pow! That hit home. And yet again I stood there, stunned and speechless in the face of such meanness and audacity. Yet again one of those moments when I should have kicked his ass from here to eternity and chucked him onto the nearest hazardous waste disposal site. But now, what does she do, the silly stupid girlie? She stands there, crestfallen, tears flooding her eyes, and she doesn’t show how hurt she is. She smiles crookedly, pretends to have misheard and tries to choke back her tears. She tries to convince herself that he didn’t mean it. Oh I wish I could go back there, by time machine, and stand in front of me and shake me, and yell at me: “You stupid-ass victim, fight back, goddamn it! Don’t let this fucking goggle-eyed moron get away with it! Give him hell, kick his goddamn ass, wipe the floor with him!” Sadly, there are never any time machines when you need them.

  Oh, I could list a
zillion similar humiliations. Even the ending was miserable and nasty. He just didn’t get in touch anymore. Just like that. And instead of heaving a sigh of relief to finally be shot of this moron, what did I do, undignified goose that I was? I panted after him, wrote him letters (I even mentioned love – how could I!) and would have been the certain winner in any clinging-idiot-of-the-year competition. I, usually blessed with a big mouth to suit all occasions, let myself be treated with such nastiness by him, I lost my dignity, I wasn’t me anymore. And the only one to blame for this sorry state of affairs is me – only me. It’s my own fault that I allowed myself to be flattened emotionally to such a degree. But there are times in a life when we are vulnerable, for whatever reason, and some asshole comes along and takes over and wreaks havoc with our heart and mind. Let’s just make sure it doesn’t happen too often – in fact, not ever again!

  Number Twenty-five: So nice, but sadly, so not in love

  I’d known Number Twenty-five for some two years already, and I really liked him. A lovely guy, successful, charming and very witty and funny. I didn’t exactly think of him as sexy, though – he always reminded me of the fat baby with the huge head from the TV series “Dinosaurs”. Friends, yes – but sex? Never ever! There were the odd flirty moments between us, but never anything more. Who wants to make out with a baby dino? I kind of played around with the feeling that I could have him if I ever wanted to. It was a little fun. I flirted a bit harder each time, then dropped back into just-friends mode. Naughty-naughty!

  Number Twenty-five had the gift of knowing exactly what women wanted to hear. He showered me with compliments and words of admiration. I was extremely receptive to all this, since I was still smarting from the misery of my time with Number Twenty-four. My self-confidence had gone AWOL and Number Twenty-five’s compliments were like a life raft for me. He listened to me when I got all upset about Number Twenty-four and offered sweet moral support like: you are a wonderful woman, you look so great, are so clever and charming and funny, everybody wants you. Exactly right for a lost female ego! And he railed against Number Twenty-four: what an idiot, he hits on anything with a skirt, and anyway, he doesn’t deserve you. Incidentally, these days Pumuckl and Baby Dino are best of friends. There’s male loyalty for you!

  As a joke, Number Twenty-five and I began to plan our future together. We built a house, bought a car and picked names for our children. We decided on three daughters with blond hair, a Porsche Cayenne and a designer dream house made from glass. Infected by his enthusiasm for our joint future, I suddenly started to dream about him. The dreams were amazingly beautiful, I felt so safe and secure in his dream presence. And all of a sudden I didn’t give a damn that he looked like Baby Dino. All that counted was that he was a nice guy who wanted to make me happy. And so it happened. The usual “Let’s go for a drink” ended with a drunken kiss at dawn. I wanted to kiss him. I absolutely wanted to know whether the feeling of dream safety was there in real life, too. And yes, it was a good kiss. Not a full score – not an oh-I’m-going-to-die full-blast super-kiss. But solid enough. The kiss gave me a warm feeling in my belly, and farther down, a stirring for more.

  It was really late, or rather, early, but since we were at it already, I was hell-bent on going the whole hog. Even though both of us had to be fit for work in a very few hours, I didn’t have to do a lot of convincing to get him to come home with me. We crawled into a taxi and made out all the way home, and held hands, which felt ever so nice. We had a lot of fun and this whole sliding-from-friendship-to-smooching-and-more thing didn’t feel at all weird or awkward, no, it felt as though it was as it should be. At my place, we brushed our teeth like an old married couple, as though coming home together was the most natural thing in the world for us, as though we’d done this a thousand times before. There was something really special about behaving as though this was perfectly familiar and normal, whilst at the same time it was actually an exciting first pre-bed situation. After the toothbrushing, we crawled into my bed and took up where we’d left off. I eyed him cautiously because this was the moment of truth. Number Twenty-five was naked bar his boxer shorts and sadly, I didn’t like what I saw. He was unbelievably nice and charming and he kissed quite well and he was such a great guy, no question, but sadly, physically he just didn’t appeal. I told myself off, told myself not to be so superficial, that what he looked like really wasn’t that important, and that I would surely get over myself and find something to like about him, like I always had before with all the other guys that had scared me at first sight, physically speaking. Unfortunately, this didn’t have the desired effect either. Number Twenty-five simply was Baby Dino. He was fat and white and wobbly. Everything about him was roundish and not at all manly-powerful-striking. The few fluffy chest hairs did nothing to improve the overall impression of non-masculinity. I really, really tried to get over myself, but this turned out to be damn near impossible. The independent control center in my brain that rules esthetic preferences and the rating of sexiness was blaring out warning sounds: “Attention! No Sex Appeal! Nothing Doing!”

  The control center was right. Not even the high concentration of alcohol in my bloodstream could make Baby Dino more attractive to me. And unfortunately, I made another unpleasant discovery. In spite of all the warnings, I summoned up my courage and approached his boxer shorts. I cautiously made my way in and found nothing but a tiny little bitsy weenie. I could have cried. How could God be so cruel as to give Number Twenty-five Baby Dino girth and looks, and Tom Thumb-sized equipment? This really caused me great distress, because I would so have loved to get involved with Number Twenty-five, but there was absolutely no way. No sex appeal, not a chance of a happy relationship. I hid my disappointment and decided to give it a try anyway. Who knows – you shouldn’t really preclude the possibility of sexual surprises right from the start. I really really tried to make the itsy-bitsy weenie grow into something akin to a slightly less itsy-bitsy weenie, but all to no avail. The tiny thing appeared to have reached maximum size already. It was shorter and thinner than my little finger – I kid you not, this is no understatement. I was utterly amazed that a penis could be this tiny.

  Was I staring at a biological miracle? More than anything, I now felt sorry for Number Twenty-five. This wasn’t exactly his fault, was it? I wondered whether all women would react like me. I knew that he had a number of very attractive girlfriends. How did they react? Or was it just me being stupid? I simply couldn’t imagine that none of the other ladies would find their arousal evaporate when faced with this practically non-existent microscopic penis. There was just no joy to be had nuzzling or playing with such a tiny weenie. Especially when it was attached to such a massive body. You feel like an idiot, trying to “handle” it with thumb and index finger. No way could you use your whole hand. Maybe this is the equivalent of men evaluating a woman’s butt and boobs and saying that they want to feel they’re holding something substantial in their hands. Yes, well dear men, so do we. We’d like something a bit sturdy. Of course I didn’t mention the penis disaster. I acted as though everything was fine. What on earth could I have said anyway? If a guy were to disrobe me, eye me up and then declare: “Nah, sorry, your tits are too small, that doesn’t do it for me,” how would I feel? I’d be outraged, and devoid of self-confidence for the rest of my life. Whoa, a grim thought, that maybe one or other guy actually did think that of me! After all, I was really struggling here with Number Twenty-five’s minimal equipment, and my thoughts were hardly politically correct.

  However, we did try to sleep together. To no avail. I didn’t even have to pretend to be zonked by too much alcohol and extremely tired – I was, and luckily he was too, so that we abandoned the attempt and just snuggled up together. Shortly after, my Baby Dino had to get up anyway. We kissed good-bye, I closed the door, went back to bed and felt really sad. I knew this wasn’t going anywhere, that all we’d done was wreck a perfectly good friendship, and I tried to find an honorable way out. Number Twenty-five, unfortun
ately, appeared to see things somewhat differently. We got together a few more times, pretended to be a couple, I felt awful the entire time but couldn’t get myself to tell him the truth, namely, that I didn’t fancy him in the slightest. I still hoped, against all the odds, that maybe I could fall in love with him after all, and could handle the resulting sexual challenge. After all, I’d been single for over a year now and I was hell-bent on a real, proper relationship. Really hell-bent. I was in love with the idea of being in love with Number Twenty-five.

  Cowardly cow that I was, I then commenced to sit the matter out. He went away on holiday for two weeks, not without kissing me good-bye and handing me a huge bunch of flowers. Every day he wrote a zillion text messages, and my replies became shorter and more hard-nosed by the day. He smelled a rat. When he got back, I asked him to come over for a chat. I didn’t really want to see him, I didn’t even know what to say to him, but I wanted it over with – it was getting too stupid, I couldn’t do it anymore. Over and out! Here’s the thing: if anyone treats you this way, it’s the worst thing in the world and you can’t imagine how the asshole could do such a thing (Pumuckl…). But if it’s the other way around, the worst thing in the world is that the idiot just won’t get the message. What’s so bad about wanting out, anyway? You just can’t want everybody all the time – that’s perfectly normal, isn’t it? Incidentally, I’ve sworn that I’ll make that my mantra if ever I find myself in the asshole trap again, running after some guy, sobbing my heart out. Anyway, I managed to ditch poor Baby Dino before he’d even had time to make himself comfortable. In 10 minutes flat. He wanted explanations but I didn’t have any, I stammered something, hugged him, said how sorry I was and maneuvered him out of the door, leaving him baffled and bewildered. I was so glad, so relieved to be shot of him at last! Because in the meanwhile I’d taken up with Number Twenty-six and I wanted to clear the decks. Yes I know – that was really mean. That’s how fast you can turn from being maltreated by an asshole to being a maltreating asshole yourself. I guess that’s restoring the balance of justice, except that it’s with the wrong people.