For those of us with inflated, romanticized images of ourselves, few things sound as utterly cool as “road trip.” So when in 2007 Lollapalooza announced that the headliners would be Pearl Jam, Muse, and Daft Punk, my best friend and I knew we had to make a journey to Chicago.

We had saved up enough money at our summer jobs for the tickets, food, and gas, but hotels were far out of our limited price range. Luckily one of my mom’s old friends lived in Chicago and so we set up arrangements to stay with her for the three days. The woman was a middle aged actor, recently divorced, and more than a slight alcoholic… But she had a house, so we were all set for our trip!

However the morning of our third day in Chicago, my mother’s friend told us that there was a change of plans. She’d booked a gig out of town so we couldn’t stay at her place that night after all! Oops! We weren’t sure what to do, so we went to the concert and decided we’d just figure something out.

While waiting in the giant crowd for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, we started talking to the people around us and discovered two boys from our rival high school in Ohio. They were the year above us… they had flown in on Thursday… they had a hotel downtown- THEY HAD A HOTEL! My friend and I exchanged a look, reading each other’s minds the way all teen girl best friends can, and realized this was our opportunity to not spend the night on the streets of Chicago. We got their numbers, saying we should “hang out” later, secretly scheming to sleep in their hotel room.

The hitch was that we didn’t actually want to sleep with them. Both of us had boyfriends, plus, we weren’t whores. So, we needed to trick these boys into thinking we were going to sleep with them just long enough for them to invite us to stay over, but not actually put out. I had the brilliant idea that once in their hotel room my friend would get a “stomachache,” then I’d have to take care of her and we’d just go to bed. She was reticent but I knew it was foolproof! So that night, after rocking out to Pearl Jam, we called our new friends to hang out. They suggested going out for pizza or… “You could always come over to our hotel room and we could order in?” We leapt on it, saying we’d be right there!

The plan was working perfectly—it was late enough that the boys had suggested we “crash here with them.” My friend was just about to start her Great Abdominal Pain Act when suddenly my stomach rumbled. It felt like there was a creature inside, gnawing at my innards. Apparently the three days of eating nothing but greasy festival food was catching up to me. I ran to the bathroom and did terrible things. Terrible, terrible things. I wanted to believe the other three people couldn’t hear me, telling myself this hotel might have soundproof walls or something! After about an hour, I emerged, and knew my hope was wrong. The boys looked disgusted, my friend shocked, as if I’d just murdered a baby panda. I tried to speak but one of the guys interrupted me: “Let’s… just go to bed.” I agreed and lay down on the floor with my friend. Sure I was embarrassed, but the plan had still worked. We had a roof for the night, and those boys did NOT want to sleep with us.

When I was in high school I had two relationships. The second lasted through a good chunk of college, and while it had some pretty bad parts, ultimately was one of the best things to ever happen in my life. The first one was a total train wreck.

I’ve already discussed my disastrous attempt to give this particular guy a lap dance, but there were so many other moments that just make me wish I’d just been trapped in a coma from ages 14 – 16. So many badly handled situations.

On this occasion, my boyfriend’s parents had gone out of town, leaving my beau home alone. Well, almost. Rightfully not trusting him, they had asked a family friend to stay at the house and essentially babysit their 16-year-old son. They were fairly lax about rules except for one: No Chelsea. While they were unable to properly chaperone, I was not supposed to be within a ten-mile radius of their son’s penis. And unfortunately the house sitter had been thoroughly briefed on this rule.

However, one Saturday afternoon an opportunity struck. The family friend had plans for the evening and so headed out for the rest of the day. My boyfriend called the moment she left and I immediately asked my mom for a ride! My mother did not like his parents (or him), and so didn’t speak to them. Which was great, because then she didn’t find out pesky little details like when they would or would not be home.

So I arrived at his house and our secret day of romance was going great! Until we heard a door slam. We fumbled for our clothing, he muted the Incubus song on his stereo, and we heard the babysitter call up a hello to him. She was back much earlier than expected. Immediately my boyfriend started to panic. He was already in trouble with his parents for drinking and so could not afford to get caught with me in the house. But with the sitter directly downstairs, it would be impossible for me to sneak out unnoticed. Especially because his house was the very old kind, where every step causes loud creaking. He began frantically whispering at me to climb out of his bedroom window. I looked outside. There was no tree, no ivy… nothing to climb. I pointed this out and he said “I’m sure you’ll be fine. It’s only like 30 feet. You can jump!” ROMANCE! As I insisted once and for all that I would not be jumping out of his window to my death, I came up with a new plan.

In unison we walked, step for step, to the bathroom down the hall from his room. Once inside he turned the shower on, thus covering up the sound of our voices. I pulled out my cell phone and called our mutual friend—a guy who lived down the street. Thankfully he answered. “Come over,” I told him, “and wear a sweatshirt and jeans!” He was confused, but agreed to do it. I then called my mom and asked her to pick me up at the park nearby in 20 minutes. My boyfriend turned off the water and we carefully walked back to his room, again in unison to avoid suspicious creaking. He called down to his house sitter and said a friend was stopping by to do some homework. She said that was fine, and laughed, “anyone but that Chelsea girl!”

Our friend arrived a few minutes later and headed upstairs. We grabbed him once he entered my boyfriend’s room and explained our situation. He was confused how he could help, when I ordered him to strip. As most freshman boys would do if a girl asked them to take off their clothes, he obliged. So I proceeded to put on his baggy sweatshirt and jeans, stowing my clothes in a plastic bag. My boyfriend handed our friend some of his extra clothing, which left my friend in a tight t-shirt and athletic shorts and me in an outfit 3 sizes too big. But the plan was in action. Realizing my mom would be at the park any minute, I pulled up the hood and walked downstairs, now with a new male identity. I stared at the ground, trying not to be noticed.

“That was fast!” the babysitter commented, since “I” had only arrived for homework a few minutes prior. I nodded, not wanting to risk the voice, then rudely rushed toward the door without another word. When I got outside, I ran to the park and arrived just as my mom was pulling in. She was confused at my outfit, but I assume not as confused as the house sitter was when an hour later the real friend left the house for a second time that night. But the ruse worked. And it will probably be the closest my life will ever come to a heist. 

Just about everyone thinks their life is like a movie, and I’m no exception. However, I think I am unusual in that mine is The Parent Trap. No, I don’t have a twin (well, not that I know of. I suppose that’s sort of the point of the film…), but I do have parents who rekindled a romance after not speaking for approximately 16 years. 

To start, we need to go back to before I was even born. My dad was married to another woman with four kids, just as all fairy tales begin. Soon after he and my mom started seeing each other, he left his family to pursue this new, redheaded love. They dated for a few years, moved in together, broke up, got back together, broke up again, etc. until finally my mother got pregnant and they decided to stick it out and try to be a family. Which totally makes sense considering how well it worked for him the first time.

Sadly, things fell apart yet again and so by my 5^th birthday, I had every kid’s favorite euphemism: Two Christmases. Though, in my case it’s actually not a euphemism for divorce, because they were never married. Alas, I am a bastard. Much like Jon Snow, Gendry, and the Sand Snakes, I too- Oh, this isn’t a good time to launch into Game of Thrones discussions? Ahem. The point is, my parents split and not on terribly good terms. My childhood was filled with “I don’t want to say anything bad about your father, BUT, isn’t he just a selfish liar?” and “I don’t want to put you in the middle… but how can you stand your mother’s manipulative, evil ways?” I’d know my dad was on the line by my mother’s cursing; a screaming match having erupted in the five seconds of “hello.” Every effort was taken to avoid any contact whatsoever, which was fine by me. I should probably have been scarred by all this, but honestly, I didn’t really care. I loved them both, but I was far more concerned with things like ice cream, my cats, and my long-time crush to dwell much on my parents’ relationship. It’s clear why I became so selfless and not at all self-absorbed… she wrote, in her blog about her life… 

However, my junior year of college things got weird. In the same three month-stretch, my mom had to get shoulder surgery and my dad had to get knee surgery. Both of them had recently ended relationships and with me off at college, they had no one to help them through the procedures and physical therapy. On the phone to my dad I joked he and my mom could always help each other. It was a joke because of how obviously absurd it was. That’s like suggesting a Lannister and a Stark work together to- OK FINE, I’m just really excited about Game of Thrones right now. The problem is, my dad said it was a good idea. Later when I spoke with my mom she mentioned that my dad had called and they were going to get lunch this week. Wait, what? Well, I guess that’s fine. Nothing to worry about…

Wrong. When I came home for winter break they told me it was official: they were dating again. I was horrified. We all ate dinner together. We all went to the movies together. WE SHARED ONE CHRISTMAS. Were these the same psychos that had raised me? I tried bringing up how weird it was that they were dating again but they seemed to have selective amnesia, only remembering the things that used to work and strategically omitting all the relationship-warfare that had been going on for all of my life. But they both seemed happy so I decided I shouldn’t get involved. Maybe it’s nice that they have each other, I thought. It’s weird, yes, but maybe theirs really was True Love and they were finally mature enough to make it work! I checked my own discomfort with the situation and gave them my support.

Six months later I was consoling each of them on the phone, switching between lines as they yelled to me what a complete monster the other was, though of course that shouldn’t affect how I feel about them… unless I want it to… And as I calmed them down through expletives and tears, I wished I’d blown the whistle on this romantic death trap the second it rose from the grave.

So now things are back to normal and they hate each other again, just now with fresh venom. And I finally understand why Lindsay Lohan is so fucked up: she had to live through the greatest cinematic lie ever told.

Freshman year of college, my best friend and I stayed in New York over spring break. “We’ll have adventures!” we agreed; the newness of The Big Apple still thrilled us to the core (PUNS!). So the first night of freedom, after everyone else went home to pack for trips, we decided to go to a 24 hour diner fittingly named Around the Clock.

We walked in the direction that we thought was correct, but immediately got lost. A police car passed us once, then a block later passed us again, then slowed. The driver’s window rolled down and a police man with a thick Brooklyn accent greeted us. “Evening, ladies, I noticed you seem to be changin’ directions back there, didn’t know if you were lost.” We said yes, we were, to which the officer informed us we were a long way off. “Why don’t you get in and we’ll just give you a ride,” he suggested. When parents tell you not to get into cars with strangers, surely that doesn’t mean police, right? We climbed in. 

We sat behind a set of bars that made us feel criminal. A second officer was riding shotgun, a fat guy in his early forties who hardly spoke. The driver, meanwhile, couldn’t shut up. “The reason we’re patrollin’ around right now, is we got a call about a naked guy. So when we saw you turn we thought, ya know, maybe you saw him. You girls didn’t see him, right?” We shook our heads no. “Well you girls have been the highlight of the night! You know, meeting two pretty, beautiful girls…” We giggled uncomfortably, but seconds later they pulled up in front of the diner. We stepped out of the police car, red and blue lights flashing, and walked into the restaurant, but the host immediately stopped us saying they were closed.  

“What?” I asked. “You can’t be closed, you’re literally open Around The Clock!” The restaurant was half full and all eyes were locked on us. Oooh, I realized, these people think we were just picked up by the cops and that we’re prostitutes. As we stepped back outside, we saw the police car do a U-turn, driving the wrong way up a one way street to get back to us. When we said we’d just go home the driver insisted on finding us somewhere else to get food. “I can’t have two pretty girls left unsatisfied!” So he drove us to another diner he knew, far from the village. As we drove we made small talk. “So… what do you girls do?”  

“We’re freshmen in college.”  

“Wow. Brains and beauty. You girls are the total package, huh! What bars do you go to?”

Was this a trap? 

“Uh… none. Because we’re 18…”

“Well I could suggest some good ones. They don’t really ID around here anyway. You should try this place over on Avenue B!”  Were we really being told about a good bar that didn’t card by a cop? “You should give me your numbers and I could give you a call when I’m going with some people or something,” he added as we pulled up to a new diner.  We said thanks but we just NEVER drink, and we left in a hurry. We watched as the cop car pulled away and disappeared. Then laughed, relieved. 

As we exited the restaurant, now filled with cheese fries, my friend lit a cigarette and we tried to figure out where the subway was. Suddenly, a car rolled up. A police car. Apparently our friends had parked nearby and waited for us. For an hour. “We drove you pretty girls far away from where you live and realized you have no way of getting home! We should have at least given you our numbers so you could have called us for a ride…” We tried to use my friend’s cigarette as an excuse to walk but they countered. “Go ahead and smoke in here! Besides, it’s almost 4 in the morning, it isn’t safe for you to be walking alone out here… Who knows who you’d meet.” So once more we got into the back of the car. They rolled down the windows for the smoke and turned on the radio, blasting 80s music. “Up next,” the DJ said, “is ‘Roxanne’ by The Police.” My little heart just about exploded from the irony. The driver turned it up and said “I love this song. A lot of people think it’s romantic and use it as their wedding song but actually Sting wrote it about a stalker. Kinda like us! Since we’ve been following you girls all night!” We laughed awkwardly. I’d never encountered someone so direct with their creepiness.

He changed the subject: “Have you girls been to Madison Square Garden yet?” We said no, we’re just poor college students, we mostly stay in. “Well why don’t your boyfriends take you?” We said they preferred taking us to do other stuff. Neither of us actually had boyfriends but it was clear where this was going.  “Well, maybe you girls just need to date older men who can afford to take you out. You know, The Police are coming to Madison Square Garden next month. I work sometimes as a security guard there so I get free tickets to all the shows. If you give me your numbers I could take you girls. I could show you the city.”  We insisted our boyfriends wouldn’t like that, again stressing the we-have-boyfriends angle since the we-are-barely-legal angle didn’t seem to matter. “Don’t worry, you could both go so you wouldn’t feel uncomfortable or anything. I could take both of you out. Believe me, I could handle both of you at once.” My friend and I glared at each other, more aware of the bars trapping us than ever. Is this how girls get murdered? “And you know, they give us guns so it’s kind of in your best interest to go out with me right now. You know, for your own protection.”  At that point his partner forced a laugh and said “HAH you’re just joking around!” We pulled up to the corner a few buildings away from our dorm and the driver made one last attempt, “so you’re really not going to give me your numbers? It never hurts to have friends in the NYPD.” We got out of the car and thanked them for driving us around, then bolted into our building. We may not have gone to Cancun, but how many Spring Breaks involve getting both literally and figuratively picked up by the cops? Actually, probably a lot.

To save money in college I applied to be a “Residential Assistant” in a dorm. The deal is you get free housing and a meal plan in exchange for being a glorified babysitter. For two years of my life, my job was consoling homesick 18-year-olds who were secretly just upset that someone ate their yogurt. The dumb thing is, I loved it. Many of my best friends from college were the fellow RAs I met in that job, and I even stay in touch with a few of my former residents. However, there were moments over the course of those two years where I hated it beyond words and wanted nothing more than to go on an 18-year-old-punching-spree.

Junior year I found myself suddenly single and new to the New York dating scene. As previously mentioned, my way of dealing with this was to sign up for online dating. Through that, I’d met a guy I thought was a little bit perfect—he was getting his PhD in neuroscience, he was a former punk with tattoos to prove it, and he looked exactly like Young Tom Hanks. Obviously he made quite a SPLASH (wait, you’re telling me 80s references aren’t hilarious?). After going out for Thai food and spending a day in the park, we’d made it to date #3. The BIG one (OK fine, fine, I’ll stop). I intentionally picked a local bar for drinks and after a pitcher or two got the confidence to invite him back to my place. 

We giggled and kissed as we approached my building and stumbled into the lobby. Where we were immediately stopped by a security guard and prompted for our IDs.

“Uh, is this a dorm?” he questioned. Somehow I’d forgotten to mention that. 

“Yeah… you, um, have to sign in.” He awkwardly fumbled for his ID and filled out the form until the guard asked how long he’d be in my room. He paused, clearly uncomfortable and I grabbed the pen and scribbled something, blushing hard. However I was determined not to let anything ruin this night! But when we got to my floor, things only got worse. Despite the late hour, my residents were all up and had decided to camp out in the hallway. Seeing this guy with me, they winked, they cheered, and they cat called. I ushered my date down to my room, my face now a shade of purple with embarrassment. “Shut uppp” I hissed at them, suddenly understanding how older teen sisters feel in movies when their dates get busted by little brothers. Luckily, when we got in my room, there was a bit of a reprieve. Suddenly it was just us again and soon enough we began hooking up. Drunk and satisfied, we laid down… or tried to. The bed was of course a twin, designed to be barely enough room for one person, let alone two. We attempted to cuddle, then just tried to sleep, and somehow before morning I realized he’d moved down to the floor. 

We both had things to do the next morning so he gathered his things and prepared to leave. Despite some set backs, I said I’d had fun. He agreed, saying there were a few strange moments but overall, worth it. I smiled, as I opened my door. And then I saw it.  My residents, the clever little demons, had taped up homemade posters on my door and the wall by my room. Phrases included “GET IT” and “Please fuck more quietly!” and simple wink faces. His mouth dropped open, and he picked up his pace to the elevator.

“Thanks again,” he said. “I’ll call you soon.” 

He didn’t.

I am, unfortunately, a greedy person. Not necessarily in the way that corrupt Wall Street traders and corporate raiders are greedy—I don’t try to sabotage others to increase my own wealth or anything like that—but as I’ve mentioned before, my brothers were only around on the weekends so I never had to learn about stupid things like “sharing,” or whatever. To put it in terms that I prefer, I’m basically just your textbook Slytherin: ambitious, a little power-hungry, and not always the best team player. Or if you’re my mom you can just explain it as me being “such a classic Leo!” 

At times, this mindset has helped me—classes graded on a curve became instant competitions, spurring me on until I had surpassed all other students. At other times, my greed has just made a little rude by say, not offering a piece of the chocolate I’m eating to friend because IT’S MINE, DAMMIT. However, as I’ve gotten older I’ve started to realize that my ambition and desire to be the best has had some negative side effects. And it’s something I see a lot of other young people fucking up as well. I think it all comes down to Mercantilism. (Nice blogging, Chelsea! No better way to reel people in into a story than with a lighthearted discussion of historical economic theories!) My probably incorrect memory of Mercantilism is that wealth is a limited quantity. The richer you get, the poorer I get. Now as badass economist Adam Smith wisely said, “that’s bullshit, son.” Everyone can get what they want. It may not all be equal, but it’s not like there’s only enough room at the top for the select few. Now, although this ideology was long abandoned, I’ve seen people take this philosophy in many aspects of their lives. By your girlfriend loving something else, there’s less love left for you, or by your friend being super hot, you won’t look as attractive. And in my case, by the people around me becoming successful there would be less success left for me.

Comedian/writer/MTV host Sara Schaefer wrote something that touched on this topic wherein she says, “it feels like we are all fighting for a piece of the pie. And there are only so many pieces of pie to go around. But that’s a myth! There isn’t just one pie! And guess what, you can MAKE YOUR OWN PIE.” I’ve said things about friends out of jealousy that I regret, and I’ve held back much deserved congratulations to others because I was too busy feeling sorry for myself. But the older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve been able to honestly cheer on others without thinking about how I compare. Which is probably a good thing, since 95% of the time, I’m wearing sweatpants. 

Guest post by Austin Hall, author and artist of Austin Was Alive.

Maybe this is a ribald claim, but no one wants their mom to see their dick. For me, that Special Organ is reserved for moments most intimate, such as hazy one-night stands and weird second-cousin stuff. With great cognitive dissonance, I have to accept that since I was once a human baby, my mother has seen me naked countless times; even then, the thought of my baby dick waggling around in front of her still makes me a tad uncomfortable. The only safety is that years later, though hardly increased in size (Hello, ladies!), at least the junkzone has developed an air of pubescent mystery. For most people. Not for me, anymore.

I was home for the summer, sleeping in my parents’ basement as 21-year-olds are wont to do. In what I believe may have been my first alcohol purchase in the United States, my friends and I marched into our local Grocery Store Booze Section, driver’s licenses brandished with cocky aplomb. Friend “C” was teaching friend “L” and I all about various beer-types (a thing I still haven’t really picked up on) - so naturally we each got a six-pack of The Finest Belgian Stouts (¿maybe?) and The Ones with Weird Gnomes on Them (my choice). We went back to C’s house as he began to explain what a “sipping beer” was, contrasting our selections with his homemade Sangria and an entire case of Pabst Blue Ribbon. As I downed the sipping beer to make room for the one designated “First Place,” I remembered I hadn’t really had a drink in a few months. Nor anything to eat that day. No worries! If the Media was to be believed (and why shouldn’t it be!), Tolerance is in the mind, just.

Then my mind threw up, all over C’s bathroom. Unable to appreciate my Rorschach-like vomit pattern in his sink, C decided it was time to take me home. Luckily he only lived a few blocks away, but as he and L dragged me by the arms to my abode, I remembered my father’s only stipulation for the evening: “You have to have the car back by 8am!”

“Gentlemen, it is most imperative that you return the patriarchal vehicle promptly eight hours ante meridiem!” I probably yelled. Or maybe it was something like “Car! 8! [Vomitsounds]!” My memory is a little hazy on details - in fact, the next thing I remember is waking up in my bed, with my dad standing over me. “Where’s the car, Austin!?”

“They said they’d have it back by 8,” I assumed.

“Well, they don’t. Ugh. Fine. I’ll figure something out.” He left after thrusting a trash can towards the bed. Huh! How did he know I vomited at C’s last night? With that riddleseed planted, I passed back out.

I woke up much later in the day, feeling great, feeling good, how are you? I went about my business, wondering if I had run into my parents after I got home and told them I puked. That didn’t seem like a thing I’d do, considering I even hid my middle name from them. Eventually my mother came home from work, and with a weird blank expression, asked how I was doing.

“Feeling great, feeling good, how are you?” I responded, predictably. Eyebrows raised, her expression barely changed. “Do you think you can you clean the bathroom?”

“Yeah, of course! I’m a helpful and altruistic son!” I set about, arbitrarily cleaning the bathroom out of Parental Love rather than obligation, as far as I knew. The toilet was a little dirty, it seemed, but otherwise, it wasn’t so gross. What a silly chore, I figured.

When my dad came home, he revealed that C and L had pulled the car into the driveway just as he came upstairs. The delay was due to L’s vomiting all morning, which was a relief - my 6’ 5” friend was as much of a lightweight as I was! Ego restored and mystery solved, I decided! Nothing else to learn about last night’s blackout! Random trash can aside, of course. I brought the Trash Herring back upstairs to the kitchen where my mother was, determined to end this story because it was already long enough.

But my mother wasn’t so eager to let my Ignorance be Bliss. “Do you really not remember?” she asked me.

“I can remember! I have the capacity for memory!”

“Do you not remember talking to me last night?” is what she meant, apparently.

“No…?” Oh dang. For some reason, I must have told her about vomiting at C’s. That was the conclusion I drew. That was the worst I thought could’ve happened. Then, I learned the truth.

The Blackout, as Relayed By My Mother:

Between stumbling home and being woken up, I had apparently been clutching the toilet all night long, just vomiting repeatedly and moaning so loudly and endlessly that it echoed throughout the house, to the point of waking my parents with my woeful cries. My mother came down to check on me, apparently having an entire conversation to who knows what end. I guess I was so loud that I kept them up the entire night, and only when the moaning stopped were they truly worried, afraid I had choked on my own vomit like some sort of heroin-addicted newborn. Making sure she didn’t have to roll me onto my side, my mother had come into the bathroom again to find me passed out, completely naked for Whatever Reason, sitting on the toilet. Just a quick pants-off, dick-out, potty doze. Nothing weird.

She didn’t check on me after that.

The only consolation I have from this experience is that I don’t remember it. I will never know what kind of appraisal my mother gave my penis; I will never have to see the letdown in her eyes at what her genes passed on. Reality has been cruel, but alcohol saved my shame from being comprehensive. Plus, at least my anus is still sacred.

For now.

Be sure to check out Austin’s darkly funny comic,  Austin Was Alive.

As you may remember from the Blowjob Education Fiasco, I learned a lot from TV and movies growing up. My role models were the sexy ladies of the late 90s screen, with their mismatched clothing, crimped hair, and high-waisted jeans. My figure has always been on the rounder side, so I could never look like the 25-year-old models playing normal high schoolers that I loved. However, I was determined to emulate them in other sexy ways. With guys, I’d make the first move; I’d leave sexy little notes in the book bags of my boyfriends; and when it came to being physical I was set on being more HBO than the WB.  

On this particular occasion, I was dating a slightly older guy from a nearby school. He’d become my boyfriend when during a hook up I told him I didn’t feel comfortable going further if things were just casual between us. He said “well, how about I become your boyfriend… then what do you say?” and somehow that worked. I got what I wanted and he got what he wanted. Now, a few months in, I was trying to expand my sexual repertoire and so I’d plan out some sexy things for our dates. A conveniently placed scarf to serve as a blindfold or a candle full of hot wax (this may be a future post because it did not. end. well.) was the sort of thing I lived for. So to prep for this date I had gotten some lingerie from the Victoria’s Secret in the mall and planned on trying something new. When I heard his car in the driveway, I put on a mix CD I’d made earlier in the week that just had a wink face drawn on it in a Sharpie. As he walked in, Portishead crooned, and when he went to kiss me I pulled away. He looked curious as I walked toward the bed, unbuttoning my shirt as I walked. Soon I was down to my new black undergarments and I told him to sit on the bed. I started to crawl toward him, going in for a kiss but pulling away again at the last second, teasing playfully. I felt like I was straight out of Sex and the City or Ally McBeal. My strip tease had worked so well, I decided to take things even further and give my man (well, my man-ish anyway, I’m not sure he could grow facial hair) a lap dance.  

As Placebo’s “Pure Morning” came on, I trailed my finger down to his belt and moved my body along with the beat. I stretched my legs out on either side of him and kissed his neck. Switching back to the bed, I raised my right foot to sensually slide the smooth skin on my leg against his cheek. But as I moved, he turned his head the wrong way. In one unfortunately timed moment, my toe went directly into his eye. Let me say that again: My Toe Went Into His Eye. He cried out and I screamed, fearing I’d blinded him. I hadn’t, but I had torn his contact lens with my toenail and he spent the next twenty minutes trying to remove it. And the next day he had to go to his eye doctor to make sure everything was OK, which of course involved inventing a story for his parents as to how this injury could have possibly happened. In the homecoming pictures we took a couple weeks later, you can still see his left eye is red and swollen. What they don’t teach you on TV is that being sexy is dangerous business.