She Throws Like a Girl…a Really Pissed Off Girl
I told this story recently and decided to share it with you as I dive deeper in to my history with women and relationships. It goes like this;
She had thrown everything in the room at me that she could find…well, that she could find on her side of the room, that is. Somehow, from the time that I had announced that I was getting out of bed and leaving to the second she fired a tape case at me, the room had been divided in to “her side” and “my side”. She stayed on her side and fired everything that her hand touched in my general direction, and I stayed on my side getting dressed.
She threw cassettes and their cases. She threw books; hard and soft cover and notebooks, too. Being that she was a grad school student at the time, she had LOTS of books to throw. She threw pens. A calculator. Clothes. It just kept coming.
And it all missed. And I mean, missed by a lot. A whole lot. She was looking right at me, rearing back with all of her might and firing at me…but everything was smashing on the wall and dressers behind me. It was actually kind of shocking that she was missing so badly. But she was. Between you and me? It was her delivery; arm straight back…over her head, then awkwardly thrusting it down. Her feet were too close together, her hips canted too far out…no wonder she couldn’t aim. It got to the point where I stopped looking up from trying to pull on my jeans and my shirts and just assumed she was going to miss.
Until she reached for the glass ashtray…
Not 20 minutes ago we’d been lying in bed, post coital…content. We were not a relationship, but we were more than friends w/benefits. We seemed to click in all kinds of ways. Most importantly to us both, we clicked sexually. We both talked about how great it was that we could have batton-down-the -hatches sex and not get all tied up in the tedium of emotions. At least, that was the way it had been.
There had been some back and forth small talk…and as I recall, it revolved around “relationships”…not her and I, you see. But in general. As sort of a “concept”. It went on in vague terms, only to take a rather dramatic dive in to what sort of relationship partners would we be?
Now, normally this would have set my alarms off and ringing. But not here. Not in this bed. We’d shunned the idea so vehemently..brushed it off with such disdain…all in favor of this perfect drinking/fuck/hang out buddy situation that there was nothing to be worried about. Nothing at all. I mean…there wasn’t anything like that on the table. In fact, it was because of that dynamic that we allowed ourselves to *ahem* experiment. Things that people would have a hard time asking their girlfriend to do, I could just say “Let’s do XYZ” and we’d run for her room ready to try it…and she could ask me for whatever she wanted and know that I would gladly give it to her without her worrying that it would change how I felt about her.
Not so fast.
“What do you think we’d be like if we were together”….changed all of that. Because I wasn’t really thinking, I didn’t answer all that well.
“We wouldn’t ever date. Come on..what are we going to do? Fall in love? Have nice sex? Meet each other’s parents and friends? It would be awful.”
I’m not sure exactly how it went from there, because mostly I remember being stunned. She immediately got upset. Like, in 4 seconds. And I don’t mean crying. Oh no. Imean pissed. I do remember, however, that she said…actually…she hissed….
“Why wouldn’t you love me?!”
My response was something to the effect of, “Look, there’s a lot involved in love. There’s trust and there’s…”
“You don’t trust me?! How can you not fucking trust me? You trust me when I’ve got your cock in my mouth…do you know what I could do to you from there?”
Truthfully? I’d never really done my best thinking at those moments. So…no, actually, it hadn’t ever really occurred to me what she could do to me from there. But once it did occur to me, well, it was right god damn then that I decided to get out of bed. This whole thing had gotten out of hand way too easily, and I figured that the best thing for me to do was leave. “I’m going to get dressed, and then I’m going to go…and we can talk about this when you’re not…”
(And then, I really fucked up)
And that was when the tape case smashed a few feet to my left. I looked down at the smoking angel baby on the cover of Van Halen’s 1984, then at her and thought “for whatever reason, this women has lost her shit”. We made eye contact for a second…just long enough for me to realize that there was way more anger than I was giving her credit for going on inside of her…that maaaaybe just maaaaybe all of the sex games we’d been playing had a point that I hadn’t really grasped…
What ever it was, when we broke our gaze she reached out and started firing everything at me she could lay a hand on. At some points she would throw things with whatever hand happened to hit something. (Not the most effective means of throwing things, I might add…I mean, if you’re a righty, throw righty…just sayin’)
I started getting dressed.
It was almost comical, really. I mean, there was shit everywhere. Everywhere. As I pulled on my jeans, things were whizzing around and smashing against the wall…then a shirt would flutter by. I mean, how pissed off do you have to be to throw a shirt?! But it was when I reached down for my boot and I saw the condom wrapper that something inside of me wanted to fix this. I thought “This isn’t right…this is a misunderstanding.”
So, I looked up to say something. I can still see it clear as day. She reached out and grabbed that big ass ugly as sin green glass ashtray…you know the ones that grandmothers had from the 70’s? Ugly and heavy and designed to be on the table for card game nights. The one that you share with a few other people and empty as the night goes on…
I thought to myself something that to this day I cringe when I hear myself saying or catch myself thinking;
What are the odds?
In my mind’s eye, looking back? She went in to the wind up. I kid you not, when I remember this today she looks exactly like a pitcher getting ready to pound a first strike fastball. I know she didn’t really do this, but that’s how it looks in my head today. She let it fly…and it was perfect. Right down the middle for a strike. BANG. I was still doubled over picking up and putting on my boots, and it caught me square on the brow and stood me straight up. For a second I couldn’t figure out what had happened. It felt like fireworks had just gone off in my head. Everything was blurry and my head hurt SO fucking much I couldn’t stand it. There was also a fair amount of blood involved…I knew this because I leaned forward and watched some of it hit the floor not far from that damned smoking baby angel tape case.
What happened next, I’m not entirely sure. The sequence escapes me. I know that right after that the room stopped being “her side” and “my side”. I also remember very loud, very angry hate sex. If you’ve never had hate sex…well, I’m sorry. Everyone should have hate sex. It’s better than make up sex. Truly it is. Ask anyone that’s had both…well, if you’ve had hate sex, you’ve probably had make up sex. Anyhow, that’s not important. Ask them and they’ll tell you.
(But on a side note; I don’t think having it with a concussion is such a great idea. Just a thought.)
A short while later, she fell asleep and I staggered out of her apartment. I managed to grab a bag of frozen vegetables out of her freezer and called my roommate to come and pick me up. Ihad taken a swig of something, then soaked a washcloth in it and cleaned up my head…but I was seeing double and feeling nauseas so he laughed at me all the way to the ER. I walked in reaking of alcohol, still bleeding a bit with an eye swollen shut, covered in blood and accompanied by a guy laughing so hard he could barely stand. All he could say was “His girlfriend did this to him” and all I could say?
“She’s not my girlfriend”.
(AND I had to come up with a story about how it had happened so the doctors wouldn’t tell the cops I’d been assaulted. I told them we’d gotten drunk and I tripped over her and whacked my head)
I think the moral of the story, really, is to be careful with the whole fuck buddy/friends with benefits thing. I mean, really, even when people say that they are ok with it, well…they might be just one post coital misunderstanding away from showing you their best pitch. And believe me, it ain’t a change up.