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Memoirs: Quick Escapes

In light of the Push Buttons article I posted today, I remembered what happened to me one night that pretty much set the tone for most of 2006 and it’s the kind of situation that I can laugh about today but felt like hell as it was happening… ironically, it has nothing to do with push buttons but either way, here it goes.

One night while I was out with a certain poop over at a friend’s house just hanging out, she decided to go home at around 11pm and as she was driving away, after the always delightful painful goodbyes we always do, I get a phone call. On the other side of the line, this girl who I’ll call “OwlEyes.” She’s this girl I dated a couple of years ago, things didn’t work out for the same reasons most of my relationships don’t work out but we still kept in touch. Her selling point? Deliciously large breasts. She has an irregular waist though; seems like every time I see her she’s either a little chubby or ripped and streamlined… thank Marley, her breasts remain deliciously large. That’s not the main reason while I like her so much though… I like her because she’s adorable. Like, Bubbles-from-the-Powerpuff-Girls adorable; even if it’s silly as hell I can’t help but love the hell out of her even if she is kind of a klutz, but it’s part of her appeal and I lke it very much. So, she calls me and she says that she wanted some company since she was alone, it was a Wednesday and her parents were in the Interior tending their house over there. Automatically I knew where this was going, and this also told me whatever douche bag was going out with her was in bad terms with her and she wanted some comfort. Poop’s car was driving away and I kept thinking as OwlEyes kept telling me about the reasons why I should go over to her house while not being overtly obvious and in retrospect I’m kind of amazed why I didn’t make a decision sooner than I did. I found a way to make me feel better about myself in wanting some “satisfaction” while Poop and I were in the middle of our latest relationship cycle.

“I’ll be there in 15 minutes,” I told her. I got there in 10.

So, it’s around 5AM or so and we’re lying on her parents’ bed. I was marveling at the ridiculously large TV screen in the room and how I could possibly push it out through the kitchen and strap it on top of the car after this girl fell asleep… her head was rested on my chest and we were talking about random things, me being my usual funny self and what not until the topic of size vs. technique inexplicably came about. I believe the working phrase was “the size of the boat, or the motion of the ocean.” After some lively discussion on the subject, I make the retarded choice of sinking myself deeper into the quagmire:

“So… what do you like, OwlEyes?”

“Don’t ask me that…”

“Do you like the size of my boat, or the motion of my ocean? What do you like?” I ask, laughing at how moronic that question sounded.

OwlEyes then waits until I stop laughing and, lifting her head to rest her chin on my chest, her silky blonde hair flowing on the sides of her face and her beautiful green eyes staring at me as if she had lost something behind my eye sockets and, in the most sincere, honest and heartbreaking way she replies, starry-eyed:

“The feeling behind it.”

Fucking mierda. Perhaps the utter panic and sirens where passing through to my expression, but to this day I don’t think I can say for sure. I felt the same way the crew of the Enterprise from the old Star Trek show as they would wobble back and forth whenever the ship got hit by a laser. Flickering lights all around, sparks and fire coming from the consoles as the entire crew is thrown from side to side in an astonishingly synchronized manner. I could honestly hear a fire truck siren blasting from within my ears. Now, make no mistake, bitches: this was a booty call. It fell under all of the guidelines of said act: A call, generally late at night, bullshit optional, a ride over to an apartment, sex, catch-up and then you’re out like a light. But no, of course this couldn’t go like clockwork. She had to put the feelings behind it. Somehow, I was expecting it… but my reaction remained the same whether I had known this would happen beforehand or not.

“It’s kinda early… I think I should go, now,” I say, as I sprint out the bed and jump into my pants like a Ninja. To say that I was out the door in a millisecond is an understatement. Now, you must be thinking: “Fucking Rob! Why the hell would you jump ship on a hot piece of ass like that?! You’re gay.” Sir, fuck you. This girl is highly emotional, and God bless her, she was in the middle of a fight with her boyfriend at the time, and she took advantage of the time they “broke up” to call me. I just filled out a role, and a damn good one at that. But once you start putting feelings behind it in a situation like that one then you’re asking for trouble, specifically in this socially retarded, matchbox, macho-fueled society I’ve been dumped into.

In retrospect, I believe she realized where she fucked up (and if she didn’t, she sure as hell knows now) but we saw each other a few other times, much to the hilarity of both her and the people I was with whenever I ran into her in public. Mostly malls. On Sundays when there’s lots of people. Whatever; I must say that in a life where I’ve had to hide inside closets, showers, under beds, inside boxes, car trunks, front seats, jump out windows, jump over fences and inside a sauna once, this incident remains as out of my top 5 in ex-girlfriend after-the-fact moments. We still talk, though not as much since she’s going out with some jackass; hopefully she’ll call again sometime so we can catch up. The message of this story though, if there is one, is that Panamanians can’t even get a booty call right. Fucking Christ.

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