I am a horrid, horrid person.
And here’s the proof.
As I have mentioned about a thousand-million-trillion times lately, I have been celibate for quite a while. It’s not a state in which I wish to continue. I mean, it is, but it isn’t.
So here is my befuddled thinking:
I can’t sleep with Mr. Clean, because if he IS after just sex . . .then I gave him what he wants.
(Yes, I realize this is ALL crazy.)
Besides, I don’t want to sleep with him because it will serve to deepen a relationship that I’m not even certain I want.
Some of you may remember Matt.
I posted our entire conversation one night.
Matt is the gorgeous, intelligent, articulate, football fanatic friend who I adore.
We get together and watch football, just talk, etc.
He’s the one (Adam, don’t get all worked up over this again!) who has the “weight limit” on girls he dates.
He ONLY dates women under like 135 lbs.
It’s a RULE.
Yes, he really said that to me.
Who the hell knows what’s wrong with this man.
Anyway, he tells me ALL THE TIME that, were I not medically fluffy, he would be on me like white on rice.
But since I am medically fluffy, I’m out of the running.
And it’s a big but.
Apparently I’m not too fluffy to fuck.
He has been telling me for QUITE some time that it’s unfortunate that we’re both celibate.
Particularly since we could help each other out.
Hint, hint, nudge, nudge.
So, he’s over yesterday watching football.
And I start to really think about this.
Hmm . . totally no strings.
I’m over his weight limit (thank you, medical problems) so he has no desire to have a relationship with me.
I think he’s a macho jerk, so I have no desire to have a relationship with him.
But, we are both quite celibate.
And that’s a shame.
He brings up the topic.
I tell him the truth . . . I don’t think I can go through with it. I want to go through with it. I need to go through with it! I’m afraid parts of my body are ATROPHYING!! But, I don’t think I can. I never have.
So he has a bright idea - start drinking.
It will lower your inhibitions.
You’ll be able to do what you think you can’t.
So, Meghan, being insane with celibacy thinks: “Good damn idea.”
Yeah, there’s something wrong with me, we will deal with it later.
So Matt goes to run an errand and I start drinking.
And continue to drink.
And I call Beachgirl.
And she assures me that it is a fabulous idea (honey, were you drinking too?) and that I should do it.
She also confirms my suspicion that my Southern accent is HIGHLY accentuated when I’m intoxicated.
She also tells me to lay off the booze because I’m severely slurring my speech.
Which NEVER happens, so you can rest assured that I’m not three - more like thirty sheets to the wind.
We’re still on the phone when Matt pulls back into my driveway.
“So, are we doing this or what?”
He leads my drunk ass back to my bedroom, we fall on the bed and start in.
He’s almost completely naked . . T-shirt still on.
I’m naked from the waist up.
We’re both VERY handsy.
We’re both enjoying the moment.
He’s a great kisser.
He lays me back . . and suddenly, Meghan is not so happy.
The room is spinning.
So, our very stupid heroine springs from the bed and rushes to the bathroom.
I stare at the toilet and do that prayer, you all know it, “Please God, just don’t let me throw up. Please God, just don’t let me throw up. I swear, I’ll never drink again. Just don’t let me throw up.”
And I can’t tell why I’m sick.
Is it too much alcohol?
Or am I completely disgusted at the thought that I almost had a very cheap sexual encounter with a FRIEND who won’t even date women larger than a stick figure??
Combination, I decide.
Knock at the door, “Meghan, you okay sweetie?”
“I think I was a bit overzealous in my imbibement of the alcohol. It may not be the best idea to continue what we were doing. Not unless you have some odd regurgitation fantasy.”
“Can you at least walk me out?”
I walk him to the door, lock it, then run back to the bathroom.
I’m not sick anymore.
He’s gone and I’m not sick.
Morally induced illness???
I go to bed.
This time, alone.
I fall into a deep sleep.
Until 3 AM.
When I wake up, make myself throw up four times, brush my teeth, drink three glasses of water and 5 aspirin and make a note to call Mr. Clean.
And that’s how it was decided.
I’m not seeing Mr. Clean again.
If I really wanted something with him, I wouldn’t have been willing to sleep with Matt.
My emotions are elsewhere, and I know that. Regardless of how stupid it is.
It wouldn’t be fair to him . . . even if all he really did want was sex.
I’m also not letting Matt near me, alone, again.
Particularly with any alcohol around.
So . . . the things I learned:
1 - I’m not a casual sex girl. Even when I think I want to be, I can’t go through with it.
2 - I don’t care about Mr. Clean. If I did, that never would have occurred.
3 - I turn into Julia Sugarbaker when I drink too much. All Southern drawl and big words.
4 - Just because you’ve got a body from hell and a beautiful face, don’t think God didn’t take something away from you. Those of you who know me will understand this simple statement - TIC TAC.
5 - I’m single, again. Completely single. No present romantic interests.
6 - I’m still celibate. (Note to self: Remember to buy batteries from Sam’s Wholesale. . . Again.)