Second Date with Dickhead

Dear Glutton for Punishment,

I have just staggered into the door from my second date with what’s-his-name, and had the uncontrollable urge to sit right down and write MYSELF a letter – {I know I’ve heard that before… maybe a song?} So here I am – pen in hand, bottle of cyanide in the other, awaiting the after-shock to slam dunk me into what I hope will be a permanent state of coma. After today, it’s the only place to be.

It started out more promising than the first engagement – The entire neighborhood lined up on my front lawn as if waiting for a parade to come through. As I walked out my front door, my neighbors began shouting cheers and accolades of praise to me; the children clapped their hands in enthusiastic glee; the teenagers gave me the “thumbs up” motion as they nodded their heads in approving unison! Even our neighborhood church minister had his hands outstretched in the air waving motions of a blessing, as they all watched me drive off in my car for this “fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me” date.

But the optimism for a successful second date soon vanished as a disturbing omen came into focus in my rear view mirror: these same neighbors - hypocrites all! - wagering bets as money exchanged hands - hands that were pointing at me as I drove off; as gales of laughter wafted across the neighborhood – with the minister’s wife keeping score as the bookie. I have now given the term, “a long shot” a whole new meaning, I’m sure.

I arrived at his place at the agreed upon time, only to find myself banging on his door until my knuckles matched the crimson shade of nailpolish I was wearing. I knew he was home; his TV was on {I could see a porno tape playing through the door’s pane of glass that I just broke in my zeal to announce my presence.} By the time he arrived to answer, I had lost two of my acrylic nails in the Door vs. Glutton for P. match. It was a unanimous decision: the door had won.

He greeted me at the door in what I’m certain was his “I’m-Too- Sexy –For- Myself” look; a pair of bright green speedo’s with a four-leaf clover on the jewels pouch and the words: “Today is YOUR Lucky Day!” Oh, yeah, let’s not forget the argyle knee socks to compliment the ensemble - did you get that?

*** A R G Y L E *** KNEE *** SOCKS ***

I entered his home out of masochistic curiosity to see what the finishing touches to this New Wave Armani creation would be, and tripped over man’s best friend – or, to be more accurate, Dickhead’s ONLY friend, a mangy, mobile flea farm of a mutt named “Slobber”, who, when eye contact was met, jumped up on my $65.00 Nautica top and commenced to suck face with me; leaving a waterfall of drool, canned dog food, and my eye makeup cascading down the front of said shirt.

After the tackle was complete, the dander matted linebacker lumbered over to the sofa, where he promptly dug a deeper hole into the couch cushion; a geyser of foam spraying into the air; and made himself a cozy niche to gingerly lick his balls.

It was at this time Dickhead offered me a chair while he finished dressing. I have to give him some credit - he did not suggest I sit next to Slobber to watch him clean up his ah...uhmm... act, but rather, on a beanbag chair that looked more like a puddle of melted gummi bears that was inflated to a maximum of six inches from the floor. I graciously declined, and stood watching in total disbelief as Mr. Fashion Statement continued dressing; reaching underneath the crater shaped, drool drenched, flea infested, dog dandruff- filled cushion and whipped out something that he … that he… put … on… over… his head…

I hadn’t seen something this scurvy since the picture of Aqualung on the album cover.

My lower jaw still hurts - hours later – from bunji jumping from its hinges as my mind tried to reject in self preservation, what my bugged- out eyes informed me was really happening - he was going to WEAR this rag!!!

Dejavu` of the greasy spoon hit me - in both my memory - and my stomach – as I asked him if I may use his bathroom {I was relieved to find out I didn’t have to run across the backyard to a wooden lean-to to woof up my cookies}. Once the waves of nausea subsided and I assured myself I wouldn’t have to worship the porcelain god for the rest of the day, I fell to the weakness of the nosy first time house guest- I attempted to see what miracles of medical science were behind that one little metal door…THE MEDICINE CABINET.

I had planned to be excruciatingly discreet in dissecting the shelves without his knowledge {after all, he was totally engrossed in pulling his one-of-a-kind savvy ensemble together} to gain insight into the hygienic life {if there was such a thing} of my host.

I cautiously and quietly opened the door to an otherwise normal mirrored bathroom chest, and stared in utter horror at what lay in Pandora’s Box…

The first shelf contained little more than the average fares found on a bathroom shelf; toothpaste, mouthwash, shaving cream, Band-Aids; all normal- all boring. As my eyes ascended to the second, third, and fourth shelves, it became apparent my fashion freak had more things to worry about than his apparel; he was obviously doctoring that age-old malady of…JOCK ITCH.

There were creams, ointments, lotions, gels, wipe-on pads, and sprays; medications in bottles, tubes, jars, dispensers and aerosol cans; large size, small size, trial size, economy size; institutional size; every imaginable brand in the pharmaceutical industry – globally - was in this one cabinet for this one skeevy condition.

As I closed the cabinet with the adage of “ignorance is bliss” reverberating in my head, I caught a look at my reflection in the mirror. The face that stared back at me resembled that of a prisoner who is on Death Row, as the last minute’s attempt to stay the execution are met with a recorded message on the Governor’s line saying, “ No one is available to take your call at this time”. I was dead meat.

I sat on the edge of the tub; head held in my hands; as I closed my eyes and visualized the fashion plate’s cock all shriveled up; lumpy and bumpy; a sickly shade of green - the same shade of green as the four leaf clover on his bikinis; his manhood’s appendage looking exactly like a delicatessen barrel pickle. A tiny, soggy, twisted pickle. A wrinkled, baby gherkin pickle.

I exhaled a long breath; praying that God would just end my romantically challenged butt and detonate my brain with a clot. I guess God was busy with other more pressing issues, and never answered my plea, so after a few more minutes of waiting for my badda bing – badda doom, I reluctantly got up, and walked back out to The Rocky Horror Show.

I realized Dickhead had evidently been struck with a cerebral cramp himself, and actually decided not to wear the treasure of a tee that his scavenger hunt beneath the sofa cushion uncovered. He had his back to me; bending over the Champion of Saliva to hook him to a leash; as I exited the Room of Remedies for Cock Shock, and saw the image screen- printed to the back of the “on second thought” shirt...

It appeared to be a HUGE naked ass; bent over; so big it took up the entire width of the tee. And something was protruding out of the ass; something with hair... and... a face?

Before this hieroglyphic could be deciphered, he turned around and the meaning became revoltingly clear - the bold letters across the front of the shirt read... “YOUR PROCTOLOGIST CALLED – HE’S FOUND YOUR HEAD”.

I find I can still speak – without a lisp – despite the absence of the tip of my tongue.

Our plans were to spend the day at the amusement park - something fun; something clean; something normal. I should have been bitch slapped into reality right then and there – after all, I was with Dickhead – you can’t define normal.

All was going relatively well; he even won a few stuffed animals to add to my collection – my favorite; an anaconda that I draped around me to hide the drool and cosmetic and dogfood stains the balls lapping bow-wow left on my shirt. Life seemed good – for a New York City split second that is, until...

We both decided we were hungry, and stopped into a seafood place across from the funhouse. It wasn’t crowded {the only other patrons was a lady with her two kids}, and I knew it had really good food – unlike the “Diner of Diarrhea” we had visited on our first date. I ordered shrimp in a basket, and he ordered clams on the half shell.

After today, I can never look at a raw clam again without slipping into a catatonic state.

We were almost done eating; almost safe; when my date of monumental refinement and good judgment took the last clam off his plate, lifted it with both hands to his face, stuck out his tongue, and performed oral sex on it; moaning and groaning in mock ecstasy; murmuring “yeah, baby, let me suck you dry”...

While I sat with my fork frozen in mid air; the retinas of my eyes scorched by the crude scene; my brain trying to reject the entire episode to protect my teetering sanity; the other three patrons also witnessed the same obscene freak show. The mom with her two children. The mom with her two young children. The mom with her two, now scared, now crying, young children. The mom that got up and took flight with the sobbing kids in tow - but not before she leaned over our table to tell the clam cumsucker that abortion should be retroactive - HIS abortion.

So much for the “something fun; something clean; something normal” idea.

After his warped, perverted attempts at dinner table conversation, we made haste departing - actually, we had no choice but to leave - the enraged manager was armed with a flailing sushi knife - and got in line to enter the funhouse ride across the way.

We climbed into the car, put the safety bar down, and away we rode; as the doors of the entrance closed behind us; the car jolting on its track every few feet. We were in pitch

darkness at first – the perfect opportunity for the raunchy Romeo to make his next slimy move...

We weren’t in the funhouse for more than sixty seconds when he did just that – his clammy hands;{ no, they weren’t cold – they were “clammy” – from him holding one that he tried tongue fucking}; attempting to slip underneath my bra to cop a feel. I tried to wriggle out of his grasp, and as the car lurched, I caught my drool stained sleeve on the lever of the safety bar. In the now dimly lit green chasms of the ride, {eerily, the same nauseating shade of green as what I pictured his cock resembling right about then}, I grappled to release my sleeve; concentrating on it - and not on my lecherous Lothario. I guess Dickhead thought I was falling for his overtures when I didn’t {and couldn’t} push him away, and as the car jolted again, his groping paw popped the snap right off of my front hooked bra. As I tore loose from my captive state in panic, leaving the entire sleeve from the shoulder down married forever to the ride’s lever, I turned to hear the slick dick unzip his fly. My reaction, of course, was not to allow him to release his Pickle Plague onto the world, so I reached down with my other hand in an attempt to stifle his vim, vigor, and vulgarity, and caught the sleeve still attached to my shirt in his pant’s zipper as I attempted to pull it back up. It was a tug of war; with me trying to wrestle free my now one and only sleeve, and Dickhead trying to wrestle me into playing with his leper cock.

It was not a pretty scene – my Nautica top in pieces; my bra hanging out of the opening where a sleeve used to be; looking as if it were a passenger attempting to jump to a lifeboat off the Titanic; my other hand looking as if it were surgically skin grafted to his groin. No, it was not a pretty scene at all – especially when the exit doors opened and the car lunged forward into the bright daylight.

And it especially wasn’t a pretty scene for the people that were next in line for the ride; the next in line for the car we were in – the mother and her two young children.

One look from the mother – who was beginning to foam at the mouth, and the two kids – that were now trying to pole vault jump to their mom’s neck for safety - prompted me to blurt out,

“I can explain”...

Permanent lifetime exile from the amusement park – with the threat of charges of indecent exposure, lewd behavior in a public place and a half dozen or so additional citings, made for one “ you can’t top this, can you?” afternoon.

We beat feet to my car; but only after I had viciously yanked my sleeve cuff from his crotch - tearing a gaping hole in his pants where the fly used to be. Now everyone in the entire parking lot could see – and appreciate - his macho bikinis with the four leaf clover on them, and rejoice in the distorted knowledge that it was my “lucky day”.

I then dropped off the Abominable Asshole; bid him a “Goodnight – it’s been real” between clenched teeth, and drove back here – to safety and sanity, and you; the first entry in my Post Traumatic Stress Journal.

So, here I sit, writing this Date from Hell down on paper – in the hopes that I may look back at it about fifty years from now, and laugh. But, I don’t think it will be that soon. And I don’t think I will be laughing that hard.

Wait... there’s a message on my answering machine......I don’t believe it - it’s the Dickhead! He’s begging me to call him back! Is he fucked up or what? I think I will take this opportunity –while I am the official neighborhood long shot on- the-edge, and call him back! What do I have to lose? My eight remaining acrylic nails? My dignity? I am in the deepest, rankest cesspool of humiliation now, thanks to him. No, I can’t let this chance slip by without telling him I know about his gross and hideous jock itch – that should begin, at least, to even the score.

“Hello, Dickhead?... How's it hanging?"...