Yes, the long awaited ending is here. Though, as you sillies should have figured out by now, it was really only the beginning...
For anyone new, you'll want to read Part 1 and Part 2 before reading this post. No, I mean it; quit reading this until you read the others. Done? Okay…
Yes, I promised to post this at the end of last week but both The Thing and I are at fault. Mostly him because he was late getting this to me and this is my blog so I can say whatever I want. Partly my fault because, well, he did send this to me yesterday, but I needed a little time to decide if I wanted to post it verbatim as I did the other two parts.
As you found out at the end of Part 2, I went home with The Thing the night I met him. And since you are all smart boys & girls, you probably realize that we did not spend the entire night playing tiddly-winks and then went to church the next morning. And as I warned you at the beginning of Part 1, The Thing tends to be much more detailed and honest then I. So…anyway...he talks about it.
Um…you know…IT…
Ahem…
Anyway, after thinking about it, I decided to leave it (blush) in and I will once again post what The Thing wrote in it's entirety.
1. Because it is honest and accurate.
2. Because I loathe to censor anyone but I never want to do that to My Thing.
3. Because you all know (at least you do if you've been reading this blog for the last year) that I have never done anything like this before nor am I a big whore. I was with The Paperweight since I was a teenager, I was with Eduardo last summer because I hadn't had sex in forever, then there was The Thing. If I'm a whore, in my opinion, I'm a lousy one.
But I thought I should warn you too…in case it was a little TMI. Though, don't worry he keeps it short; the account, not the actual event. When he says 'long time', he's not kidding. You girls would…um, never mind...
The only changes I made were to the times given. He was off by about 2 hours and I figured, well, if we're going to be so damn accurate… [grin]
So I give you…
Part 3
Now, I’d prepared myself for the Great Big No – because, after all, if I was this girl - there’s no way in hell I’d accept an invitation to leave a bar to go to a strange house in the suburbs with 2 guys I’ve know for, at best, 3 hours. A house where, thanks to the very talented masons that have long since died, you could never possibly be heard screaming through the thick brick walls of a basement.
So hearing her “Yes” (or “Sure” or “OK” or whatever it was) is about the best rush in the world.
Now I feel compelled to point out that Taller girl is NOT drunk. She is very calm and together and in fact, seems to have it all mapped out. “OK, I need to be back at my car early so I can head home to the kids – can you bring me back?” I say, “Sure.” (If Shorter Girl was still around, she’d have cock blocked me back to Maryland by now.)
We gather our coats and I get a shiver. But not because of the pending cold, but an excited kind of fear. Which makes perfect sense to me because the perfection of the night thus far, just doesn’t happen - you know? It’s not really REAL. So some cosmic collision, which has been transpiring for at least 34 years, will soon kill the buzz of this entire night. Perhaps she’ll rob & kill both Thing 2 and myself and leave OUR bodies in the basement.
The three of us leave the warmth of the bar and dive out into the Pittsburgh cold. As promised, there is a cab waiting. It’s not our original driver (whom we had a great conversation with on the way to the bar) but he’ll do – just get us back in one piece please.
As we get onto the highway, Thing 2 starts asking questions about Taller Girl’s work and it turns out that he happens to have used the same software that she does with her job. “KEEP AWAY FROM HER, YOU FUCKER” passes through my transom about 500 times.
Then something happens, I get defensive. Despite all of the coolness that this girl has exuded thus far in the evening, the possibility of her doing this type of thing EVERY Saturday night now enters my head. Jesus, that would really suck if she did. But she doesn’t SEEM like that kind of girl. WHORE. I put the thought aside and listen to the two of them talk.
15 minutes after leaving the bar, we arrive at Thing 2’s house. It’s a big, dark house. Big, dark and lonely since my cousin (and most of the furniture) moved out. The place is sparsely lit and the brick walls don’t help illuminate the ridiculousness of everything that’s happened over the past few hours. Well then, I guess this really is OK. Some greater being has approved the random series of events that ended with us in this house together.
The living room consists of a single chair, coffee table and a few lamps with 20 watt bulbs. “I’m leaving NOW”, I convince myself Taller Girl is thinking. She doesn’t even slide her right hand into her purse, cocking back the mace. What a sweet girl.
Thing 2 offers us drinks. To myself “OF COURSE and QUICKLY PLEASE.” I gotta get rid of this fear that was still lingering with me.
One room of the house that remained intact after my cousin’s departure was the basement. This was relegated as the “party room” early on and everything in it is and always was, Thing 2’s. A lounge of sorts, the basement is everything a basement should be – Cold, dark and with a half-bathroom and no door. To warm the place up, there is a record player (yes vinyl, folks), a rolling bar stocked with wine and misc. spirits, an old-school arcade-style video game and one of those mini pool tables.
We open a bottle of wine. Soon, she’s alternating between laughter, snorting and occasional giggling. I’m sure she’s drunk now. She excuses herself and goes upstairs to call Shorter Girl and let her know that she did not head home, but in fact, was over Thing 2’s house. Finally, something sensible! – letting another human being know where the fuck you are! She comes back and confesses to lying to her friend by telling her that she DROVE over to Thing 2’s house, not that she got into a cab with 2 men who she just met at a bar. I didn’t understand why the quibbling over the semantics - like I said earlier, it seemed totally ridiculous that she’d actually “come home” with us. For anyone keeping score here, I have not so much as touched Taller Girl. I think I’m still in shock that a GIRL came home with ME.
I sit across from her and we talk more about kids, being married and her ex-husband. He does not sound like a nice man. What a shame, I think to myself; she’s REALLY cool and definitely deserving of a lot of niceness. Thing 2 has her write in his Basement Journal – where all that pass through there (yes, even “whores” we pick up at bars) write something witty, sign and date it.
We open a 2nd bottle of wine.
I am now sitting on the floor of the basement, thumbing through Thing 2’s albums. He has a lot of great records and a lot of shitty ones. The shitty ones are there as jokes, as he puts it. Riiiiiight. Taller Girl comes over and sits next to me. Close. She leans over my shoulder looking at the records with me. I guess she DOES like me.
Notwithstanding the fact that Pittsburgh’s own, Donnie Iris (HOLY CHRIST IS HE HORRIBLE) made his way into the evening’s playlist, we continue to drink and listen to some great records. It’s nearly 4 am by now and Thing 2 says he’s going upstairs to find a place to pass out.
OH SHIT – What the fuck do I do now? I quite seriously had not thought about this part of the evening. I panicked and poured more wine. Thing 2 came to the rescue and offers two suggestions –a spare room is available on the 3rd floor if “someone” wanted to crash on the fold out cots – or there is the spare room on the 2nd floor which was a little cozier, had a TV and small pull-out sofa that “someone” could also crash there. I braced myself for a “Well, I should probably get going” from Taller Girl, but that would have meant her trying to hail a cab at 4 in the morning which wasn’t going to happen. Nor was me getting behind the wheel of my car. But she didn’t seem interested in leaving. Or sleeping.
Thing 2 goes off to bed and the two of us remain behind, alone together in the basement. She is sitting a small sofa/love seat and, after excusing myself to go to the bathroom, change the oil in my car and write a short novel about 16th Century Woodworking, I eventually make my way over and sit next to her, nervously flipping through Thing 2’s records as we talk for the next hour. I’m prattling on about something and she leans over and kisses me, which shuts me up. Finally.
Her kiss tastes good.
We do this for a while. My head is now spinning from excitement and the wine. I make the next logical move – my hands move downward and gently massage her right leg (WHAT?). She seems to enjoy it so I move over to the left one. Within the next 60 seconds, I pull her jeans to the floor, move her panties to the side and go down on her. For a loooooong time. She wasn’t expecting that. OK, - I- wasn’t expecting that. She reciprocates. We fuck on the pool table.
What the FUCK am I doing?
It doesn’t matter; I was totally fueled by the collection of every single moment of perceived affection that I’d received from her that evening. It just felt “right” being with her. And not at all in that macho (insert deep voice here), “I’m getting laid!” kind of way – but in a genuine, kind and familiar way (as genuine as one can be 7 hours after shaking someone’s hand for the first time).
Now as comfortable as a pool table in a Pittsburgh basement at 5 in the morning in late October can be, we mutually agree that going upstairs “to bed” would be a good thing.
Up on the 3rd floor, we find 2 thin fold-out cots. I put them together. We fuck again.
It’s after 7am and we’re being greeted by daybreak - as good a time as any to rest.
I get up an hour later, needing desperately to pee. As I get out of bed, I see her beautiful head pop out of the mound of covers (which she had pretty much taken complete ownership of during the night). “Coffee?” she asks. “Hm. YES! Coffee. I’ll go make some and come right back”. As I head downstairs, I mumble to myself “What the FUCK is going on here?” I asked myself. “Wow”.
None of the coffee material (grinder, beans, coffee maker) which I’d seen Thing 2 make DOZENS of times before, now appears to be visible. I open cabinets. ALL of them. Wine + 1 hour of sleep = poor ability to perceive objects right in front of you. I can’t find a goddamnthing. I climb the stairs to the floor, empty-handed and with a feeling I’ve let this total stranger down. And I feel BAD about it. “Wow”.
She tells me that I can “buy her coffee” on the way back to her car, signaling that it is time for her to go. I am BUMMED OUT about this. Why does she have to leave so early, I think? She probably does this a lot, I think. Horrible. “Wow.”
I grab my GPS from my overnight bag and we head out to find coffee and her car. I drive past 57 mini-marts and “Fresh Coffee Here” signs before I’m able to perceive one of them BEFORE I pass it. I go in and get us 2 black coffees. It’s the best damn coffee in the world.
We make it back to her car, I give her the obligatory “Had a great time” (which I really did) and as I do, I realize how LAME that sounds, so I follow it with a “Here, let me give you my cell phone number”. I write it on the back of a business card (again) and hand it to her (again). She smiles, gets out of my car and into hers. I wait for her to get it started and to pull away before I leave.
As she drives off and I head back to Thing 2’s house to gather my stuff and head home, I wonder if I’ll see her again. Or if this is something she just “does” when she goes out. I really don’t know. But I really like her.
On my way back home, I spend the first 15 minutes on the turnpike trying to punch in the GPS, the name of the town she lived in – just to see where it is. I can’t remember the exact name of the place – was it a “Ville” or a “Town” or something else? I finally find it and JESUS is it far from Pittsburgh.
When I get home I head straight for the computer and punch in the name of her town… finding out how many miles it is from Maryland and how long it would take someone from Maryland – to get there – one weekend, sometime… you know (looking at the ground, swinging foot back and forth) - if that’s cool and stuff…
