Originally Posted on April 4, 2012 at 12:08 PM as a gift to you by Professor Mentu
I got a text last night from a girl I haven’t heard from in over two years. All it said was “do you like olives?”
The text came though while I was sitting on the couch eating leftover Korean food and watching season 1 of East Bound & Down on DVD. I just sat there for a moment with a mouth full of half-chewed kimchi, wondering how I should respond.
One fine Saturday two years ago in Mesquite, a city known as the armpit of the DFW Metroplex, I walked in to a bar with three of my buddies after a long day at the pool. My shorts weren’t even completely dry yet, my hair smelled like charcoal from the grill, and I looked like a bag full of smashed up assholes.
I swear to god she looks just like a young Veronica Lake
We sat in the booth for what seemed like forever, so my buddy and I decided to walk over to the bar and get a drink order started. As we approached, I saw a sexy little blonde sitting alone. She was a classic beauty unlike anything I had ever seen before, yet she was covered in tattoos – something that is normally a turnoff for me. Her naturally wavy locks spiraled down past her shoulders gently framing her feminine face like the work of art it was, while her deep green eyes seemed both distant and inviting at the same time. She was perfect. She was beautiful. She looked like a young Veronica Lake had stepped off a 1940′s motion picture advertisement and straight into a tattoo shop.
Game aborted. No approach. I decided to admire this one from afar.
A few minutes after my buddy and I leaned up to the bar to order, she said “Do you like olives?” I looked over at her – woefully aware and embarrassed of my tousled appearance – and said “yeah.”
“Yeah.” I swear to god that’s all I could come up with.
She pulled the long plastic sword out of her drink that had two olives on it and held it up to my mouth.
“Help a lady out?”
She fed me the olives, then used the plastic sword to put her hair up. She didn’t even use both hands; she simply flipped her hair around and pushed the plastic sword down in there to keep her golden strands pushed back. She smiled and coyly said “my hero.”
In a catatonic state of beta proportion, I responded with the only thing that came to mind.
I walked away, leaving her at the bar. I sat down with my friends and we started working on our beers. The one buddy who went up to the bar with me started giving me a hard time: “What’s wrong, player? Big man who gets all the ladies buckled under pressure?”
I deserved the verbal assault. I chickened out, plain and simple.
After a full 30 minutes of getting made fun of by my friends – all of whom were too chickenshit to talk to this girl – I decided to go back over and unleash my game. As I approached her, I noticed she was paying her tab and getting up to leave. I walked up to the bartender and said “Sir, put two of her olives on my tab please.”
The bartender looked at me like I was a fucking idiot.
She laughed and said “You know I could hear you and your friends talking about me right?”
“Is that all you can say?”
“Yeah. I mean no…”
She laughed. “You have mad skills.”
Three days later, I found myself on Emily’s couch playing with her dogs while she cooked dinner. She said “how do you want your steak cooked?” and I said “In the nude please.”
“Let the dogs out in the back yard please so we can eat dinner in peace.”
When I came back in the house, Emily was cooking wearing nothing but a pair of red heels.
“Is this nude enough, or should I take the heels off too?”
I sat there staring at her perfect body. Among other body art, she had a serpent tattoo that wrapped completely around her body; the tail pointing at her vagina, and the head wrapped around her shoulder with a mouth open as if it wast going to bite her right breast.
I said “let’s start with dessert.”
We left the food on the stove, and went to her bedroom. I was intimidated, because I knew this girl was a tough broad. I have no doubt she had been pounded senseless hundreds of times by the baddest bad boys in Dallas. I later found out she was a stripper, which made sense.
I pushed through the intimidation and decided to bring my A game. I proceeded with crushing her like I was a porn star trying to get nominated for the “most disgusting scene ever” award. I gave it my all with no regard for her pleasure. I treated her like a paid hooker – a role she played like a pro with tons of experience. I had a feeling that not only had she been around the block a few times, but the block was probably named after her.
Two weeks later, being rather pleased with myself and having more than earned back the respect I lost from my buddies at the bar, I was continuing to crush Emily’s ass like I owned it. I was feeling like an Alpha male of the highest order. The girl was a sex fiend, and never said no to anything I threw at her. My buddies were visibly jealous, and I had earned a place in their world as the King of players. I had found a classic beauty nymph tattooed bad girl, made her my whore, and she kept coming back for more.
One day after giving her yet another Alpha male porn star thrashing, she came out of the bathroom and cuddled up to me on the couch. As I sat there – my balls swelling with pride – she said something that stripped away every ounce of Alpha male confidence I had collected since birth.
“I like what we have together, but we don’t always have to make love. We should just fuck tonight for a change.”
I never slept with her again. I was too embarrassed, ashamed, and I couldn’t bear the thoughts of subjecting myself to her bedroom scrutiny. I honestly don’t know what more I could have done to this girl without a midget, 10 feet of nylon rope, and a farm animal. To this day I have no idea how raw-dog ass-to-mouth translates into “making love” but I’m afraid to ask. I think what pained me the most was that she was in no way trying to be a bitch; she really thought she was inviting me to take it to the next level, and had no idea that I was already functioning at a level I never dreamed I was capable of.
I somehow managed to keep calm and hide my shattered ego, but from that day forward, I started neglecting her texts and wouldn’t answer when she called. Being the pro that she is, she got the hint rather quickly and faded away.
Last night I finished up my leftover bim bim bop with thoughts of Emily running through my head. I picked up my phone, deleted her text, and went to bed much earlier than usual.
Wherever you are tonight Emily, yeah, I do like olives. But this time I think I’ll pass.