The Lenten season is nearly upon us. Once again, it is time for Catholics around the globe to flash their boobs for plastic beads, then deprive themselves of something that’s usually kind of irrelevant and unnecessary until Easter. The past few years, I have been a very naughty Catholic. I gave up giving things up for Lent. It was pretty easy.
However, on the off-year when we do uphold this tradition of sacrifice, us Catholics don’t fuck around. One year, I gave up all sweets. It ranks pretty highly in my list of “worst months ever” – right below the whole cheating ex-husband phase. I thought maybe it would help me shed a couple of extra pounds, but it really just turned me into an angry bitch. I guess that’s what being Catholic is all about.
This year, I am getting back on the horse and making a Lenten vow. For the next forty days and forty nights, I will forgo one of my very favorite things: drunk sex. It will be frustrating and admittedly difficult to abide by (especially when under the influence), but after last night, it has to be done.
What happened last night, you ask? Well, I slept with a new man. I will call him Party Boy. I should have seen the red flag waving in front of Party Boy’s face as soon as he told me he had met me before in a dream. He was truly convinced of this. Yes, that’s right: I am his living dream come true.
The sex was phenomenal, and I feel I deserved that since my last romp in the sack lasted approximately two minutes. Seriously, that dude needs to get some stamina. But after that, I was bored and decided at approximately 4:30 am that I wanted to go home. Not in the morning, right then.
Party Boy parked his car elsewhere, so he made me call myself a cab. Then, when I asked him to help me find my clothes, he moved about two inches before explaining that he was tired and refusing my request. That’s when I snapped into bitch mode.
It started out as a lashing remark, then evolved into a full-on scream session. I went off about what a dickhead he was, taking my clothes off and throwing them around his room like a fucking tree monkey, then sitting on the bed like a useless hunk of lard when I needed to find them. There were a lot of bad words and creative insults thrown in there that I am still patting myself on the back about.
As I stormed out of his place, he asked for my number. You see, he wanted to take me on a date. As any classy lady would do, I yelled some more and told him I never wanted to see his sorry ass again. He begged me to take his number, to which I replied “you actually think I would call you?” The standstill came to an end when he typed his number in my phone and called himself.
It took him all of five hours to call me. Then he called again later today. And texted. Why is it always the losers who actually call? I get a secret satisfaction knowing that he actually wants to date me, but can’t. Nanny-nanny boo-boo, douchebag.
So since my taste in men seems to be getting progressively worse, I have decided that my slut factor needs to decrease. Like tenfold. And the only way that’s going to happen is by binding myself to written contract with the big guy himself. So here it is:
- I shall not sleep with anyone while under the influence.
- I shall not enter a guy’s apartment or take him home with me after drinking.
- Sober sex is acceptable, unlikely though it may be.
- I fully understand that this may result in loss of sanity and/or excessive urge to have sex at Easter Sunday church services.