Humor by Imelda Patricia Freeley
Recently I was out to dinner with my best friend who is an utter manizer (her made-up word to keep me from using the more familiar word “slut”), super fun, but egads, a predator totally. Farrah (giving her one of Charlie’s Angels names for a pseudonym out of pure love) was telling me about her latest blind date. She has been on match.com for nearly two years. Last year alone Farrah went out to coffee, on average, four times a week. It took its toll on her bladder, and she had to switch to herbal tea because she kept getting yeast infections.
“Honestly, there are two male traits that I said I can’t do again. I am totally done with bald and I refuse to have sex with a man who has purchased a sports car, so I’ve been really clear about this at work…” Farrah works the front desk for a trucking firm and is one of three female employees. She’s made sweet love on many a semi-trailer bed (low thread count on trucker sheets is one of many issues; Farrah’s vertebrae was nearly whittled to a nub during one energetic session). One of the women she works with (Grace) has made it her life’s mission to try to set Farrah up with “nice Christian men” some from her church, others recent divorcees who live on or around Grace’s cul-de-sac. Farrah is almost forty, and appreciates all the help she can get in the obtaining new semen samples.
“Anyway, this is another one of Grace’s set ups. She’s actually more productive than match for dates this month, I love her!” Farrah is on a white wine kick after finding an online website that laid out exact calorie counts for different types of alcohol. We have both sworn to never drink home brews even if we are in prison and that is the only thing available.
“So, I’m watching from my upstairs window and what do I see? The chrome dome gets out of the red sports car and heads to the door. It was all I could do not to hide and wait for him to go away,” Taking a large sip of her sauvignon blanc seemed to revive Farrah. I could tell that she answered the bell, and knowing Farrah, she looked exactly like the glossy dark haired pin-up girl of 1930’s calendars. She wears size zero jeans but has tits that could hold a dinner tray (a vivid description offered by her pilot boyfriend of last year).
“Please don’t tell me that you slept with him in the sport car, or I’ll puke.” There was only so much vehicular misbehavior that a person could be subjected listening to.
“God, no! However the night was not a total wash, I did get four expensive margaritas and a ride to Brian’s out of him.”
Brian is an unemployed “artist” who lives with his brother, Frankie who has downs syndrome. Brian receives a stipend from the state for his care. Brian sold a painting in the 90s and his mother has a stack of canvasses molding in her basement that Brian claims “will be worth something some day.” To say that I think Brian is slightly unworthy of my dynamic Farrah would be an understatement.
“Why do you keep hooking up with him? You’d do better with Frankie. At least Frankie compliments you.” Because I love Farrah, I have been on countless double dates with Brian and Frankie. Brian is less thoughtful and articulate. I’m not lying. Frankie at least opens doors for you and asks if you want butter on your popcorn.
“Well, maybe I keep hooking up with Brian to avoid regrowing my hymen, which you seem set on doing.”
When Farrah is questioned about her selection of a jobless loser as fallback man, she questions my lack of fallback man.
“The great wall of hymen shall fall one day. I’m just waiting for someone who is worth of hymen eradication. I’m not willing to let my standards drop to mere pulse-required levels just to get penetration. It is not worth it.”
Farrah’s nostrils flare when she is trying not to laugh or yell. She appreciates humor, even when it is directed squarely at her. My celibacy is something my friends find amusing and noteworthy. I am three years out from a relationship and very few notches on the belt to show for the 36 months that have passed. Okay, no notches. I have a way of alienating men who are flirting with me. Farrah says that I have a 3-M product in my heart, a form of scotch guard protection that flings men who approach backwards until they end up miles from me. Early on men can tell that I would be a pain in the ass, really just minutes into the conversation, in part because I don’t banter, I interrogate.
“Well, the thing about rebuilding the old great wall of hymen is that eventually someone is going to want to cross the finish line and break that ribbon down, but you won’t remember how. Seriously, girl you need to fuck someone and hard.” Farrah is making eye contact with someone over my right shoulder, so her words are harsh but her demeanor is soft and smiling. It’s like having your teeth cleaned by Elmo.
My turn to flare nostrils.
“You have the same answer for every question: Get laid. Life can’t be that simple. It can’t all be vaginal solutions. I think I’m trying a more nuanced approach.”
“Like what? You turn 39 this year. Please, girl, tell me that you are not going to exit the decade with your legs clamped shut. It is sad and bad and avoidable,” mean words, dreamy and sweet facial expression. Farrah is a pro.
And, Farrah is right. It is just that I’m at this point in my life where men seem like more trouble than they are worth. All my many married friends find their husbands impossible, all my dating friends find their boyfriends annoying and unhelpful, and all my single friends (besides Farrah) are all just bitter and jaded about the idea of sharing their lives or even beds. Maybe I’m projecting. I know very few single people besides Farrah. And it is difficult to call a woman who makes out with a different man every week “single.”
The man Farrah is looking at over my shoulder sends us a drink. I glance behind me to see a flash of white teeth and full head of hair.
“What if he has a sports car?” I ask her sipping my free beverage.
“That is a chance I’m willing to take…” she says, smiling and holding her glass aloft in a toast. The golden liquid sways in the oversized glass catching the light from above like sun on the sea. In my head I am counting through the chores that are waiting for me at home, the unfolded laundry, the bills stacked waiting for stamps, the ironing, my expense account spreadsheet is due at work by Monday. Deep sigh.
“I think I’m going to head out,” I say and begin gathering my things.
Free drink man makes his move and as I leave, I can hear Farrah saying, “Really, who buys a sports car these days? Driving is not for pleasure with gas at four dollars.”
Join Imelda and her pals for more antics next issue…Farrah drinks too much and falls down, (who knew crutches were sexy?) Speaking of falls, down comes the great wall of hymen…..
© Imelda Freeley 2007
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joey has pictures of me in NY (nothing of the scope of irish burlesque) that she keeps showing to people, “you want to see some pictures of heather? they are kind of WILD” no they are not. i sang with the cuban because my aunts wanted to enjoy my “lovely mischievousness” not because i was wildly inebriated. i am in your camp, always have been, with those teetotalers who document others fun….i called her on it too