Dear Girls Above Me: Inspired by a True Story (12 page)

“Of course,” I assured him.

“Now, will you kindly point me in the direction of the girls above you?”

I showed him the way, which consisted of my calling attention to a few girls huddled around a keg. He was still agitated but thankful for the new possibilities. As he ventured off into the land of perfume and high heels, I stood there by myself. I felt companionless in an
ever-growing room of connection, even if it was cheap and alcohol induced.

“Stop moping. You’re always moping,” I imagined my ex saying to me, like she did when we were together.

“I do not mope,” I responded in a mopey tone in my mind.

“You’re at a party and single. Will you go talk to a girl already?”

I was a little saddened by the fact that even in my own hallucination, my ex wanted me to meet someone else. Did she not even feel an ounce of jealousy? Maybe jealousy doesn’t carry over into the illusory world. If I ever got the opportunity to be a figment of her imagination, I would tell her she should live a solitary life, free of all affection and passion, unless she wanted to take me back. Then my imaginary self wouldn’t have a problem with her having those things.

But maybe she was right. Why did she always have to be right? Believe it or not, there once was a time when I had no issues wooing a member of the female gender. Not only that, but I was actually pretty good at it. Just a few years back I had gotten two different girls’ numbers while driving on the 405 freeway and both happened on the same commute! There was a bit of traffic, but still, you try plucking numbers all the way from the carpool lane. It was a dangerous feat, but in the end the nickname I acquired from my friends, “the Freeway Pimp,” was well worth the risk. I campaigned hard for Carpool-Lane Cutie, but you can’t always get what you want.

My main problem in approaching women is that I’m not the right mixture of vulgar and nice. Some girls are into the bad-boy type, while others are more attracted to sensitivity and romance. Unfortunately for me, I fall directly in the middle of the spectrum. No-man’s-land. Very few girls like to hang out in this area. And the ones who do are generally unstable. I’m looking at you, Patricia Sobel
from seventh-grade chemistry. It may have been the name of the class, but no chemistry was had that year.

Much like in seventh grade, my chances of finding love at this party felt quite slim. Yet, the possibility of scoring a one-night stand seemed almost unfairly favorable. But was I ready? I figured there was only one way to find out.

So I checked my breath by blowing into my hand (which, by the way, has never worked for anyone, but we as humans continue to do this generation after generation). I put my hand under my armpit to see whether moisture was creating an incredibly unattractive pit stain, and thankfully it wasn’t. Then I gently lifted my right leg and squeezed out a fart that would’ve been deafening in a library but was completely soundless in the spot where I was standing, next to the DJ’s table. It was time for me to get back into the game. Here’s how my series of conversations went:

CHARLIE:
Hi.

NOSE JOB GIRL:
Hi.

CHARLIE:
Hi [now with a made-up accent].

NOSE JOB GIRL:
Umm, hi.

CHARLIE:
Hi [very quickly].

NOSE JOB GIRL:
You already said—

CHARLIE:
Hi [in an even more made-up accent].

NOT THE FUTURE MOTHER OF MY CHILD:
Last week was my Tic Tac–only diet, this week it’s edamame, next week I might try and only eat gluten.

CHARLIE:
I think I’ve heard of this diet before.

NOT THE FUTURE MOTHER OF MY CHILD:
So, what kind of stuff do you like to eat?

CHARLIE:
Oh, you know, just normal stuff.

NOT THE FUTURE MOTHER OF MY CHILD:
[poltergeist voice] Are you saying I’m not normal?

CHARLIE:
What? No. I know plenty of people doing the whole Tic Tac thing. I’m very supportive of it.

NOT THE FUTURE MOTHER OF MY CHILD:
Hmm. I’m not sure yet, but I think I like you.

SIZE MATTERS GIRL:
I miss my ex-boyfriend’s cock.

CHARLIE:
Oh, wow. I’m sorry to hear that.

SIZE MATTERS GIRL:
It’s just so big, you know? Like way bigger than yours probably.

CHARLIE:
That seems unfairly presumptuous.

SIZE MATTERS GIRL:
Not really. Guys with big dicks don’t use words like
presumptuous
.

CHARLIE:
What if I showed you with my hands how big mine is? Would you compare the two honestly?

SIZE MATTERS GIRL:
Yeah, sure.

CHARLIE:
[showing my approximate size plus five inches] There it is.

SIZE MATTERS GIRL:
Hmm. His is way bigger.

CHARLIE:
Oh come on!

CHARLIE:
So, what is it you do?

GIRL WHO WHISTLES WHEN SHE TALKS:
Oh, I’m a dog trainer.

CHARLIE:
Really?! Don’t they ever get confused?

GIRL WHO WHISTLES WHEN SHE TALKS:
By what?

CHARLIE:
What’s your name?

GIRL NOT NAMED “DRUNK”:
Drunk.

CHARLIE:
Oh yeah? Is that a first or last name?

GIRL NOT NAMED “DRUNK”:
First and last. My middle name too.

CHARLIE:
Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Drunk Drunk Drunk.

GIRL NOT NAMED “DRUNK”:
You too, asshole.

SOMEONE WHO JUST MOVED TO LOS ANGELES:
I don’t like to tell many people this, but I’m an actress.

CHARLIE:
Oh, cool. What kind of stuff do you do?

SOMEONE WHO JUST MOVED TO LOS ANGELES:
I’m so embarrassed to even be saying this out loud, but like mostly quirky comedy and period-piece stuff.

CHARLIE:
That’s really great. Anything I may have seen?

SOMEONE WHO JUST MOVED TO LOS ANGELES:
Oh my God, maybe. I’m blushing just from talking about it. Maybe we should change the subject?

CHARLIE:
Okay. No worries. So listen … would you ever be interested in going—

SOMEONE WHO JUST MOVED TO LOS ANGELES:
Hey, do you know if there are any agents here tonight?

So maybe I was a bit rusty; I think when my previous relationship started, people were still using CD-ROMs. But, even so, was this what dating was like nowadays? Perhaps I had some brushing up to do. I was better off in my apartment, where it didn’t feel quite so dim.

“Enjoy the party, Wyatt,” I said to the poor bastard on my way out.

“But we didn’t even take drunken pictures in our shirts,” he slurred. “It would’ve been hilarious, man.”

“That’s very true. Maybe some other time.”

“Wait, what’s your name, bro?”

As I walked out the door, I turned back and responded over my shoulder, “Drunk.”

THE GIRLS ON BLOW JOBS

Dear Girls Above Me,

“When he said he didn’t want a blow job, it made me wanna give him one!” Do not make me chicken marsala. You hear me, DO NOT.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“At college I learned to make the guy go down on you first: otherwise, you won’t get shit back.” Sounds like community college to me.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“I’d never kiss a guy if he got me something from Kay. But jewelry from Tiffany, blow job fo sho.” I’d like to see that commercial.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“I so would’ve given Prince William carriage-head during that long ride to Buckingham Palace.” And that’s why you’ll never be a princess.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“The best blow job I ever gave was when I wrapped a guy’s thingy in a Fruit Roll Up.” I got some dried apricots down here …

Dear Girls Above Me,

“Jen went down on Tom while he played a video game. Gross!” Was it
Mario Kart
? That would be the Nintendo equivalent to road head.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“I think we should start like a movement to bring back the hand job. It’s soooooo much easier than giving a blow job.” Good luck with your endeavors.