Dear Girls Above Me: Inspired by a True Story (14 page)

“A bottle of Pinot Grigio?”

“Oh, no, I just meant a Dr Pepper or something. I could also do a hot water with lemon. I don’t have any alcohol.”

“Why the hell not? Are you Amish or something?”

Clearly I have functioning electricity. I thought that, I didn’t say it. Shrinks don’t make snide judgments during the first session.

Despite her drunken disappointment, I decided to fix her my nighttime drink anyway. As I turned to walk into the kitchen, I had completely forgotten that I was wearing nothing under my Snuggie; therefore, my entire backside was exposed for her amusement. She gasped. I had no idea if it was a pleasant sudden breath or a horrified gasp, but I kept walking in silence, hoping that the situation would just fix itself. I put on the kettle and cut up some fresh lemon. Thankfully, her groaning subsided.

“Are you still alive?” I called out. I had a terrible vision of being blamed for her death and getting thrown in prison with my backside exposed.

“Sort of.”

I prepared the lemon water faster, knowing full well she was probably just showing off her wit, but, then again, you can never be too careful. As a thoughtful finishing touch, I added a drink umbrella to my concoction but immediately took it out upon further thought. I was already a guy in a blanket with sleeves at four
A.M.
boiling hot water and fresh-squeezed lemon for a girl I barely knew. An umbrella seemed a little too fabulous.

When I delivered her the warm mug, she gave me an honest smile, much like the one I had seen her give Luke earlier in the night. At that moment, I was half-glad I had opened the door for her.

“You have a cute butt,” she announced to me and Marvin, who was snoring next to her. I was about to thank her, but I didn’t want to sound full of myself. Like, oh, I agree that my butt is cute. So I decided to, very slightly, turn on the self-deprecation.

“Really? Don’t you think it’s all hairy and gross?” Whoops. Too much.

“I didn’t notice too much hair. Let me look again.” And with that she reached over and tried to roll me over to my exposed side. My immediate reaction was to keep her away from my Sherwood Forest, so I playfully grabbed her arms and held her back. She burst into tears.

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that!” I released my burly grip.

“It’s not you. I actually kinda like being held down.” She pulled out an already soggy tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “It’s just that I’ve had the worst night of my entire life.”

Why do girls, specifically the ones who lived above me and their associates, constantly feel the need to construct such exaggerating statements? It makes it harder for me to trust them.

RECORD OF OVERHEARD EXAGGERATIONS

“If he doesn’t text me back within half an hour I’m never going to eat again.” Compliments of Cathy.

“I have the worst hangover of all time. Watch, I’m done with drinking forever.” Another Cathy statement.

“Did you just say Nick Lachey’s name? He’s like one of my best friends in the whole world,” Claire said two weeks after standing behind him in line at Jamba Juice.

“The movie
Bring It On
is the greatest thing to ever happen to me.” I believe both Cathy and Claire have said this before.

Women exaggerate literally 125 percent of the time. And what they don’t seem to understand is that these extreme overstatements
make men doubt their credibility. Like how about “I haven’t had a worse night since April of ’08.” If Bridget had said something specific and to the point like that, I would have wholeheartedly believed her. Not only that, I would’ve actually wanted to know what went down in the springtime of 2008.

Bridget stared at me as if she wanted me to say something. I ignored the expectant question that hung in the air for as long as I could, but the awkward silence was too much. Once Marvin opened his eyes and joined in, it was too much for me to handle. “All right, tell me what happened.”

“You don’t want me to talk about it. I can tell.” At this point I couldn’t figure out if she was pouting or if it was just her lip collagen acting up. Either way she was totally right, but my mom raised me to be a “good listener.”

“You’ve read me completely wrong. I’m dying to know what happened.” Men don’t exaggerate. We lie.

“Okay, fine.”

Bridget then launched into one of the most unimportant testimonials I have ever listened to in my entire life—I mean, since the freezing winter of 2010. The details of her story were fuzzy because I was only giving her half of my attention. But it had something to do with Luke’s flirting with her, which made Claire want to flirt with Luke, which made Luke want to start flirting with Claire, which made Bridget want to “never speak to Claire ever again.” Something of that nature. As I said, the details were a little fuzzy.

The other half of me was tackling something of much more importance. I was trying to work out in my head if I had enough macaroni and cheese in the fridge for lunch the next day or if I needed to open a new box. I was leaning toward having to open a new box but
hadn’t fully committed myself to any decisions yet. I find that when contemplating the quantity of macaroni and cheese one has in one’s fridge, it’s best to sleep on it and come to a conclusion after a good night’s rest.…

She rudely interrupted my train of thought. “So, will you talk to Luke for me? See if he’s still interested?”

“I would, but he’s currently having sex with Claire above my bed.”

“What!?”
She leapt up from the couch and bolted into my bedroom. “That whore!”

I guess I should’ve paid more attention to her story. I probably would have left the words “but he’s currently having sex with Claire” out of my response. But then I would’ve just responded with “I would above my bed.” I think that still would have been better.

In my room Bridget gasped—and I could tell this was not a pleased gasp—at the romping sounds that were seeping through my ceiling. Claire was undoubtedly having a grand time, and Luke was sweetly making sure of it: “You like that? You like when I spank you hard?”

I honestly felt bad for Bridget, regardless of the fact that she had only just met Luke that night and probably couldn’t even recall the color of his “fuck scarf.”

fuck scarf
(noun)
A scarf of Luke’s that when worn has always resulted in sexual intercourse.

For the record, I do not own a fuck scarf. That doesn’t mean I don’t believe in the fuck scarf. It’s just that I look funny wearing one, thus making the “fucking” aspect a difficult transition. On a side note, I do own a pair of fuck mittens that have about a 75 percent approval rating. Might have to do with the fact that they’re a special
kind of cashmere. Unfortunately, this is Southern California and I only get like two opportunities a year to lace up my fuck mittens. That unquestionably hurts the statistical approval rating.

“So, you wanna talk about it or something?” I offered my services to Bridget. But she just stood there in silence listening to her friend scream in ecstasy. I could tell she was either on the verge of hysterically crying or plotting a murder-suicide. Either way, I didn’t want to be a witness.

“I’m gonna be your electric blanket all night long!” Luke responded to the throes of Claire’s passion.

“Oh come on, Bridget. Do you really like a guy who describes himself as an electric blanket?” Regardless of my friendship with the guy, someone needed to say it, even if she didn’t want to hear it.

“I’m cold, so, yeah.” And with that, she broke down into a pitiful wail. I was pretty sure I had a real electric blanket somewhere in my closet, but I pieced together that she was speaking in metaphor.

I couldn’t tell if I genuinely wanted to make her feel better or if I was just trying to shut her up, but out of nowhere I let slip a groan that even surprised myself: “Oooohhhh yyyeaaaahhh.” She looked up at me from across the room with frightened eyes, clearly not understanding where I was going with my apparent Tourette’s. So I made it a little bit more obvious: “Oh yeah, Bridge. Ride me like a child on a roller coaster!” This made her even more confused and genuinely frightened. I’ll admit, it wasn’t my best line. I watched as she nonchalantly made her way to the door, most likely to run for safety. But before I could let her go, I tried once again. And this time I screamed as loud as I possibly could up at the ceiling. “You like that, Bridget? You like it when we have sex? Please tell me you like it!”

Her concerned expression transformed into a delighted smirk. We were finally on the same page.

“Do I like it? I love it—sorry, what’s your name again?” she whispered.

“It’s Charlie.”

“Oh, Charlie! Do me harder! Ahhhhh, ooohhhh yeahhhh!”

This was the first time I had ever consummated pretend sex before. It didn’t quite bring the same enjoyment as normal sex, but it was fun in a different kind of way, and I didn’t have to wear mittens in ninety-degree weather either. Also, I think I was pretty solid in the pretend sack, especially with coming up with believable and creatively dirty sentences. My favorite: “Do you, Bridget, take me to be your lawfully fuckable sex mate?”

“Yessssssssssss.”

I don’t know if it was the magic of Pastel Party Night or something to do with geomagnetic storms beyond my understanding, but that night, my one-way connection upstairs became a two-way wormhole, and the noises from my room could be heard upstairs. I haven’t been able to replicate these circumstances since. Maybe I should consult a
Farmers’ Almanac
.

Luke and Claire quieted down from having real sex to listen to our wild pretend sex. We felt the thrill of what it must be like to be understudies performing onstage for the first time. We were perfectly in sync with each other, which was sure to bring jealousy to our rival couple. Little did they know we were yards away from even touching each other.

Typical male competition kicked in, and from upstairs, the headboard banging began. Luke was giving Claire all he had, which didn’t sound all that pleasurable. Bridget and I looked at each other and, without saying a word, grabbed either end of my bed and started driving it repeatedly into my wall. At this point we were knee-deep in a sex-off.

For a brief moment, I questioned why we weren’t just having actual sex, instead of needing to force the issue. But once I looked over at Bridget, who was belting out imitation orgasms while ramming my bed into the wall, all with a huge smile on her face, I decided that this was even better.… Well, probably not better, but it was late and sometimes even a guy has to fake it when he needs some sleep.

As Luke and Claire grew louder, so did we. Every move they made, we responded with twice as much might. I could tell Bridget really wanted this win. And I was going to do everything in my power to get it for her. I thrust my bed that much harder into the wall.

“I never even knew what a Reverse Frog Squat was until this very second. It’s fantastic!” I yelled out.

At this point we had made two indentation marks in the drywall. The lanterns above my bed were crooked and just a few pushes away from crashing to the ground. My side tables were actually on their sides. And poor Marvin was trembling in the corner. Bridget took note of all of the destruction.

“Hey, maybe we should stop. We’ve done enough damage as it is,” she whispered, so as not to let our opponents hear.

“But we haven’t finished simultaneously yet,” I slyly said with such a confident smirk.

“You’re right. Bring it home.” She pretend-moaned with an arousing combination of intensity and hope. I could immediately recognize that she’d never ever been fake-fucked like this before. I fake-performed like a champ, so much so that afterward she should’ve considered lighting up a fake cigarette, and the next day she’d have been well advised to buy a fake morning-after pill.

It got quiet. Such is post–fake coitus. We weren’t sure if they had actually finished or if they just didn’t have enough endurance to
keep up with us. It didn’t matter either way. Silence meant the white flag had been raised. We were victorious.

Well, I guess that all of this fraudulent sex inadvertently got Bridget in the mood, because out of nowhere she leapt across the bed, grabbed my Snuggie, and kissed me. I was not at all prepared for this ninjalike move but was more than happy to roll with the punches.

“Thank you for tonight,” she whispered.

“No problem. Was it the fake best you’ve ever had?”

“Yes,” she said with a grin on her face. “What about you?”

“I’ve had better.”

And then she kissed me again. Eventually, she pulled away, but not before leaving an eyelash on my retina as a souvenir. I was one second into rubbing her eyelash out of my eye when I heard: “Oh my God, the way you just rubbed your eye? It was so adorable. Especially in those PJs.” I smiled. Tonight had turned out to be pretty good.

By the time I had gone to the bathroom and come back with throat lozenges for our sore orgasmed throats, she was fast asleep sideways on my bed. I tried moving her the proper way and under the covers, but a drunk girl’s weight is much heavier than I anticipated. There’s a scientific formula for it. Something about Earth’s gravitational pull increasing exponentially with every ounce of alcohol imbibed. I was too exhausted to care. So I gently curled up sideways next to her and closed my eyes. Just as I was about to enter into a dreamlike state, I heard my good friend’s muffled voice through the ceiling.

“Well played, Charlie. Well played …”

Then, after a slight pause, I also heard: “Uhhh, my name’s Claire, asshole. Who the hell’s Charlie?”

THE GIRLS ON FACEBOOK

Dear Girls Above Me,

(Reading her Facebook wall) “Who is this Rip Lewis everyone’s talking about?” I’m sorry but I think your friend Lewis died.

Dear Girls Above Me,