A few weeks ago, I asked for some, what a friend once dubbed, “icewater down the back” moments—it’s those moments when someone does something that so revolts you when you are just about to do it that it is the equivalent of someone dumping a bucket of icewater down your back.
Moments of clarity, if you will.
Anyway, there’s a street not far from mine. And I can’t pass a certain bodega/house without thinking about meeting my Icewater Dude. It was Thanksgiving and everyone in my house had left for the holiday. I was alone (yeah! A rarity in NYC) for four solid days. For the first day or so, I just sat around my house in various stages of dress, eating junk food, watching bad TV and drinking wine. By around 5 p.m. Friday, I dusted the Doritos off my lap, looked at the little hurricane of destruction spread about my coffee table and decided that I needed to A) Shower and B) Go Outside.
So, I did. I showered and walked to my neighborhood bar, Last Exit. At Last Exit, some little boy, oh, around 23, sits down next to me, proceeds to devour his order of fish and chips from across the street, and we strike up a conversation, none of which I can recall, though the bartender did not seem to like this boy very much.
At one point, he turns to me and says, “So, you wanna go to my place? It’s just around the corner.”
So we go to his place, hit the bodega on the corner for more beer, and climb the stairs. We’re sitting on the couch. “What music do you have?” I say. He pulls out some pathetic flip folder of stuff like Sum 41, John Mayer and the like. “Ugh,” I say. “You have crap taste.” “Wait a minute, my roommate has some…” And so he fetches his roomie’s folder of shit, and I finally dug out the Fugees, which was the only decent, I swear to fucking god, CD they had in that entire house.
So, we’re making out, then we’re making out in the bedroom. And clothes are coming off, and I’m in that moment of decision—should I fuck this guy or not? Pros—he’s kinda cute, nice body, I should probably get some because it’s been a while, etc. Cons? Eh, I don’t really like him that much, he likes John Mayer, is this gonna be worth it?
So, I’m having this internal debate, and I’m like “Well, I better not…but maybe I should…” and I am just about to be wavered over the to the side of doing it, when he says, I shit you not, “Too bad, baby, I would’ve rocked your world.”
Now, there is no phrase I probably hate more than “rock your world.” I mean, what does that mean? Am I a 21-year-old frat boy? Am I wearing a No Fear T-shirt? Are we at a WWE rally, snapping into a Slim Jim with Randy “Macho Man” Savage? (Because that would really excite me, no joke). Last I checked, no. There are many things that night could’ve done for me—a good time, getting something something—but seriously Rocking My World Beyond All Human Comprehension was probably not going to be one of them.
Icewater. Down the back.
And so, I share the brave who wrote in with their icewater-down-the-back moments:
Having crap taste: “When I was about 18, I started dating this superhot surfer guy…way older, like 25, which when you’re 18 is a real man of the world. And I wasn’t even in college yet. So we’re about to seal the deal and the CD changes…No Doubt’s ‘Don’t Speak.’ He stops for a minute and starts singing all sexy-like and says how much he loves the song. I started laughing and was just like, ‘GET off me NOW’ and I left.”
Let’s talk hygiene: A friend shared that one guy she was dating took off his clothes to reveal an entirely shaved set of junk downstairs—like red, chaffed and doughy.
Into every life a little two-inch peen must fall: “Getting hot and heavy and getting ready to make it happen—a mood killer and showstopper was when the guy disrobed, all supposedly ‘ready’ with all 2 inches!”
Puking: “Getting vomited on while getting head from a girlfriend in college temporarily cooled my ardor…Likewise, I was giving head to an Aerosmith groupie I clutched back to my hotel room after last call when my ministrations were interrupted by the sound of her snoring.”
Thanks all for sharing.