Chapter 59: Too Much Fun, Dude.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!

Sportsdude sits next to Fundude, looking smug.

I want to backhand that little half smile off his face. SMACK! I can almost hear the satisfying sound. The last time I saw him, I was in a rage, yelling at him for being such a jerk before I stomped out the door a mere month or so ago. I was crazy and overattached, he was a player I had no reference to accurately identify. And tonight, he has won. I can see him mentally stalking around the ring, arms held high as he bears the championship belt, stepping over my unconscious form sprawled on the mat.

Fundude, still unaware that we know each other, puzzles at my response. “You know Sportsdude?” “…We’ve met…” I stammer. How is this even possible?

I live in a sort of specific region in Big Suburb, and amidst the urban sprawl, I am discovering that people in this particular area tend to know each other. So much for anonymity.

I have dated exactly three men from this area, Mellodude, Sportsdude… who turned out to be Mellodude’s brother, and now Fundude, who is Sportsdude’s best friend.

This is not good.

Sportsdude, looking 100% like the cat that ate the canary, gets to his feet, claps Fundude on the shoulder…”Call me later. I have something to tell you.” and commences to waltz out the door, still with that stupid smug half grin. He knows I’m fucked.

Once Fundude finds out I dated not only his best friend but his best friend’s brother, he’s going to think I’ve dated everyone in Little Suburb. I haven’t, but what would YOU think if you were him? I have to tell him myself. There’s no way I can let Sportsdude be the one to rat me out.

And I do tell him, and I can tell he’s disappointed. Oh, this pisses me off, especially since Fundude has dated a Where’s Waldo number of women. Men can date all they want, but desire women who have dated no one. They want a woman who looks like Pamela Anderson, yet had the previous sex life of Mother Teresa. Aaaand magically knows all the crazy pornstar moves while having had absolutely no experience. Not touched by any other paws, pristine, pure, but you’ll sleep with me, right?? This very obvious, very embedded double standard is absolutely infuriating, and at the moment it is screwing me over.

Fundude is tossing around the term Eskimo brothers. Of course, innocent church girl has no idea what this means. So there’s a term for when you date brothers. Huh, who knew? And then he drops his own bomb… he’s still in love with his ex, and emotionally unavailable for a relationship. I’m coming across this emotionally unavailable thing kind of a lot. And another guy falls off the cliff of I’m-not-ready-for-a-relationship

Only he kind of doesn’t.

He keeps having me over. We still watch old B&W movies with popcorn and wine. He continues introducing me to people in Big Suburb, and I hang around when he calls. He morphs into a fun friend, which is what I really needed anyway.

After a particularly difficult day working up in Tiny Town, I’m headed back and totally exhausted. Fundude asks if I’d like to come over and watch movies. This sounds like a great ending to a ridiculous day, and I agree to come over as soon as I’m back. I get back, quickly change clothes, and head straight over to Fundude’s house, wine in hand.

The door creaks open, breaking the silence. Silent… because no one is home. I wander through his house, room to room, no Fundude. What the hell.

I check my text messages.

Fundude: where are you?

Where am I??! Where the hell are YOU?!!!

come out to Paul’s pub. the text reads. NOW.

GRRRRR….I am in no mood to go out. I’m crabbier than a whore at Mardi Gras. I call Fundude and inform him I’m exhausted and have absolutely no interest in going anywhere. He claims it’s just for a little bit, he’s just finishing up, we’ll be back at the house soon, yadda yadda. Guess who works in sales? And he’s really selling this idea well, and I give in, and and am back in the car I’ve already been in for half the day…God, why am I even doing this? The angel on my shoulder tsk tsk’s at me, but the devil on the other is dancing.

My heels click into the bar on the wooden plank flooring, not too packed, Sunday night and it appears that Funday is quite over. Fundude sits chatting with a couple. He introduces me, let’s say Bill and Cindy. Bill is a doctor, and Cindy is his significant other. She weirdly has a ring on, though they aren’t married because of some nebulous story, bla bla and they both give me a big hug. An overly big, rather affectionate hug. They are a bit drunk, and so is Fundude. Something weird is going on here, I just can’t quite put my finger on it…we continue to chat, but I’m distracted by rapidly evaporating platonic fantasies of flopping on the couch and watching old movies LIKE HE PROMISED HE WOULD. The three of them continue their liquid slide into complete inebriation, and this couple is being very flattering to me, calling me beautiful, touching my arm, saying lovely flowery things, and they want us to come over to their house and…wait just one minute…

Two and two finally connect in my mind and total the inevitable four.

Swingers.

I grab Fundude by the ear and am shouting a whisper at him: AREYOUFUCKINGKIDDDINGMEIAMEXHAUSTEDANDYOUSIGNEDMEUPFORWHAT??!!

Totally nonchalant. What?? It’ll be fun!

NO I am not going to have a foursome!

Cards on the table, the drunk couple are disappointed but understanding. I hope. At this point, I am level eleven irritated and not even attempting to be nice anymore. I have keys in hand and ready to do an abrupt and rapid retreat, yet Fundude resists…No, no, don’t leave, we’ll go back and watch TV at the house like we had planned. Okay, then I want to leave. NOW. Okay, okay…but can you give this couple a ride home? It’s right on the way back to the house. Why not? What could possibly go wrong? And they drunkenly tumble into my back seat and I am hauling this inebriated mess down the road. In the damn car again.

They direct me to a beautiful lakeside house, damn, these swingers make bank. I pull in, and they stumble out into their magnificent terraced home. Come in, just for a minute. UGH I don’t want to, but Fundude is spectacularly persuasive, and I shortly find myself sitting at their home bar, pissed, pouting and unfriendly. I just don’t care any more. I still want to be flopped on the couch watching something I don’t have to think about, and I’m pushing Fundude to get the F out of here, as the couple is pulling out various spirits and glasses from cabinets…Vodka, soda, lemons, paper plate, vial of powder…wait, what??

What the hell is THAT??

It ain’t salt, I know that.

The guy starts talking…it clears your mind, helps you focus, enhances your thinking, makes you feel amazing….

MDMA. Ecstasy. Molly. E. M. X. Mad Dog.

Ex church girl here hasn’t ever seen anything stronger than a joint.

He sprinkles it on the plate, and they are dabbing their fingers in it and putting it in their mouths. I flatly decline, I’ve never been one to experiment with drugs. He insists it doesn’t really make you wasted, per se…

And then they all are. Totally wasted. They were already drunk, now they are unbearable. The guy is stumbling after me and still wants me to have some sort of orgy, the lady is following suit, and this is turning into a little three ring shitshow I never wanted to witness. Fundude is equally fucked up, and already has his hands all over Swingerlady.

I’m out.

I grab my keys and stomp out the door. I jump in my Jeep and screetch back, gravel flying. I am winding down the driveway when in my rearview mirror appears a drunken Fundude, arms pinwheeling haphazard circles as he half runs, half staggers after my car. Maybe I should speed up and see how long he can do this before he falls over. Ha. But I have mercy, and stop the car so he can stumble aboard.

Okay, so NOW do we get to watch an old movie? I want my damn popcorn. I drive to his house. He is full of intoxicated apologies. By the time we get to his house he is so hammered I just tuck him in bed and exit this crazy evening, another bizarre night in Monica’s world.

I stomp up my stairs, uncork my damn wine by myself, and collapse onto the couch, opening my long-neglected messages.

And worlds collide.

There’s a church down here that wants me to fill in for their worship leader.

On Easter Sunday.