Tag Archives: boyfriend

The Demon Stain

This week has truly been a failure of adulting.

A week ago I decided to actually pay real money to a real gym (I have never done this before in my life) and take exercise classes in an attempt to look less like an amorphous blob and more like something that has, I don’t know, curves? A general shape? I’ve so far taken three intense classes in one week and managed to both gain weight and discover that my arms are weaker than noodles. (The exercise coach kept demanding the girls use a minimum of 15 pound weights, meanwhile I’m huddled in the corner barely lifting my measly 8 pounder wishing it was a quarter pounder, if you know what I mean). Not only that, I’m so sore it hurts to walk downstairs, upstairs, and on level surfaces.

These exercise classes have ruined my life in more ways than one. After the second class,  I changed into my work clothes and realized I forgot to bring clean underwear. I was forced to wear sweat-soaked, olfactory-sense-killing, weirdly stained underwear the rest of the day. (The day went by without anyone mentioning the smell or fainting in my presence, which I considered a victory). When I got home, I discovered that the deodorant I had thrown in my backseat after working out had melted in the extreme heat and left a large stain on the upholstery of my car. My 6-month-old leased car.  My 6-month-old leased car that my dad helped pay for. The same dad who is coming to visit me in a week and who will ride in my car and inevitably find the stain as parents are wont to do and will be forever disappointed. I have already cried in the car, begging the stain to go away and feeling in general like a stain on planet Earth. My boyfriend (bless his heart) has since hired a car cleaner who specifically deals with stains that will disappoint your parents — the guy set to work this morning and is still trying to scrub the stain out as I type this. He is baffled by the tenacity of the stain and is going to come back on Tuesday with new and stronger chemicals. It is assumed to be a demon stain of an unknown variety.

To top it off, we have a high school intern at work who I keep trying to impart wisdom on, hoping she won’t notice the way I’m hobbling around from being too sore, or the fact that my underwear smells like I shit in it and then fermented it and then wore it for a week straight, or the fact that I have a weird stain in my backseat. We were picking up lunch the other day and I was doing my civic duty of teaching her how much wiser I am because I have lived seven more years than her, when she points out that a meter maid is giving me a ticket TWO MINUTES after the meter expired. As I tried to fight it, he shrugged and said, “Once I start writing the ticket, I can’t stop.” The intern gave me a look that said, “If I’m doing this much better than you and I’m only in high school, I’m gonna be a millionaire by your age.” Too right, intern. Too right.

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The Third Most Traumatizing Event To Ever Happen to Me Happened Last Week

Man Friend (from here on out I’ll refer to him as Monkey JUST BECAUSE) and I recently adopted a cat. It took me three months to convince him it was a good idea, and he finally came around due to the persistence of me, his friends, and the gun I put to his head. He agreed, but not without conditions, first and foremost: the cat will not be allowed on our bed lest we inhale cat fur while we sleep (or he rolls over the cat at night). By our cat’s (Theo) second night at home, Monkey was sitting on the bed trying to coax Theo to jump up and cuddle, all his previous conditions promptly thrown out the window. They’ve been pretty good friends ever since, and to my extreme disgust I think Theo likes Monkey more than he likes me.

After Theo had been home for one day, we discovered his favorite place in our apartment was the windowsill. (It should be noted we adopted him on one of the hottest weekends in Los Angeles, and the poor guy was panting and slightly afraid after we trained four fans on him). We went around our apartment and closed every window where the screens weren’t secure considering we were on the second floor. After one terrifying day where it reached 105 in our apartment, we decided to open some windows that we normally keep closed so Theo could hopefully not die.

Let me set the scene. It’s night. Our entirely black cat has blended into the window screen so we don’t notice he’s there until we’re in bed. I inquire, “Isn’t that a window we usually keep closed?” Beat. Then Monkey and I both jump up to grab Theo, which causes him to jerk backwards in surprise, and then he’s gone. There’s a quiet moment where our hearts drop out of our butts and Monkey sticks his head out the window and then everything happens at once. I literally start sobbing the contents of the Pacific Ocean repeating, “Is he okay? Is he okay?” Monkey says he thinks he saw Theo take a step, and then we both bolt downstairs. I’m still sobbing (“Isheokayisheokayisheokay”) while Monkey runs barefoot over the loose gravel to grab our cat. He retrieves Theo and holds him to his chest and I can’t really see him and we run upstairs and collapse on the floor in a big heap and that’s when Monkey starts crying too. Now we’re both a big sobbing mess and Theo seems fine, if not a little shocked. He slowly starts to regain his senses, realizes these sniveling humans are holding him too tight, bites Monkey’s hands and runs to his food bowl. We make sure he’s not limping and shower him with treats and for the rest of the night we’re pretty much traumatized. We watch Bob’s Burgers to decompress, and worry the rest of the night that we’re terrible, irresponsible cat parents who should have cat social services called on us. We close every window in the house while sobbing and wishing ourselves into Cat Hell, all the while Theo is licking his balls like nothing happened.

Because I am an unabashed cat lady, here are cat pics:

Theo's first night home. He immediately went to the windowsill.

Theo’s first night home. He immediately went to the windowsill.

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Theo sleeping on the windowsill. I KNOW I’M BIASED BUT HE’S SO CUTE.

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So I Guess Hairy Legs Aren’t Sexy?

I’m not quiet about the fact that my leg hair and I have a rocky relationship, which can mostly be summed up by me doing everything short of plucking each individual hair out and my hair going “Fuck you and fuck your mother”, and then promptly growing back in the next two hours. Understandably, I’ve given up on this endless war and have resorted to shaving my legs on a schedule that depends on the weather. For example, if it’s cold and rainy, I won’t shave. If it’s sunny, I won’t shave. So basically, I don’t shave. If I do, it’s because I woke up super motivated to be an adult for the day and after shaving will proceed to clean my room and do laundry. So, like, once a month.

A couple weeks ago, my man friend and I were making out on his bed and when we realized where it was headed, we both stopped to quickly assess if we had accomplished enough personal hygiene for the day to be seen naked. A quick sniff and a fond memory of my last shower, I decided I was good to go. “So, shower after?” he asked. I nodded and we resumed where we left off. I pulled off my jeans and he grabbed my legs and suddenly paused. “Actually, let’s shower now.” “What? Why?” “It’s just… it’s a little… prickly right now.” I felt my face get hot, and then, oh the horror!, I started leaking embarrassing tears probably because I’m horribly insecure and his dislike of my physical appearance confirmed my worst nightmares. But that’s just a guess. Before he knew what was happening my furry legs and I ran into the bathroom and started shave-sobbing.

The more I shave-sobbed, the more my anger built, and with each stroke of the Razor of Justice, I spewed a rant through the bathroom door that included some, if not all, of the following statements: Who the hell do you think you are? Don’t you know what feminism is?! I don’t get turned off by your body hair! You’ve been tricked by the social beauty construct! Society! Big Brother! What about the hippies?! How do female Yetis get laid?! It was then that the angry/conflicted texting to my sister began. ME: So Man Friend basically told me he’d rather I shave my legs before sex and I can’t decide if I’m really really pissed at him or if that’s a valid opinion. SISTER: Well, it’s a socialized opinion. I mean, we shave our armpits and legs and pubic hair because we’re taught that women are only sexy when they’re hairless. ME: I FUCKING know that. (I’m a douchebag-know-it-all when I’m mad). SISTER: I know. So it’s hard to fight against socialized preferences. You can for sure but it’s uphill.

We exchanged some “Ugh, society” texts for a while and after we were done I started to feel better. And I realized something. Society aside, I want to make my partner happy. I definitely make him do certain things for me because I like it (for example, I love when he doesn’t cut his hair too short and whispers sports facts to me), so if he wants me to shave my legs, then by golly I’ll shave my legs. As long as he doesn’t say anything about the bushiness of my eyebrows, because I am NOT enduring the public humiliation and pain of getting my eyebrows plucked in the middle of busy mall again. No fucking way.

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Cause Baby Now We’ve Got Bad Breath

A couple weeks ago at work I got so busy that I literally had no time to eat anything. My stomach, normally accustomed to snacks every minute or so, was freaking the fuck out. When I finally returned to the office after running errands, I grabbed the first edible thing I could find: Mustard and Onion chips. Seeing as it was 5 PM and they were the first thing I had eaten all day, they tasted like freedom, or early retirement, or Zac Efron’s nipples. I ate a bag and a half before dusting myself off and retreating to my desk, where my horrified coworkers recounted watching something similar on Animal Planet.

Exhausted from the day, I was ecstatic to see Boyfriend when I got home. Now, I had just absorbed a shit ton of Mustard and Onion artificial flavor, which in hindsight should have been a red flag for me to keep my mouth shut until I got near some mouth wash. But I remained blissfully unaware, ignoring those flags like the pile of unopened envelopes on my kitchen table from something called the DWP. When I finally saw Boyfriend, I jumped all over him, kissed him a bunch of times, and told him all about my day, much to his utmost horror. Looking back, I can recognize the signs of him turning his head away from me every time I spoke, subtly trying to hide his gagging, and generally keeping a distance of at least fifteen feet from me. But in the moment, I was content to exhale my toxic fumes all over the place.

That night we walked to Ralph’s together and while I browsed the aisles, picking out the items from our grocery list, he zoomed to the check out. When we met up again, I had our groceries and he had one thing: tic-tacs. “Why did you get tic-tacs?” I inquired. “Those weren’t on the list.” “Because…………” Boyfriend is bad at making excuses. “Because?” “Just……..because.” “Uh, okay.” As we walked home, he produced the tic-tacs and ate one. He offered me a handful. “Want some?” He was holding at least six in his hand. “Why? Do I have bad breath or something?” “Uh……..” It was then the night flashed before my eyes. The avoiding, the head-turning, the gagging. “Wait. I DO have bad breath?!” I was mortified. How could I not see it? Mustard and fucking Onion?! I don’t even know why that flavor exists! The only time someone would need Mustard and Onion simultaneously is if they were a hot dog in desperate need of condiments. I hate-spiraled the rest of the way back, convinced that there was no longer a situation in the future where Boyfriend could find me sexy. Not after he smelled my lovely aroma reminiscent of raccoons diarrheaing in a garbage can. When we returned I brushed my teeth so many times my gums started bleeding, which only made my appearance more disgusting (“Love me” I cried as blood poured out of my mouth, or something like that). Luckily for me, Boyfriend has forgotten about the whole incident and we’ve moved on (I think the sharp blow to his head I administered to induce short term memory loss helped).

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Anal Sex…It Happened

Let me begin by saying that people are free to do whatever they want to do and I will not judge them for enjoying, as a friend put it, “taking it up the poop chute”. If that’s what you’re into, I totally support you for being you and enjoying your chosen recreational activities. But I can certainly judge myself, and I’m judging hardcore. I’m judging myself mostly for being very unprepared. Apparently, there is physical preparation to fully enjoy the anal sex experience (if you cringed while reading that I guarantee I cringed way worse while writing that). Like lube, and stretching, or something like that. I don’t know and I don’t care to google the details right now. There is also mental preparation. This involves thinking really hard about whether this is actually something you want to do. Here is an example thought you may want to have before doing the dirty: Do I really want someone up in the place I just excreted last night’s tacos? Now that I am an older, more mature person, I can definitively say, “No, I would like the path last night’s tacos took to remain unmolested by foreign objects.” But that’s now and I’m talking about then.

I’m talking about the Carly who decided with her boyfriend that doing it from behind would be a big turn on and, well, the rest of the story is incredibly painful to hear, but probably not as painful as it was for me to get an anal-sphincter-full of some guy’s dick. It felt like reverse constipation. I don’t even know if that makes sense, but that’s what it felt like. Maybe it’d be clearer to say it felt like I was birthing a baby out of my asshole. Or maybe that was just a more disgusting way to convey what I was feeling at that moment. Perhaps the worst part was that I was on someone’s couch when it happened. Not even my own couch. Which, now that I think about it, was probably for the best. I don’t know how the guy felt, but years later I have discovered that I have an apparently pretty hairy butthole, so it couldn’t have been that great for him either. The view was most likely akin to a bathroom sink drain after it has been clogged by a million hairs. By now, you’re already flooded with odious mental images at this point, so I’ll just finish you off by saying that afterwards I had painful diarrhea.

They say college is a time for experimentation. I think I can confidently say I experimented and my laboratory is now animal-cruelty-free and will no longer accept hypotheses dealing with objects entering assholes.

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Note to Self: Don’t Housesit for Rich People with Neurotic Dogs

One of the worst things that can happen to an awkward, clumsy person such as myself is when your boss gives you a job that deals with their personal life. While not said aloud, there’s always a threat looming beneath each request. For example, “Please drive my car from location A to location B” clearly implies “You will pay for each scratch in blood.” This past Labor Day weekend, my boss offered me some extra cash if I stayed at his house and watched his dog while he was out of town. Two things you should know about my boss: His dog is his life. Any harm that comes to her will be multiplied tenfold on the person who inflicted said harm. (I wasn’t allowed to leave the apartment for more than three hours because he was worried about the emotional stress this would put the dog through; that’s how much he’s into this dog). He also lives in a very fancy apartment filled with very fancy things (I’m pretty sure the living room rug cost more than my yearly salary). Two things you should know about me: I am clumsy. His dog hates me.

Despite the fact that all odds were against me, things went fairly well (there was a moment of panic when I dropped avocado on the rug, but it rubbed in nicely). The dog, who normally runs under the bed when I approach with a leash and growls when I attempt to pet her, actually began to warm up to me. I was starting to get used to ritzy life on the West Side. The bed was the biggest perk about the apartment. The only way to describe sleeping in the guest bed is to compare it to sleeping on a bed full of puppies. The down comforter was so soft I considered stealing it. I would’ve been okay dying on that bed. It was as white as a cloud, and felt like one too. I started to get comfortable. Too comfortable. So comfortable that I convinced Boyfriend to make out with me, only to have the dog jump onto the bed and scare the shit out of us. We tried to take things further while she sat on the floor and watched. It was unsettling, to say the least. I felt like she was condemning us to Doggy Hell, taking notes of all the things to relay to her Dad when he returned. Luckily, dogs can’t talk and snitch on the babysitter, which is the same reason I only babysit children under the age of one.

Paranoid there was a Teddy Cam watching us, I resigned myself to reclining on the cloud-bed and playing Mario Kart 8 with Boyfriend. After a successful Grand Prix, I got up from the bed and went to get water (even the water tasted amazing) when I heard, “Caaaarrllyyy!” I ran into the room to find the dog hunched on top of the snow white comforter, about to lose her dinner. Without thinking, I lunged onto the bed, arms outstretched like a running back in the endzone, and before I knew it she was retching into my cupped hands, filling them with kibble, saliva, and probably some of her own poop. Boyfriend stared at me, horrified, holding back a gag, as I mechanically walked back to the kitchen to wash my hands. Then I heard it again. “It’s happening!” I ended up getting a handful of dog vomit twice that night, and while it’s much easier to wash my hands than a pure white comforter that costs more than my life insurance, Boyfriend refused to get near me for the rest of the weekend.

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The Genesis of this Blog: It all Started with a Queef

About a year ago, I was dating an asshole. I met him on a film set and we had absolutely nothing in common, but I thought he was kind of cute and he had this thing for me and before you knew it we were having sex (which I regret to this day). Some people say, “Only have sex with people who care about you,” which I always thought was lame, but now I know if you’re going to have sex with someone who doesn’t really care about you and who you don’t trust, at least make sure it’s fun and they have a decent-sized dick. Otherwise you’ll be left cringing to yourself a year later, wondering why you don’t respect your vagina enough to keep it away from guys like that. Sorry, vagina.

One particular sexing with this guy (we were at his mom’s house…I know, I know), I queefed so loud you’d think a part of my soul departed with it. I. Wanted. To. Die. I immediately thought how this would be at least number four on the list of “Top Ten Embarrassing Moments in Carly’s Life”, and for the next week I obsessed over every second of that moment and wished I could erase it from my memory. It got so bad I felt like I had to get it out of my brain through some means or another or else I would explode and my gravestone would read, “Died From An Embarrassing Queef”. So, I wrote about it. At the time, my blog existed, but only as one of those angsty pre-teens rants that people make fun and I only published about once a year. Plus, they were all shitty posts. With my essay reflecting on the queefing nightmare, I now had a couple paragraphs on my hand and a forum to release it into the wild. So, I published the post (The Night I Queefed) to my blog because…well, I don’t know why. Maybe I thought there was someone out there who could read it and assure me that they, too, had queefed and survived. Sure enough, a day later I had a comment from a reader about how they sympathized with my queefing PTSD. The rush of emotion that came from sharing a deeply embarrassing, personal connection with a faceless stranger was addicting. Not only that, I had tapped into what would fuel the content for the rest of my weekly posts.

I’m a fairly awkward person who does awkward things and to whom embarrassing things frequently happen. For example, a couple weeks ago Boyfriend and I were doing a crossword on his laptop together while eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch. In the middle of quiet contemplation over a particular clue, a chewed up, saliva-soaked piece of CT Crunch shot out of my mouth and landed on the keyboard. We sat there looking at it until I wiped it off with my finger, looked around for a place to put it, and then ate it when he wasn’t looking. When people laugh at embarrassing stories like these in my posts, or say, “This happened to me too!”, I feel in control of the embarrassment, which feels so much better than constantly worrying about it. Don’t get me wrong, these posts are hard to write (completing that masturbation post was one of the most difficult things I’ve done). It’s like willingly displaying your diary to your high school, and then going home to your Boyfriend knowing that he just read about how some guy once peed in your mouth (and then understanding why he avoids kissing you). But at the end of the day, people are (hopefully) laughing at what I wrote, and that’s pretty much all I ever wanted out of life.

P.S. Thanks to Beanie for nominating me for a Liebster Award!

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The Weird Hair Growing Out of My Face

The other day, Boyfriend and I were in line for churros when he inspected my right cheek and said, “You have a weird hair.” Imagine you’re a girl with insecurities, doubts, fears, and the conviction that you’re terrible at being a girl because you only shave, like, once every two weeks and every morning you forget that brushing hair is something you have to do. Okay, now picture that you just heard from your boyfriend, the one who’s supposed to be physically attracted to you and all that crap, “There is something weird growing out of your face”. I think we can all agree that you immediately want to die. You want to crawl into a hole and never, ever, ever see the sun again. But, there were no holes to crawl into and die in at the churro stand, so I was left to awkwardly avoid Boyfriend (which was difficult since we drove there together) while trying to make sure he was always on my left.

As soon as I got to a mirror, I searched for the hair. Sure enough, there it was, long, black, and growing out of the side of my face like goddamn pioneer. It looked like a freaking pube was protruding from face. It was on one of those spots on your body that you would never think to look at unless someone pointed it out to you. I started thinking about all the things this hair had witnessed while I was living my life stupidly thinking there were no weird hairs growing out of my face. It was long (like an inch? Inch and a half?) which meant it’d been there for a while. Oh god, this hair was there on all my first dates, accompanying us to the restaurant like an eager third wheel. It was there when I got my hair cut, glaring my hairdresser in the eyes as she shampooed me. It’s been there for every class, every game of Settlers of Catan, every dry hump on a stranger’s couch (I have actually never dry humped on a stranger’s couch. I just wanted to make my life sound more exciting). How many times had I assumed people were listening to me talk when in fact they were just staring at this hair and wondering why I had no hygiene? How many times?! My life flashed before my eyes as I stared into the black soul of the hair on the side of my face. As I pulled out the tweezers, it stood strong, accepting its fate nobly. Then I plucked it and it went to hair heaven. Now I’m paranoid there are weird hairs growing elsewhere on my body in all the nooks and crannies too difficult for me to find. I need a best girl friend. Or a hand mirror. Either will work.

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Your Boyfriend Gives You Flowers, Mine Tries to Murder Me In My Sleep

When I first start dating someone, I try to be on my best behavior. I shave my legs every day instead of every two weeks, I pretend to eat all the food groups instead of just pizza, ice cream, and cookies, and I act like I’m normally a good person by always giving homeless people money. It’s not until two months later when all the weird quirks and habits feel comfortable enough to expose themselves (it only took one month for me to stop trying and start exclusively wearing sweatpants around Boyfriend). Luckily for me, Boyfriend turned out to be just as weird as I am. Now that we’ve been dating two months, I’ve discovered: he frequently snapchats me while he poops, he constantly has the hiccups, he sneezes so loud I’m pretty sure he caused the 5.3 earthquake, and, minor detail, he loves to pretend-assassinate me.

I discovered the latter when he snuck up behind me one night, stabbed an invisible dagger into my back, and held my head as he whispered, “Sh sh sh”. Then he kissed my cheek. While some couples get massages together or ride tandem bikes, Boyfriend and I try to murder each other. One of his favorites is to use a katana (Samurai sword) to slash my face while whispering into my ear, “You will shed tears of scarlet” (and though I’ve argued several times that I’m not sure how this would actually kill me, he does it anyway). Now that I know the Assassination Game exists, I’ve taken to walking around his apartment with my back against the wall to avoid any attacks, which has just made the kills more unexpected. Not one to be left out, I tried my own methods of sneaking up and killing him, and I won’t get into detail but I suck at it.

After several failed assassination attempts on Boyfriend, I finally had the perfect chance to bury a knife in his back once and for all (this is clearly a healthy relationship). The apartment was dark, he thought I was asleep…it was a perfect storm. Huddled in his giant sweatshirt and sweatpants, I tip-toed down the hallway and hid behind the door to the bathroom. (On a side note, whenever I’m hiding from someone, I always have to pee. Like really bad. It’s a problem). The light in the bathroom turned off and the door creaked open. My heart was pounding and my bladder was bursting with anticipation. I stifled a giggle as Boyfriend stepped out and I jumped at him, my fist poised with my weapon of choice – an invisible kitchen knife. Without a moment’s hesitation, his hands shot out in front of him and he shoved me so hard I flew into the wall. Apparently, when Boyfriend is taken by surprise, some sort of sleeper-agent-military-training-self-defense shit takes place and he goes into full-on protector mode. Which is great if the apartment ever gets broken into. But it sucks when you’re trying to scare him in an innocent game of Assassination. It took about five seconds (way too long for a normal person, in my humble opinion) for him to realize that it was me under the bulky sweatshirt. Then the apologies started flowing. It’s a miracle I didn’t pee my pants. Even though I’m now forced to restrain myself lest I take the risk of actually getting murdered in self-defense, I’m glad I found someone as weird as I am. Although if he reads this blog, I’ll probably be single again (if you ARE reading, I promise I always give money to the homeless and eat my vegetables on the daily).

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My (Ex) Boyfriend the Biter

Most guys like to be told what girls like and don’t like in bed. Whenever I hear this, I nod vigorously and spout my agreement, “Oh yeah, I definitely do that.” In reality, I never do that. And it’s because I have Sympathetic Embarrassment Syndrome. SES occurs when I see something embarrassing happening to someone else, and I feel embarrassed for them. In fact, I probably feel twenty times more embarrassed than they actually feel. I’m also one of those obnoxious people who giggle when they get uncomfortable, which is why I don’t get invited to funerals anymore. But I digress.

Back in the era of dating Twatface (ex #2), I was rudely introduced to his aggressive style in bed when he bit me. On the shoulder. In what world is behaving like a cannibal attractive to a woman? I’m so turned on right now by your attempt to eat me alive. Don’t be shy with the salt! That was sarcasm. I like a guy’s teeth to stay on his food. But, I was much too embarrassed to say anything in fear that Twatface would be embarrassed, which would make me more embarrassed; it’s a terrible loop that’s going to end up with me dead in a ditch. Twatface continued to bite, mostly on the lip. The first couple times were more like painful nibbles, and when I didn’t protest, they became increasingly harder. With each bite, I would giggle like a girl and squeak “Ow!”, but I think that just encouraged him, the sick bastard. I contemplated telling him that when he bit me I wanted rip off his lips and feed them to piranhas, but then I thought about how embarrassed he would feel when I told him I didn’t like his style, and the SES kicked in and I stayed quiet. The more I waited to say anything, the more embarrassed I got.

This resulted in heavy makeout sessions with me constantly backing away from his chompers. By the end of one night, my bed would be pushed back 20 feet and there would be a giant dent in my pillow. Sometimes I would stop him and subtly-to-the-point-of-obscurity ask, “Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat [other than my flesh?!]”, but he never got the cryptic message I was sending. It got to the point where one night, he bit down so hard I yelped and feigned lethargy, fake-sleeping for the next two hours. The next morning, my lip was still sore. I crept out of bed, careful not to wake the snoozing bastard, and looked in the mirror. Sure enough, I had a fat lip. He actually bit so hard my lip was bruised and swollen. How romantic. I touched it tenderly. You would think this would be the last straw, right? YOU IGNORANT FOOL. For him to find out that he had given me a fat lip would be the ultimate embarrassment (SES, remember?), so the rest of the morning involved pulling my hair in front of my face to cover up the evidence and ushering him out the door. That afternoon, I iced my lip and fantasized about punching him in the face.

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