*A few notes from the wannabe authorette:
1. As you read the following post, try not to hold my past against me. I’m no longer a dirty skank whore—although most days, I want to be. Just not with my hubs. (Oh, are you reading this, babe? Hi, sweetieeeeeeee!)
And FINALLY, this week’s post:
I really hope that my collegiate ex-boyfriend hasn’t figured out the address for my blog, because I’m about to cop to a cheating-on-him story that happened back in 1998.
Or perhaps it won’t matter if he figures it out, because it’s been 15 years, he’s gotten married and had 2 kids with his wife of 12 years (I’m not a stalker; we just come from the same small town where people—Dad—feel the need to update you annually on things like this no matter how much you don’t care)—and oh yeah, he dumped me after figuring out what a cheating slooter I was just a few months after this story took place.
Oh, and then there’s this thought that would probably flash through his mind: Shay who? Who gives a shit?
So, dirty whore guilt be damned, I’ll just go ahead and tell it.
Back in 1998, my friends and I embarked on a Spring Break trek to San Antonio, Texas. We had originally planned a trip to somewhere a bit more “Spring Breakish,” such as Panama City, Florida, but my best friend had wrecked her car and couldn’t afford to take such a lavish vacation. Hey, the Sandpiper Beacon doesn’t pay for itself, my peeps.
And I totally know what you’re thinking. Wrecking your car just a couple of weeks before Spring Break? What the eff was wrong with her? Some people are so damned selfish. I still haven’t forgiven her for ruining our Spring break plans.
But I tried, and in the process, agreed that San Antonio, where her sister lived and offered to let us stay free of charge, was a great second-best. So we packed up her brand new Sunfire (of course we made that selfish beeyatch drive) and headed that way.
Once we got there, I fell in love. The weather was beautiful, the Riverwalk fantastic, and, as you’ll find out in this post, the people were so, so nice.
Perhaps a little too nice to a small-town girl with a dirty skank heart like mine.
We did what all Spring Breakers do: Hit the bars by night, then spent the daytime hitting the bars. Basically, we hit the bars. Hard.
Oh, and we also had a little friendly competition going on: Whoever could make out with the most guys won. What did the lucky girl win, you ask? The title of Spring Break Slut. (I’m not even kidding. Trust me; I wish I were.) We were even planning on returning home to make a Miss America-like sash and crown for the winner.
Holy shit, do you ever look back on your life and think about what you could have done with all of the time you wasted being an effing idiot? Ah, well, hindsight’s 20/20 and all that jazz…
Now, mind you—we weren’t as skanky as I like to let on. We had a rule: No sex. And we stuck steadfastly to it, which was easy to do, because we were all ugly nerds who nobody wanted to have sex with. In fact, we were damned lucky that any of us ever even got to the number 1 on the makeout tally, much less were able to make a damned competition out of it. But we knew what we were doing, my peeps: We had closing down the bars and snagging the drunkest, beer-goggliest patrons looking for a last resort down to an art.
It was like taking candy from a baby—or, in our case, dignity from a drunk.
One night, as I was stumbling through a popular country and western bar looking for my next makeout competition victim, I happened to notice a good-looking guy staring at me from across the room.
Now, trust, this didn’t happen much. But you know the old saying—bottom of the bottle, she looks like a model—and in this case, it applied. Not to anyone else around me, mind you. I’m sure that to them, I still looked like the gangly horsefaced girl with the socked sandals and khaki shorts that I was. But to me? Dammit, those 35 bottles of beer had given me a confidence and swagger that I simply didn’t deserve.
So what did I do when I saw that guy staring at me from across the room? I walked right up to him, grabbed him by the shirt, and kissed him.
I made it count, too. I hadn’t gotten to wear a tiara since I’d been crowned Homecoming Queen in 1995, and we all know that what I just said was a complete lie. I hadn’t ever gotten to wear a tiara—unless you count the dunce cap that I was made to wear for a few minutes in Kindergarten, which I kind of do— and dammit if I was going to let any of my skank best friends get the Spring Break Slut title of 1998 and steal my one damned chance at a tiara from me. And this guy didn’t know it, but he was playing a vital role in helping me earn it.
After I was finished slobbering at him, I released him from my grasp and thrust him back toward his friends. He had to have been puzzled when I retrieved a small piece of paper from the back pocket of my khakis, grabbed the stubby pencil from the dartboard, and chalked another mark onto my skank tally.
Then I continued on my way to the bathroom to take a piss.
I should write romance novels, no? Oh, seriously—no? Suck it.
The next morning, over a lovely breakfast of margaritas and chips, I pulled the wrinkled piece of paper from its spot in the same khaki shorts that I’d worn the night before. After I studied it for a few minutes, I let out a small, puzzled, “Hm.”
“What?” my best friend asked, looking up from her margarita straw.
“Well,” I started, still trying to piece it all together in my head. “I have an additional mark on my skank tally sheet—one that wasn’t there before last night. But I don’t remember kissing anyone last night—”
The other girls were suddenly up in arms. Shouts of, “Have you been cheating?” “Skankbag, don’t add extra tally marks!” “If you don’t remember it, it didn’t happen!” abounded.
There was one last shout that seemed a bit out of place, and it was also the one we heard the best, since our friend was shouting it as everyone else finished their own indignant taunts about the competition: “I HATE YOU! I only hang out with you because the other girls make me!”
At least she had the decency to look slightly ashamed and focus her gaze on her margarita after we all stopped to look at her, mouths slightly agape, when the fuss died down. Then we shrugged and went on with our conversation.
“I don’t understand it…” I said, shoving the paper back into my pocket and taking a sip of margarita, hoping to clear my head. It didn’t help, so I lit a cigarette. That didn’t help either, so I gave up altogether and just got drunk.
The next night, the group of us headed back to the same popular bar. Soon after we had walked in, I noticed a good-looking guy staring at me from across the room. I wasn’t 35 beers in yet, so my balls hadn’t grown to making-out size. I nudged my best friend. “Do you know that guy?”
It was a valid question; she had lived in Texas all through her high school years.
She studied him for a moment as he continued to stare our way, now with a small smile on his face. My best friend shrugged. “I have no idea who he is. Maybe he’s just interested in you.” This last line was delivered just before she burst into laughter and had to grab a napkin to wipe the beer that she’d spit out from her face. “Sorry. Sorry. But seriously,” she said, shaking her head and trying her damndest to keep a straight face. “Maybe he wants to buy you a beer…I mean, he might be one of those guys who’s into girls with really long faces that hang all the way down to their knees—bwaaaaahahahahhaha!!”
What a bitch.
I didn’t have time to deliver what I’m sure would have been a zingy, hurtful comeback that would have reduced her to a crying, sniveling mess, because the good-looking guy was now making his way over to where we stood. I watched with a shitload of satisfaction out of the corner of my eye as my best friend’s jaw dropped when he stopped in front of me.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked, smiling and taking my hand.
“No,” I replied, dumbfounded. He was really cute.
“I’m the guy you kissed the other night,” he explained, a twinkle in his eye and grin spreading across his face.
And that’s when it dawned on me. Memories of the drunken kiss came flooding back to me. I started fanning my face. “Holy shit, I’m so embarrassed,” I said, turning away so he couldn’t see how red my face was rapidly becoming.
“No, no, don’t be!” he said, laughing. “It’s not every day that a hot girl that you’re checking out walks up to you and kisses you. It’s kind of a fantasy come true!”
Let me stop you before you go making all of your predictions about how this good-looking guy became my husband and how we now have a great story to tell our kids and grandkids—nope. Wasn’t the hubs. I didn’t meet the hubs until a million years later. This was just a random dude that I kissed in a bar.
But we have stayed friends throughout the years, and I have since learned what a sweet, down-to-earth guy he is. So he wasn’t making fun when he made that comment. He was being sweet. Still, my best friend and I couldn’t help but look at each other, jaws dropped in fascination that he was talking about me.
“Um, dude, have you gotten your eyes checked lately?” my best friend piped up beside me, directing her question toward him.
“Um, dude, have you sucked a ball lately?” I snapped back at her.
Whatever his case may have been—bad eyes, a drinking problem—I was smitten. For about 3 months, or until the next opportunity to cheat on my boyfriend popped up. But we’ve remained lifelong friends.
Oh, did you want a point to this story? Shit.
Well, let me give it a try: As important as it was to me back then, I can’t even remember who took home the title of Spring Break Slut 1998. I also don’t know if you were as bad as I was back then (if so, may God have mercy on your nasty soul), but it’s times like this year’s Spring Break that I realize just how much things have changed in the past 15 years.
Because do you know what the hubs and I did for Spring Break this year? All sorts of wild and crazy things: Took our kids to playgroups, to Lowe’s (they love that place), to McDonald’s for lunch and the play area, to get haircuts, bowling, etc., etc., etc., etc….and then we did a little landscaping in our front yard.
Oh—and I think I had one glass of wine on Wednesday night.
I was attempting to souse myself up to go for title of Spring Break Slut 2013 (this time with the hubs, obvi), but I fell asleep first.
Ah, well. There’s always next year.
Spring Break 2013 Wooooooooooooooooo-Hooooooooooooooooooooooo!!