The Worst Thing I Ever Did to Anyone on Valentines Day
During my sophomore year of college, I was involved in my first sexual relationship with the girl I have referred to here as Dr. Kinsey. Though unbelievable in bed, this girl was probably about a six-and-a-half in appearance. Because of this, I, being the young, shallow, recent-Miami-arrival that I was, refused to acknowledge her as my girlfriend. Even though we spent every night together having Rockstar Sex, to steal a term, I would instead refer to her as my “Smack Ho,” or “Smack Bitch” or “Fuck Meat,” or something equally as degrading. Because she wasn’t one of those smoking hot girls that made you turn your head, she never got girlfriend status. After all, I could never date a girl that wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous. My last girlfriend had been a model, for Christ sakes. Dr. Kinsey gave me whatever sexual favors I wanted whenever I wanted them, and in exchange I gave her no respect and the dregs of my time. This, I believe, is why she fell in love with me and I continued to tell her about all the really hot girls I’d rather be sleeping with. Yes, I was an asshole, but at that age the worse you treat a girl, the more she wants you. Sad, purely unintentional, but true.
So, as great as the sex was, and as much as I loved her and didn’t realize it yet, when Valentines day approached and she asked if we were doing anything special, I kind of snorted and said, “No, why would we? I think I might have Heat tickets, but if I don’t, I’ll call you.” As it turned out I did not have Heat tickets, and told her I would come over after class, around 6. Well, as luck would have it I missed my workout that afternoon because I had decided to have lunch with some buddies. I would not let this dissuade me from my daily trip to Porky's, however, so when I got out of class at 5:50 I called her and informed her that I would be over when I got done, probably around 8.
“Um, okay,” she replied. “I kind of had some stuff planned, but I guess I can put it away and wait till you get back.”
“Good. I may be a little late, depends on whether or not I decide to run.”
So I did my workout and got home a little before 8. As luck would have it, The Sopranos I had missed that Sunday was being rerun at 8. I opted not to shower at that point and instead sat down to catch up on what Tony, Big Pussy and Paulie Walnuts had been up to the previous weekend. About 20 minutes in my phone rang. And any interruption during Sopranos was a death penalty offense to me in those days, so I picked up the receiver screaming “WHAT?!”
“Um,” I heard a little voice on the other end say, “I thought you were coming over at 8. I’ve been waiting for you. I have a surprise.”
“Yeah, look,” I replied, “That Sopranos I missed on Sunday is on, so how ‘bout I come over after?”
“Promise?” she said.
“Yeah. Gotta go. Bye.” And so I finished Sopranos and began to get my shower stuff together and what should come on but the episode of “Oz” that I had also missed that week. Well, I could not be bothered to go over to her dorm room and have sex if it meant missing out on a male prison drama, now could I? So, again, I sat and watched, and again the phone rang at quarter after nine. “Yeah, what?” I answered.
“(sniff) Are you coming over or not? (sniff)?!” she cried into the phone.
“Ah, yeah, look, I just want to watch this one episode of ‘Oz’ and I’ll be right over.”
“Okay, (sniff)” and she hung up. I didn’t much care and re-absorbed myself in my HBO. I took a nice, long shower afterwards and as I drove to the dorms she called my cell phone again crying. “If you’re not here in 15 minutes, don’t even bother.”
“Relax, bro. I’ll be there in five minutes.” Which I was.
When I arrived in her room, I opened the door to find her sitting on her bed, crying, being comforted by her best friend. The room was lined with candles, burned almost all the way down to the bottom. Much like she was. Her bed was made with red satin sheets and she was dressed in nothing but a white men’s dress shirt, which she knew was my favorite turn-on. Her friend gave me a dirty look, asked Dr. Kinsey if she wanted her to stay, which she didn’t, and left. I apologized once, but before I could even get the words out of my mouth she had jumped on me and started kissing me, crying. She lifted up the shirt to show me the creative pubic hair art the she had taken the time to put together for the evening. I muttered a “Thanks,” but I had just come to expect these things of her. She had also made some purchases at the nearby “Love Boutique,’ which I will not get into at this point, but suffice to say once she stopped crying in the beginning, the sex was phenomenal.
Looking back, I can safely say that was one of the worst things I ever did to anybody who loved me. And she must have really loved me to have put up with that shit (actually, not long before, I had drunkenly urinated on her answering machine in the middle of the night, which she didn’t bother telling me about until after she had awoken me the next morning, dressed in sexy lingerie, with some phenomenal hangover sex. But that is another story for another time). For those of you, females I’m sure, who say "I hope you got yours, asshole,” rest assured that I did. She broke up with me twice, the last time being particularly brutal about it, and I think we would both agree that she got the last laugh. But it didn’t even occur to me until years later how much thought and effort and love she had put into that night, and how flippant I had been to gaff her off. Not very nice, was it? Then again, at 20, was I supposed to know any better?