I cannot believe I’m admitting to any of this.

Standard

My friend Sally is in town, visiting from Australia.  Isn’t she cute?

sally rutter

Totally adorable, right?  Hold that image in your head ok?  Because this post is about to take a big turn towards the terrifying.

Buckman joined Sally and I for dinner, and as it tends to go when girls get together, one story blended into another.  In passing, I mentioned an incident over the weekend of *ahem* off-season spotting (and yes, male readers, that means what you think it does and if you are offended STOP NOW), and that reminded me of a Story, a story with a capital S.

A Story that Buckman now claims did what he previously thought impossible, a Story that made him more gay than he previously was.  A epic adventure of tragedy, comedy, drama and romance.   It answers the timeless question of what would happen if the Williams Ferrell and Shakespeare got together to rewrite Carrie as a low budget indie flick as a vehicle for a Lindsey Lohan comeback.  (And could someone please make that happen?  I miss her raspy voice.)

I’ve decided it’s time to tell this Story.  Ya ready?  No, you’re not.  I should be more concerned I suppose, that this Story will turn all my male readers gay, but did you know that if you turn a hot straight man gay, you are awarded a toaster from the gay community?  And you, my readers, are nothing if not attractive, so perhaps this will be enough to trade up to the breadmaker I’ve been eyeing.  So here we go.

I had this “friend.”  Now, kids.  Mummy is allowed to have “friends.”  No, that is not gross and do not NOT slam that door and where are you going?  The movies?  Actually thats ok.  Take your time, and call Mummy before you come back.

Ok you’re back.

My friend, let’s call him Ricardo because that’s not at all his name and I don’t know anyone named Ricardo and it’s a shame because it’s a cool name.  When our schedules coincided we liked to meet up, and fairly often that was on my lunch break.  One warm and sunny day, such as today, he texted me to ask if I was available.  I did a quick check before I responded.  My period had been over for three whole days, but for the two days following I’d had a tiny bit of spotting.  Unusual for me.  But we were all clear, as well we should be, so we arranged to meet.

I was wearing my hair up in a bun, and cute little pencil skirt.  As I left, a coworker remarked that I looked very innocent that day, like a librarian.  I giggled to myself as she told me to enjoy my lunch.

Flash forward about five minutes.  I’m in the back seat of my car, which is parked in a parking lot behind an empty office building.  My cute little skirt is hiked up to my armpits, and I’m straddling Ricardo, who is wearing only his shirt.

A good time is being had by all.

Until suddenly something doesn’t …….. feel ……… normal.  I look down and there is blood.

I’m not sure I have the words to explain to you how much blood I’m talking about here.  We’re not talking oh oops sort of spotting.  We’re talking crime scene.    Except that period blood is ….. recognizable for it’s consistency (I’m really trying to be delicate here because if there’s one thing I want you to take away from this story, it’s that I’m clearly a LADY) so there’s mistaking this, or passing it off as, oh perhaps your piercing nicked me?

Now when it comes to my womanly bits and pieces, I think of myself as ….. the air traffic controller.  I feel no shame that there is ……. weather, but I pride myself on, to the best of my ability, predicting  it, and coordinating with the ….. pilot to bring us to a …… safe landing.  So to speak.

Epic fail.  There is blood on the back seat of my car, all the way across his midsection, on his white shirt, on the seat again …..  I’d Carrie-d him.

I looked around frantically, it felt like the car was slowly filling up with blood.  For a brief moment I felt relief in God’s promise to Noah that he’d never again kill all mankind via a flood, but then my heart sunk when I realized God had promised nothing about not killing with a crushing wave of mortification.

I turned around to the front seat, stretching to reach the napkins in the glove compartment, only to realize that my hands had somehow gotten covered in blood and now I was leaving bloody handprints all over my car.  Including one on my car window.   I frantically dabbed at Ricardo with a napkin and a bottle of water I’d just grabbed from the fridge before I left, because clearly what the poor dude needed now was an ice cold sponge bath.

And that’s when I saw the truck pull into the parking lot.

OH SWEET JESUS.  I froze.

Gone were the innocent days of a bygone era, when I’d worried about being caught merely having sex.  No, now they were going to take one look at in my bloodmobile of a car and assume I was in the process of disembowling Ricardo WITH MY VAGINA, and I’d be spending the next 36 hours in a police station trying to explain how I’m not the fucking Ice Truck Killer.

The driver stopped the truck and looked at me.

Then he slowly drove away.

I took a few seconds to enjoy my freedom and returning hearbeat, and then turned my attention to Ricardo’s formerly white shirt.  He assured me it was fine, that he had another shirt in his car.  And then he paused, admiring the splatter, and said, “You know, my next client?  Hasn’t paid me.  I’m leaving this shirt on, I bet he’ll pay me today.”

Hallmark doesn’t make a card for this, but I made sure to send a gift, thanking him for being so cool about all this, because that?  That is a good “friend.”

Advertisements

17 responses »

  1. Oh my. Oh my goodness. You poor, poor woman. It’s like… the worst nightmare, really. And yet you lived to tell the tale! My answer to this is hugs. All I have is hugs.

  2. Only you could take a story like this and make it hysterically entertaining. I think all girls have some horror story about their bodies mutinying against them at the very worst time, but most girls aren’t brave enough as you to tell the story. I love you!

  3. The first time John slept over, we were so drunk that I peed on him in the night. The next morning, we moved to my guest bed and we had lots and lots of fun…until I experienced exactly what you just described in your car scene. I sat at the edge of the bed and cried and told him he’d never call me again. He married me 6 months later. So there’s something to be said about men being cool with blood (and in my case, urine). I love the story.

  4. Pingback: The Cough, a horror story. « Valancy Jane

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s