My friends, here’s another tale of how *not *to go about your romantic affairs. Read it (if you can be arsed) and tremble. I give you:
The Bonsai Girl Incident, or: the disturbing tale of a tragic meeting between two complete morons.
Bonsai Girl was 20 years old and looked like she was 13. Bonsai Girl had the the most beautiful blue eyes in the universe, as the well as the most petite little body you ever saw. She rode the subway on child fare, and had a face that could launch a thousand ships. She appealed in the worst possible way to my semi-pedophile tendencies. I loved her! Just one look at her made my knees weak and made my private bits go all weird. She made me want to cry… write poetry… jump her in public. However, she was also, and this is what makes this a tragedy, completely and utterly unwilling to screw me, despite all signs pointing to the opposite.
I thought Bonsai Girl was the girl of my dreams. She blew me away, and I really thought I had a chance. I honestly believed that when a girl kisses you and grabs your junk, she means business. Well, not in this case. To sum it up quickly: over a period of several weeks we repeatedly engaged in kissing, hugging, removal of clothing, various kinds of fondling of intimate areas etc., only for her to each time halt all progress just as we were heading for the main event, pleading “not on the pill right now”, or “gotta get some sleep”. The next day she would act as if nothing interesting had happened, and as if the fact that we happened to be pretty much naked was perfectly normal and didn’t mean anything. I was in heaven and in hell at the same time. She would conveniently ignore the ever more disturbing blue shade of my balls (and with me dangling them in her face in a well-lit room, it’s not like it wasn’t obvious) and the fact my level of sexual frustration was rapidly approaching meltdown at a breakneck speed.
Perhaps she was just a bit prudish, you say? I don’t think so. Judging from the stories she told me about her sexual history, the opposite was true. No, my friends, this chick was simply evil. She was bad news. She was on a mission to make my balls explode, as well as my brain. I should have simply walked away, gotten the heck out of Dodge. Of course, I couldn’t, because I loved her. Madly.
Before long, I was starting to come apart at the seams. I declared my everlasting love and mad desire for her. I begged and pleaded, discussed and argued, for her to put me out of my misery, and let me have her hand in marriage, or at least let me boink her, just once. For crying out loud, just once! She said, “Wait and see. Haven’t decided yet. Maybe. I’ll think about it.” I guess I never really had a chance. Still, she let me carry on with the kissing, the fondling, the pleading. Finally, I snapped. I told her this was it – give me a clear yes or no. Stop fucking with my brain. Just fuck me in the proper fashion already, or get out. She replied “I don’t take well to pressure. The answer, then, is no.” Then she went home, and stopped answering my calls.
The strangest part of it all was that (and this must be mentioned just to show deranged the whole thing really is), on paper, Bonsai Girl wasn’t much of a catch, to put it mildly. After being kicked out by her former boyfriend, she was now living with her loony mother in the bad part of town, completely unable to find money for a new apartment. She had no education and no clue. She had dropped out of high school after one year, and had no realistic prospects of ever going back. Every weekend, she would hit the town and get drunk as a skunk. She was smoking large amounts of pot and Lucky Strikes. She had no steady job, no real qualifications, no sensible way to spend her time. No plans or ambitions, apart from a vague idea about wanting to move to Australia. No talents. She would mostly listen to bad music, watch TV and drink loads of beer. Every conversation with her would revolve around her problems with her life and her family. The girl had issues. Frankly, I don’t think she was all that happy with herself. Now, the thing is, I think of myself as a somewhat civilized person, with pretty darn good taste, and I figured I would show her a different world and charm my way into her pants that way. Of course, she didn’t care one bit about anything I showed her. She didn’t like Woody Allen. She didn’t like Mozart. Opera made her fall asleep. She never finished the novels I gave her. She would just go back to her rubbish rock’n’roll and bad TV shows.
However, she had those beautiful blue eyes! She smelled so good! All I wanted to do was to kiss every little part of her and do the dirty with her all night – if she would only give me the chance!
Anyway, where was I? After my first attempt of getting a straight answer from her she didn’t speak to me again for three weeks. At first, I didn’t eat or sleep. Everything lost its meaning. Gradually, it got better. After a while, I was able to leave the house in the morning again. I was able to see the humorous side of it all. I was determined to shake the disappointment.
Would I have been able to simply laugh and move on? I don’t know, because that’s when she called me again, asking if she could see me. So, of course, I kicked my best judgement out the window and ran (not walked) to meet up with her. She was looking as beautiful as a summer day. She said she was sorry. She was feeling guilty about having led me on like that. The thing was, she said, she liked me, but because of the trouble in her life she didn’t want a boyfriend right now, and I was such a nice guy that she didn’t want to hurt me by just having a casual thing with me.
Yeah. Like *that *would have hurt. What, was she a complete idiot or something? Heck, I would have worshipped her for the rest of my life, built a shrine to her, if she would just give me the teensy-weensiest bit of casual humping. I told her as much. She wasn’t convinced. Perhaps, she said, it would be better if we were just friends? That OK with me?
At this point it’s becoming clear that no nookie is forthcoming, and that I should just walk away. However, I’m of course right back where I was. My brain says forget this, but my dick is in combat gear and ready to go to war. I see her a couple of times. Nothing happens. I try to play it cool and not seem too desperate. Of course, in private I obsess, I plot, I brood, I slowly go crazy again, crazier than ever before.
Then, one Sunday, out of the blue, she kisses me again, just before she gets on the subway home. Angels appear. Roses start raining from the sky. My brain explodes and splatters all over the pavement. I’m rendered speechless. She gets on the subway, smiles and waves. I’m dropping things and babbling like an idiot the rest of the evening, I dance through the streets, I’m a total mess. This is it, I think. Surely, this means that she loves me too. After what has been going down, she can’t be stupid enough, or evil enough, to kiss me without it meaning something this time.
No such luck. It was all an evil plot. What happens next devastates me. The next day, I call her. She says oh, it’s you. Yeah, sorry, but dude, there’s no way. Not interested. Sorry about that kiss, it was a mistake, I’m not the girl for you and you’re not the guy for me. See you around, Buster, etc. Adios. Predictable, really, but still I’m flabbergasted. Shocked. Mortified.
That tantalizing taste of paradise with the following devastating rejection does it for me. General panic ensues. A great big tragic D minor chord is played by the full orchestra. Imagine my state of mind at this point: I’ve been reduced from a reasonably up-beat guy with a spring in my step, to a drooling, babbling moron, a complete nervous wreck, sexually frustrated beyond compare, about to explode with a love that has nowhere sensible to go, desperate, a world-class masturbator, shaking like a jellyfish, losing all grip on reality. I’m the suffering young Werther. A vulcano ready to explode.
She stops answering my calls again. I lose it. I call her number some 30 times, and leave screaming, horrible messages on her answering machine, calling her the nastiest things I can come up with, a damned cock tease, a bitch, a sadist. I send her about a hundred text messages, detailing the hundred different kinds of ways in which I hate her stinking little guts.
Today she tells me, on the phone, calmly, with no trace of emotion in her voice, that enough is enough. I’m obviously insane, and if I ever call her or attempt to see her again, even just once, she’ll call the fucking cops on me. Now, if I would be so kind and fuck the hell off. She does not, under any circumstanses, ever want to see me again, and that’s the end of it. Goodbye.
Now, I have a black hole in my soul. I’ve been thinking about this girl every day for months. She’s under my skin. She’s in my nostrils. The idea of somehow, someday figuring out how to bang her had become my sole obsession, I’ve fucked it up royally, and I feel like the biggest idiot who ever walked the earth.
The moral of this story? Heck, I don’t even know if there is one, and that’s the hardest part of it all. Comments are welcome.
