(Chasin’ that Zack Morris High is a recurring series that details my experiences dating and having one-night stands with (mostly younger) dudes.
Teeter tottering between equal parts genius and whore, either way totally not giving a fuck- these blogs are an ode to the fact that Zack Morris will always just be a castle in my sky and so, I’ve been wayfaring through life in the spirit of a whiny break-up song sung by Adele- eating a lot of cupcakes and searching for someone like him.
In a vain attempt to showcase that it takes more than no shame and killer cleavage to turn sex into a lesson plan- I invite you to share in the grossly negligent comedy my dating life has been and will certainly continue to be. In other words, it’s time for me to start telling you about all of the men that have touched my heart and/or vagina throughout the years.
Think of it as your Chicken Soup for the Whore Soul.
Reader Discretion Advised always.)
Reading my blogs, you may begin to notice a trend. The trend that most of the guys I end up philandering with are met in a bar of some kind, but more often than not, it’s usually a bar that I work in.
To be frank, partly I think this series is a glimpse into the relationship world of anyone that works in a restaurant. A world where you work all the time so your “dates” are more or less the shifts you’re excited about because your crush is scheduled too so you can secretly flirt with each other just enough to say hey, I see you but not quite enough that all of your coworkers see you too, followed by getting rip roaring drunk at the bar down the street, some inevitable, sloppy heavy petting, and then a totally awkward, hungover shift the next day.
Who needs Prince Charming? I had Benson in the dish pit.
The job I was working at the time was one of the best restaurants I have ever worked in. Located on a busy ski resort in Southern Vermont, the clientele had money and expensive cologne and the employees were a lazy Susan of people, constantly changing, arriving, leaving, coming back, staying. It was a playground of epic proportions for a lady who just hit her mid-twenties, and would eventually provide the foundation for the crumble of my first relationship that lasted more than a year and the beginnings of this blog, beckitrudell.com.
And as cliche as it may sound, I found a part of myself working and playing with a bunch of people whose morals were almost as depraved as mine while slinging sushi rolled by a bunch of white dudes. And although all of the four years I worked there were memorable, it’s my first winter season that I remember the most fondly.
The first time Benson walked into the restaurant, I had a feeling I was going to end up fucking him. He had all of the characteristics of someone that I would drunkenly assault: younger than me, goofy, funny, and super cute. (Seriously. cheek-squeezing adorable.) On top of that, he seemed the type to be looking for exactly what I was looking for in a relationship: nothing.
It was a drunken hookup made in heaven.
But as much as I knew that I could very well end up making the drunkenly wrong decision that involved my vagina casually running into his penis in a public restroom, I didn’t actually anticipate that I would develop a crush on him.
It started slowly. First, I would find reasons to go into the kitchen that were not real. Pretending I needed something, overstocking everything like a hearty little hobbit. No big deal. I was just wicked bored.
Then, I started counting the hours until he arrived after his day job so he could start washing miso soup spoons and dropping pork dumplings in the fryer while I pictured him naked. Whatever. He was super funny. Who wouldn’t look forward to laughter, right?
But then one day, I overheard him say to one of the sushi rollers “let’s see if Becki wants to come,” and when I turned at the sound of my name and my eyes locked with his, a tsunami of wonderful, good feelings rode through my whole body and the wake settled right in my fallopian tubes.
I knew right then that I was in deeper than I would have liked because even though he didn’t know it- at that moment, he had taken the upper hand – an occurrence that happens rarely with me and men. And when they all approached me to hang out, I tapped my wrist and said something like “Oh, not tonight. I am just very super busy,” even though the only thing I was very super busy doing was being very super nervous and I slunk out the back door of the kitchen and smiled the whole drive home like a lunatic.
Once I realized that a crush had taken the wheel of this sex engine, I had to regroup. Although my crush on Benson was not deep seeded, having a crush of any kind for me is akin to an idea and once it’s planted- it’s impossible to extract. It’s there, and it either grows or I do my best to bury it, but it’s always there. The only way for me to actually make a crush disappear is to cease contact with the guy completely and let it dissipate. Otherwise, I have to embrace it and see what happens next.
In this situation, I really only had one option though. Because Benson and I worked together, I was forced to see him three nights a week at least, no matter what. So I decided that night while I sat with my head slightly tilted and my face scrunched in confusion staring at his profile picture on Facebook, that I had to embrace it, retrieve the upper hand, and secretly plot our eventual screwing.
I’m a lady of opportunity and because we worked together and we were both total drunk people, opportunity came quick. In fact, it came the next day.
At the end of the next day’s shift, he came up and was like “hey, do you want to go to the seedy, basement bar down the street and do jager bombs?” And I was all like “yeah, I was going to do that anyway, so yeah, sure.”
Think you know romance? Think again:
We started by drinking 16 oz. Rolling Rock cans because they were cheap. Standing around kind of awkwardly, I pointed at some chick and said “she’s got a cute ass.” He agreed. Finally, I said “do you want to do a shot of whiskey? My treat.” (Direct translation: I have no effing clue how to get your clothes off without alcohol. So let’s get hammered drunk and then our pants will fall off like magic.) Three more Rolling Rocks. Two more shots. I told him he was the cutest human in all of the land. He fake slapped my words out of the air and said “stop playin’!” Another set of Rolling Rocks. Another set of shots. I danced on a stripper pole to Eminem’s Shake that Ass featuring Nate Dogg. Another set of shots. A couple of Jameson’s on the rocks. I puked a little bit in my mouth but managed to swallow it. He didn’t see- phew. Two more Jameson’s on the rocks. He full on puked outside on the cobblestone patio while smoking a cigarette. We ran back inside laughing and pretended we had no idea what happened. Last call. Two jager bombs. Two more Rolling Rocks. We both suddenly realize we’re way too drunk to drive. We stumble down the stone walkway of the quiet, sleeping ski village, go back inside where this romantic night all started at work and do it on a booth upstairs.
Let the record show: I do not actually remember the first time we had sex, but it happened, and I woke up the next morning on a booth in the place of my employment (employee of the year) with no pants on and my jeans under my head being used as a pillow. As I opened one eye trying to ignore the fact that my head was pounding and it felt like my skull was bleeding, I saw Benson passed out with his mouth hanging open and his fly unzipped on a booth opposite me.
Benson and I would go on to hook up for a little while longer, but he was either just not that into me or playing very, super hard to get. Neither of these things work for me because if I don’t get the attention I want, I get bored and move on. In hindsight we were destined to go separate ways from the beginning anyway. I was on the brink of becoming the adult I kept threatening lived inside of me and because he was a few years younger, he was just coming upon his most drunken years.
Much like many of the men I’ve had a fleeting affair with, there’s not a single ill-feeling for Benson in my body. In fact, I thoroughly enjoy running into him, and we greet each other with giant smiles and a big hug. To be honest, it’s kind of like us having sex however many times never even happened. Probably because I can’t remember it, but whatever.
Where are they now?
He just recently sent me a message detailing a shit he took in a public restroom, so it appears he’s doing really great.