(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.
Think of it as your Chicken Soup for the Whore Soul.
Reader Discretion Advised always.)
“He’s gay, Becki.” My friend said to me as we both eyed the kid standing at the door checking IDs. “He’s too pretty to be straight.”
“No way, dude. I’ve talked to him and he’s definitely straight. I mean, I’m pretty sure he wants to fuck me.” I replied defiantly.
“Becki man, you’re wrong about this.” He took a sip of his beer while still inspecting the kid. He turned to face me. “Look at his outfit. That guy put time into that outfit. He’s better put together than you are.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about! Just because he can match an outfit doesn’t mean he’s gay.”
“Okay, fine,” another sip of beer, “if you’re so positive I bet you a whole night’s bar tab – anything you want- that you can’t get him to take you home tonight.”
I thought about it for a minute. The otherwise probable happy ending of my evening was more than likely going to be me incoherently calling my ex-boyfriend at some stupid hour and then waking up at his place the next morning pissed off at myself with mascara smudged down my face. Going home with the pretty boy checking IDs at the door had a slightly nicer ring to it and -bonus- came with free booze in the future.
“You got yourself a bet.” I said right before I pounded the rest of my drink like God damn John Wayne.
Of course, the fact that he was absolutely adorable made the decision easy. He really was pretty- tall with thick, wavy dark hair that sat right below his ears, a little bit longer than I preferred and giant, round eyes whose gaze rested on you as softly as a snowflake landing on your button nose. His face was peppered with dark stubble wrapping a partially chiseled out man under a boy’s face.
The problem? Mind science takes time and I had less time than it took for me to watch a couple episodes of Law & Order: SVU. In a just a few short hours, all while drinking absurdly heavily, I would have to build up his confidence, shatter the notion in his head that I was only talking to him to be nice, and somehow simultaneously plant the idea of me and him wrapping limbs in the sweaty, summer dawn while making him think he was the one in control. I had to do this with a kid who stuttered and blushed every time I addressed him.
I used all of my usual tricks, but as the night progressed and the bar was about to close, the realization that he was going to still be too intimidated to ask me to his crib became apparent, and I had to befall upon a trusty, yet totally risky method- a method that allows for a more comfortable approach because it tickles his sense of obligation, but leaves me stranded and vulnerable without an easy escape.
Making sure I was within earshot of him (but no one else who would try and take my bait), I dramatically threw a hand to my forehead and cried “I am so very drunk. How will I ever get home?”
There are many constants in the universe, one of them being that the act of getting or giving someone a ride home triples your chances of reaching third base. It’s pretty much physics, so as he stepped up and shyly offered his taxi services, I couldn’t help but turn and beam at my friend as I walked out and got into the car of the pretty boy who checked IDs at the bar.
But, as he silently drove me home, I still hadn’t won the bet. The only way to get 142 free shots of Patron was to get him to take me to his house. I had to go home with him. I knew I was stuck. There was NO WAY he was going to invite me over. He wasn’t confident enough yet. I just hadn’t had the time to commit to put in the proper work. I was desperate. I had to do something drastic. I WAS SO CLOSE TO WINNING. But we were getting closer and closer to my apartment and my inevitable loss. I turned to him in a drunken haze and without putting much thought into it, gave a last ditch attempt.
“Listen, why don’t you grow a sack and take me home for Christ’s sake?”
Assuming I was doomed, I turned and leaned back into the passenger seat. I have given it my all. A valiant effort indeed. RIP free bar tab and goodbye dreams.
“Okay.” He said after a brief moment. I stopped thinking about the box of Elios pizza I was going to eat when I got home and peered at him, wondering if okay actually meant okay or if it meant shut up.
And that was it. We passed right by my apartment and headed towards his home, and I learned one of the most valuable lady stud lessons of my day: if all else fails- insult their ball sack.
Upon arriving at his castle and as he walked over to the fridge and retrieved me a beer, I glanced around and started to become aware that something was not right. The kitchen looked as if it could have been a Better Home & Garden centerfold with it’s marble-topped counters spread eagle for people’s delight, and I suddenly became conscious of the fact that the pretty boy was four years younger than me, making him only 18 and that 18 year-olds did not have kitchens like this. No matter how pretty they may be.
“Dude, is Martha Stewart your roommate?” I laughed nervously. There were no dishes in the sink. Shit. Fabric napkins were placed carefully at each place setting at a table. Fuck. They matched the curtains. Doomed. On the counter sat a cookie jar shaped like a chicken and when I lifted the cover, it clucked and revealed that it actually had cookies in it that smelled warm and sugary.
Please God, no.
“Excuse me, but who are you?” I froze unable to move, afraid that if I did it would be with the grace of a June bug -smashing and crashing into everything due to a lack of general motor skills until I was battered on my back -dead- having never reached the porch light I desired. “Wait, is that one of my beers? Are you even old enough to drink my beer?”
Why hadn’t I thought of this? WHAT KIND OF AN AMATEUR WAS I? I slowly pivoted on my feet with a cookie in one hand and someone else’s beer in the other and there she stood wearing an aged and worn bathrobe that probably used to be white, but wasn’t any longer and her dark hair, streaked with grays, tossed carelessly on the top of her head.
“Hi,” I forced out. “You must be the one everyone calls mom.” She stared at me for a minute before turning to her son.
“What the hell is going on here? Is she sleeping in your room?”
As my body tried to decide between laughing or crying, the pretty boy who checked IDs walked over, gently grabbed my elbow and made my ovaries blush by quietly saying to his mother “her name’s Becki. Yes, she’s sleeping in my room and she’s really smart and you’d like her, I promise.”
Without giving her any time to respond, he guided me to his bedroom by my arm and as he shut the door behind us and looked at me, I was reminded of how utterly beautiful his face was.
And so, as there seemed no better option for either of us, I kissed him, which turned out to be very nice. He tasted as sweet as he was with just a hint of apprehension still lingering on his tongue and he followed my lead as I turned up the aggression. As my hand made its intentional way down to unhook the button of his jeans, the loud pounding of a fist began on his door.
“You guys be safe in there!” I heard called from the other side. “Can you hear me? Be safe!”
Doing my best to ignore his concerned mom, I unzipped his jeans and slid my hand in and then it happened. Warm. Wet. Sticky. As much as I hoped it was just Spiderman trapped in his pants shooting off web, it was obvious that while his mother soundtracked us with her worry, he had prematurely ejaculated before I even was able to brush against his penis. With my hand covered in semen, I sighed and said I was just going to bed. I didn’t have the heart left to do anything else.
“I’m so sorry. I mean, it’s just, I just can’t believe you’re in my bedroom right now. I mean, I don’t know, I had kind of thought about this, but I thought the likelihood was about the same as me going on a date with a great white shark. And now here you are and I guess it’s overwhelming and …”
“It’s totally cool,” I interrupted. “Really, don’t worry about it. Normally, I’d give it another go, but I’m just really tired and I just want to go to bed.”
“Yeah, okay.” He motioned to his bed with his arm. “Hey.” I turned back and looked at him. “Do you want a free, brand new iPod?”
“Wait, like, an actual iPod?” He retrieved and then handed me a never-before-opened box that housed a brand new iPod.
“Sweet!” I said as I removed the lid and peered inside. “Like for real, I can just have this? Do you have any awesome CDs I can put on it?”
The rest of the night we spent laying in his bed, laughing and talking about music, and the next morning, I walked away with one entirely paid for bar tab, an iPod and the realization that a one-night-stand doesn’t always center around sex.
Sometimes they come with free electronics.
Where are they now?
Your guess is as good as mine. I feel like maybe he’s in Colorado? Probably working at Best Buy? Dating a girl a few years his senior and they read each other poetry and he picks out her accessories? That’s what my psychic feelers are picking up from the universe.
I could be totally wrong, because I honestly have no idea at all, but here is a text conversation between my bestie Sarah and I the next day:
Sarah: you actually took his iPod? You are such a douche. Poor kid.
Me: dude, he offered it to me. It’s not like I was casing his bedroom for electronics.
Sarah: you are seriously such a douche.