Chasin’ that Zack Morris High (and Other Vagina Victories) 7: Foster and Brian

(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.)

I looked around the bar and let out a heavy sigh.

There was not a single guy left that I wanted to fuck.

At the time I was 23 and I was the shallowest version of myself that has existed so far. I put absolutely nothing good into the world, the girls I hung out with were like Regina George and the plastics from Mean Girls except not as pretty with shittier wardrobes, and I was 20 pounds heavier because I filled the vapid void I felt with hot pockets, Budweiser, cocaine, and dick.

I have a soft spot for those years of lonely discovery though, because without them, I wouldn’t have started writing again. I needed that void to force me to seek out volume that would fill the emptiness. And without 23 year-old me stumbling so blindly, I would not have been able to stumble upon this version of me.

But at the time, I was not very conscious of how I or anyone felt and I had no interest in ever giving a shit ever. In fact, I held my lack of emotional responsibility as my greatest personality trait. And so, as I sat outside on the curb, smoking a cigarette, completely bummed that not a single dude left in the bar was bangable, I combed my brain for an option. I pulled out my cell phone, flipped it open (because it’s the olden days), and began going through each and every contact.

I stopped on the phone number of a kid I had met up while working at Stratton ski resort. He ran lifts or something so he could get a pass to snowboard and I waited tables so I could get a pass to a bunch of dudes.

It was 2 a.m., I was hammered drunk, and I knew very little about this guy. Obviously, I should without a doubt call him.

The phone rang once. “Hello?”

“Hi, is Foster there?”

“This is him.”

“Hey Foster! It’s Becki. What’s up?”

“Not too much. … It’s 2 a.m.”

“Oh. No shit.” I decided to cut right to the point for everyone’s benefit. “Do you want to give me a ride home? I’m in Manchester.”

Pause. “I’m 45 minutes away.” I could hear him think. “Okay, I’ll come. Oh, and Becki, this is my aunt’s house. You can’t call here at 2 in the morning.”

I lit up another cigarette, thanked my vagina for tirelessly getting men to do things for me no matter what the circumstances, and prepared to wait.

When he arrived, I had the doors open on my subaru and my radio blasting, dancing around the now empty parking lot, trying to distract myself from the fact that I was becoming increasingly irritated that I didn’t have another shot of whiskey.

But there he was, my knight in shining piece-of-shit car.

Foster was a very tall Australian with a super cute baby face who looked like he could probably sing for the Backstreet Boys if he trimmed his hair and ironed his polo shirt. For the most part, he seemed like a guy that I would totally fawn over, but he wasn’t, and I knew that within the first few minutes of meeting him. Generally, I can tell right away if a dude will ever have the privilege of holding my heart and because I knew Foster wouldn’t, he was safe. I wasn’t nervous. I had complete control.

Little words were spoken as I butted out my 47th cigarette and he ushered me into his vehicle.

“Do you have any whiskey?” I said suddenly feeling very small. His large frame seemed to be crammed into the driver’s seat, making the space I didn’t require as a passenger all the more blaring to me.  Judging from the way he was sitting he was probably about 6 foot 3, but then again, I’m not a tape measure so my estimates could have been off.

“No,” he trailed, “I do have some water though.”

He had water. God.

As the booze began to wear off, my situation started to become alarmingly dismal. I was with a giant human that I barely knew and my motor skills were down to the level of a 5 year old’s. But even more obnoxious was that as I looked over at Foster, another guy elbowed his way to the forefront of my thoughts.

What the fuck are you doing, Becki?

This other guy muscled his way through: clawing, shoving, scratching, forcing ex-boyfriends backwards until I was relieved that I was not thinking about them, only to realize it’s for him, cracking the hot guy I saw at the grocery store earlier in the face so he toppled backwards and fell right off the edge of my mind forever- never to be thought of again, drowning out the guy who had been heckling me in the corner with just his presence. He fought his way through a Royal Rumble of men that played out in my head every day, all of them vying to be the last one standing. Eventually, he won, as he had for the passed six months.

Brian. Fuck you Brian. 

Brian was not safe. He and I had been dancing around each other for a few months- both trying to lead, both trying to anticipate each other’s next step. I was drawn to something about him and I hated it; I fucking hated it. We would have these nights where everything was awesome and made sense and then I’d freak out and spend a week with my arms crossed, pouting, trying to tell him I thought he was the worst human I had ever met. I couldn’t stand the fact that if I let my guard down, my heart would be open because there was this part of me that wanted Brian to reach in and take it. And I hated him for that.

“So, where do you live?” Foster questioned as my mostly drunk self suddenly started to become more aware. What the FUCK was I doing?

“Well, it’s right up…” I stopped. I could see the sign that announced the road I lived on, the next right, but I stopped anyway. My home felt like the wrong answer right then. “Uh, we’ve got a ways before we get there. I’ll let you know.” I couldn’t help the smile that slid through my lips as softly and as cautiously as a leopard stepping towards it’s dinner and as we drove right passed where I lived, I realized how easy my world was – has always been- to mold and change at any given moment.

I directed Foster down a road that wasn’t mine and finally we parked in the driveway of an A-frame rental house on the backside of the ski resort I spent most of my time at- an A-frame that was definitely not my house.

“Well, this is it. This is my home.” I said as I threw my arms up too dramatically. “This is totally my home. Thank you for giving me a ride to my wonderful home.” I tried to hide my inability to effectively lie by over compensating and hoped that he’d blame it on me being drunk. The fact that he knew nothing about me made it an easy farce to stand behind for both of us.

I could tell that Foster wanted to kiss me, and I didn’t really blame him because I’m a babe, but also because he just made a round trip of an hour fifteen to unknowingly drop me off at another dude’s house. I sighed because this was one of those moments that every woman has been up against. Probably more than once. I didn’t want to kiss him, but for some reason, I felt obligated, and it seemed that it would just be easier to kiss him rather than try and back away slowly and dodge the situation. It would be over faster if we just made out for a second.

And so we made out and his mouth tasted like cavities and his tongue was giant and intrusive and uncomfortable and I let it probe annoyingly for a few minutes until it seemed like a long enough time before I pulled back, thanked him, and practically ran out of the car and up the steps to the front door of Brian’s house.

Brian only looked up from the couch for a second before he lifted the comforter, inviting me to crawl in, and I did, feeling more comfortable than I had ever in my life.

He never asked how I got there. And I never told him.

Where are they now? 

The next morning, I woke up before Brian, tucked him in, made my way out into the brisk morning air, and hitchhiked home.

I never talked to Brian again.

I know, right? You guys were sitting there like this is the beginning of a beautiful love story and I’m all like nope.

I woke up the next morning petrified of how I had very little control over my feelings for Brian, vowed to stop talking to him forever, and just like that, I did. Another beautiful love story dodged by yours truly.

But it all worked out because just a few years ago, I ran into a Jamaican lady who I had worked with once and she showed me a picture of her husband and children.

And guess who her husband was?

Hiding the shock that shone from my face as I flipped through the photos of her family was difficult. I asked just the right questions to figure out how long she’d been married to him and been popping out his offspring while also trying not to throw him under the bus or stir up unnecessary drama. Barely keeping my composure, I grappled internally with a plot twist that I could never have foreseen, especially because it came years afterwards.

Brian had a giant secret family in Jamaica the whole time that we had been boning. Super fun!

Between that and the Investigation Discovery channel, it is with confidence that I can say, I will never fully trust a man for all of the first years of any relationship I have.

And Foster?

Well, I ran into him a few weeks after at the same bar he picked me up from and convinced him to whip out his dick in the middle of the bar and show me and all my friends. It was pretty impressive. So there’s that. Also, I think he golfs a lot now.

Using dudes to get me to other dudes’ houses would become one of my favorite modes of transportation. And surprisingly, I didn’t get caught once.

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