Damon drove an old vintage Mercedes. It’s imperative that I put this here first so you know that I peg a man’s car to his personality. Yes. Am shallow like that. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way; you know how they say the shoes you wear make a first impression about you? It’s presumptuous. Absolute hogwash. Because what if am having an off day from work, was home chilling in my sandals then got an urgent call to drop off a document at a fancy office then I run into you? What if my shoes are too high and so I slip on my sandals just to dash across the street to make copies? What if my shoe snapped and I had to leave it at the cobbler’s and hobble around in the worn ones he loaned me? What if I just have really bad taste in shoes? The variables are numerous. Pegging shoes to one’s personality is just like pegging one’s car to their personality. It’s baseless. But we do it. So I prefer cars because so far, I’ve not been wrong.
Anyway Damon’s was a vintage Mercedes Benz. Those ones with archaic plates like UBC 411. The first night he picked me up, it chortled and wheezed the entire ride to our destination and promptly died on arrival. Damon called his mechanic to resuscitate it while we walked in for dinner. He liked to talk with his mouth full. I had to constantly keep leaning back to dodge the hailstorm raining from his mouth whenever he spoke. But I was polite.
After that night, I did not see him again for a while but we kept in touch. One night he called to tell me about this party we had to go to. I figured it was better plot compared to channel surfing. He was at my door 15 minutes later and we wheezed away to the party in his Vinty. Maybe it was the beer goggles, but that night he was absolutely perfect. Very funny, got all my puns and didn’t even eat! He draped his arm over my shoulders and I didn’t object when it settled lower around my waist. He felt nice and smelt even nicer so I kept inching closer to nestle my face on his Oh! so broad chest. As the night progressed, inhibitions dropped and I was soon reeling him in for a kiss. Bad. He kissed like a rottweiler. It’s beside the point that a rottweiler will slobber all over your face indiscriminately and Damon only slobbered all over my lower face; he got me wet. And not the nice kind. Almost sobered me up, the amount of spit I must have imbibed. That should have been the first indicator but I was pleased just not to have any food on my face. I avoided hugging anyone else at the party in case they smelt spit all over my face. His arm was relegated from my waist to holding my hand. There would be no more slob..er.. kissing, but the alcohol had made me as horny as a Shaw’s Jird, so I didn’t object when he took me back to his place.
Very. Bad. Idea.
Reaching his apartment, clothes dropped faster than I can remember before I flopped on his couch. Spreading my legs, he went down on me and my eyes slid shut in anticipation. His inner rottweiler must have kicked in again because the next thing I felt before pushing him off, was teeth, teeth and more teeth. It was like the man had 80 teeth. Horrible would be a mild description. Later in my life, this would be the moment that made me picky about the guys I let blow me.
But like Joan of Arc, I marched on. After all I’d endured, the least he could do was get me off. He wheezed, chortled through it and promptly collapsed exactly 6 thrusts later. No mechanic could resuscitate this one. I stole out of there the minute his breathing got even. As I walked past Vinty, I committed that darn car to memory. Whenever I see a vintage Mercedes benz these days, my vagina cringes on reflex.
Written by Morticia; A pseudonym chosen by a wimpy friend who couldn’t let me post these chronicles under her true identity; for obvious reasons I guess.