Things Left Behind
(For those of you to whom I promised “No More Mikes,” fret not, it will be coming!)
If someone chose to judge my taste in men by the various things they have left behind in my home, it would be pretty easy to think my “type” is any man that is bonafide batshit crazy. I am not referring to the errant t-shirt, sock or condom wrapper that gets neglected in the drunken scramble that occurs when a man wakes up and realizes I am a dead ringer for her. I mean the things I find the next day which are always confusing at first, and then as I begin to process what it is, the only possible reaction is, “What. The. Fuck.”
Not too long ago, I slept with a guy that I met under what may be the weirdest circumstances ever, even for me. That is a story for another time. The point is, the first time he spent the night at my place, we did not sleep together, and I guess we both thought that was pretty unacceptable for a couple of red-blooded Amuricans. A couple weeks later, I was home getting drunk alone on a weeknight. Reserve comments for later in the story because I promise, it is going to get more awesome.
He shows up at my front door looking like he just left the frat house – basketball shorts, old t-shirt and boat shoes. I told him I was flattered that he dressed up for me and offered him a drink. He ignored this request and got right to business; I actually appreciated the aggression after enduring months of Sensitive New Age Men (aka “Pussies”). Now is probably also a good time to mention that he was a Romney campaign staffer, and the first thing he said to me when things were getting hot and heavy was, “You’re on birth control, right?” He leaves, and I get up for work the next day. Walking over to my closet in the morning I see something curious on my bed. It looks like lots of little dots all over my bed where he was. I lean over for a closer look and it dawns on me. It’s dirt. It’s fucking loose soil all over my bed. He didn’t seem to be covered in dirt the night before. He didn’t wear his shoes to bed. So how I wound up vacuuming my goddamned bed at 715AM on a Thursday morning and then contemplating burning my sheets, is anyone’s guess. I ran through a million theories in my head, and I even texted him days later to ask him what his thoughts were on the subject. He did not respond.
Sadly, Dirt Bag was not the first time I have had to clean up the mess someone left behind for me. Several years back, I went through a pretty tough breakup. In the post partum period, I became friends with a guy that I ended up leaning on for support. He had also recently ended a relationship, and was likely also battling depression. I strongly believe heterosexual males and females can be just friends…unless they are both fucked in the head from exiting long-term relationships. It wasn’t long before we attempted to sleep together. I use the word “attempted” because we only got to third base before he burst into tears and my pikachu instantly dried up like the Sahara. He apologized profusely; I rocked him like a baby while holding in the world’s longest, most exasperated and disgusted sigh. Thus we slept in the same bed, but we never actually “slept together.”
The next morning he wanted to get breakfast, which I thought was a terrible idea, but for fear of him sobbing again if I said “No thanks,” I went along with it. We actually had a seemingly normal conversation, and I felt that perhaps we could forget The Incident and go back to being just friends. He dropped me off at home and I went to start tidying up my bedroom. Which is when I saw a strange dark spot on my ivory carpet, in the corner of the room. I walked over to it and bent down. It was actually several dark spots, clumped together. “Is that…” Yes my dear, yes it is. Pubic hair trimmings. As if he had just taken scissors to his downstairs beard at some point in the middle of the night, in the corner of my room, and chopped it all off. This is my running theory, but I will never know how he accomplished this feat without waking me, any more than I will know what on EARTH possessed him to trim his pubic hair, in the night, in the corner of my bedroom, after bawling like a baby in front of me.
Eventually, fate found a way to repay me for my work vacuuming, flushing and laundering the things men have left in their wake. One hot summer morning I woke up to a lovely Tag Heuer that some poor guy must have gotten tired of. I tried unsuccessfully to find the owner, and now it sits in my nightstand drawer, reminding me that the best transient suitors are the ones who leave behind only a memory of a good time (and a piece of expensive jewelry).