The second post of a three part rant. This happened more than 15 years ago, but I’m still screwed me up about it. It’s offensive, gross, and misogynistic.
100 times as many people view posts with the word “rant” in the title than posts without that word. I’m not going to put the word “rant” in the title any more. The rants are unstructured rough drafts edited only for the worst of the speliling and grammatical errors. They are about bad things that happened and are nothing more than an effort to examine them and examine some bad ways of thinking.
Courtney was my first “real” girlfriend. She was a working class American girl majoring in biochemistry and premed. I was finishing college and had met her in one of my classes. She had invited me to spend the night at her apartment. She lived in the student quarter around the University on the West bank of the Mississippi River. It was a modern brick apartment building that looked like a two story ranch house.
She put the Foo Fighters “Fingernail song”, her favorite song from her favorite band, on infinite replay in her CD player. Foo Fighters is to grunge as the Dave Matthews Band is to alternative rock. It has no soul, and I had a bad feeling about the evening.
Reaching nariai
She begged me to do it. I was twenty one years old and had never done this thing before. I had seen it done in the movie Caligula, the only pornographic movie I have ever seen. I thought I knew how to do it.
The Fingernail Song was on its fourth repetition by now. “Fingernails are pretty, fingernails are good, blah blah blah fingernails.” The singer was angry. Harsh sounds from his guitar split the air. Maybe it would be quieter under the sheets so I gave in and descended. I closed my eyes to ward off my claustrophobia.
The scene from Bukowski played in my mind: “Blood and pee come out of there. Think about it. Blood and pee.“ I held my breath, but immediately I knew something was wrong. Something sticky clung to my nose. I went up for air.
“Why are you stopping? Don’t stop,” she said.
I took a deep breath went down again. Something slimy slipped into my mouth. I took it out and held it to the light. It looked like a piece of yellow cheese and was big as the tip of my pinky. I squeezed it. It was firm but had a gooey layer on the outside. It stank bad. I set it down on her stomach. A wave of nausea hit.
“Keep going.” Her eyes were open but blank as they stared upwards. They were like a cat’s when it dozes open-eyed. She had gone somewhere else and was probably with Dave Grohl or PsychoTom in her mind.
The stultifying sound of the Foo Fighters intruded into my thoughts: “Fingernails are pretty. Fingernails are good blah blah blah fingernails are pretty nah nah nah.”
“Keep going,” she said.
“I can’t,” I said.
Her eyes came back for a moment. She said, “please i’ll do you next.”
I tried again. I have a sensitive nose. The longer I went, the worse it stank. It smelled like all the nasty clichés you can think of.
“Keep going,” she said.
“i need a break,” I said. My stomach was churning and gurgling.
“Blood and pee come out of there. Think about it,” Bukowski wrote.
I thought about it. She had been wearing a G-string. G-strings are the E. coli expressway from the anus to the vagina. E. coli are the bacterial flora found in the intestines. When ingested, they can cause diarrhea, meningites, or sepsis.
“Keep going!” she said.
“Fingernails nah nha nah”
I held my breath and went under the sheets again. My stomach heaved for a moment but I suppressed it.
“More!” she said.
My stomach pumped hard. I kept my lips closed tight. Vomit filled my mouth. I tried to hold it, but the pressure increased. I barfed in her and on her.
“Whaaaaa! Whats happening?” she said.
I vomited more. I covered my mouth with my hands, and puke sprayed on her body and bed. I rolled onto the floor and continued to puke. I could no longer taste the rotten fish flavor. She was crying. By now, my stomach was empty, and I was only dry heaving. I was crying too.
“I’m sorry dear,” I said.
“You think I’m gross!” she said.
“No,” I said.
“I disgust you do I? My body disgusts you? How dare you!,” she said, raising her voice. “My body is beautiful and I like the way I taste. You know what your problem is?” she said.
“No,” I said.
“You can’t handle a strong women. I’m a strong woman and you’re a faggot with an AIDS-addled brain,” she said.
“Sorry. It must have been something I ate,” I said.
“You ate me you misogynist pig! You need to leave right now!” she said.
“I meant for lunch,” I said.
“Get out!! And you can kiss my ass on your way! ” she threw an empty wine bottle at me. It hit the wall and broke against the tile floor.
“Calm down I’m leaving.”
I was moving toward the door. She threw her bedside lamp. It crashed against the wall.
“Faggot! Get out! Go fuck your AIDS Faggot boyfriends!” she cackled hysterically when she said that.
She jumped out of bed and hit me dozens of times while I pulled on my pants and grabbed my shirt and boots. I blocked most of it, but a few punches hit me in the body and head. My eyes stung, and I was sure she gave me a bloody nose. She grabbed a handful of my hair and started pulling. When an attacker grabs your hair, they have nearly full control of your body.I couldn’t get away.
By now, Courtney was grinning in her self-righteous rage. She was 5’6” and only weighed 120 pounds. I weighed 200, benched 400, and was taking boxing lessons. I had enough training to know that one solid punch to the face could crush her cheekbone, break the orbital bone around her eye, collapse her sinus cavity, break her jaw, and fracture her skull, leaving her unconscious, brain damaged, or dead. “So this is how domestic violence starts,” I mumbled.
With the enforcement of domestic violence laws often heavily favoring the woman, I feared that if she had so much as one bruise on her body or a scrape on her knuckles from where she hit me, I could go to jail. It’s happened to other people. I was facing her. I gently grabbed her wrist with both hands and pulled it toward my head. I stepped backward toward the door, pulling her with me. She suddenly let go and fell. I jumped back toward the door.
“Get out faggot waaaahhhh waaaahhh WAAHHHHH!” she said. She crying again and was actually wailing now. Her voice was shrill and made my ears ring.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“BWahhhhh! Ayeeeee Ayyeeeeee!” She was shrieking like a tortured cat. She was on the floor hold her bare foot. It was bleeding. She had stepped on a piece of glass.
“Fingernails are pretty...”
On my way to the door, I pushed her CD player off her dresser and it smashed apart on the floor. Silence. I went outside. There was a series of loud crashes and the sound of breaking glass coming from inside. Inside, she alternated between cursing and shrieking hysterically.
It was a duplex. Her next door neighbor Tiffany was in the yard trying to
look in her window. She said she just called the police. I left.
To be continued.
100 times as many people view posts with the word “rant” in the title than posts without that word. I’m not going to put the word “rant” in the title any more. The rants are unstructured rough drafts edited only for the worst of the speliling and grammatical errors. They are about bad things that happened and are nothing more than an effort to examine them and examine some bad ways of thinking.
Courtney was my first “real” girlfriend. She was a working class American girl majoring in biochemistry and premed. I was finishing college and had met her in one of my classes. She had invited me to spend the night at her apartment. She lived in the student quarter around the University on the West bank of the Mississippi River. It was a modern brick apartment building that looked like a two story ranch house.
She put the Foo Fighters “Fingernail song”, her favorite song from her favorite band, on infinite replay in her CD player. Foo Fighters is to grunge as the Dave Matthews Band is to alternative rock. It has no soul, and I had a bad feeling about the evening.
Reaching nariai
She begged me to do it. I was twenty one years old and had never done this thing before. I had seen it done in the movie Caligula, the only pornographic movie I have ever seen. I thought I knew how to do it.
The Fingernail Song was on its fourth repetition by now. “Fingernails are pretty, fingernails are good, blah blah blah fingernails.” The singer was angry. Harsh sounds from his guitar split the air. Maybe it would be quieter under the sheets so I gave in and descended. I closed my eyes to ward off my claustrophobia.
The scene from Bukowski played in my mind: “Blood and pee come out of there. Think about it. Blood and pee.“ I held my breath, but immediately I knew something was wrong. Something sticky clung to my nose. I went up for air.
“Why are you stopping? Don’t stop,” she said.
I took a deep breath went down again. Something slimy slipped into my mouth. I took it out and held it to the light. It looked like a piece of yellow cheese and was big as the tip of my pinky. I squeezed it. It was firm but had a gooey layer on the outside. It stank bad. I set it down on her stomach. A wave of nausea hit.
“Keep going.” Her eyes were open but blank as they stared upwards. They were like a cat’s when it dozes open-eyed. She had gone somewhere else and was probably with Dave Grohl or PsychoTom in her mind.
The stultifying sound of the Foo Fighters intruded into my thoughts: “Fingernails are pretty. Fingernails are good blah blah blah fingernails are pretty nah nah nah.”
“Keep going,” she said.
“I can’t,” I said.
Her eyes came back for a moment. She said, “please i’ll do you next.”
I tried again. I have a sensitive nose. The longer I went, the worse it stank. It smelled like all the nasty clichés you can think of.
“Keep going,” she said.
“i need a break,” I said. My stomach was churning and gurgling.
“Blood and pee come out of there. Think about it,” Bukowski wrote.
I thought about it. She had been wearing a G-string. G-strings are the E. coli expressway from the anus to the vagina. E. coli are the bacterial flora found in the intestines. When ingested, they can cause diarrhea, meningites, or sepsis.
“Keep going!” she said.
“Fingernails nah nha nah”
I held my breath and went under the sheets again. My stomach heaved for a moment but I suppressed it.
“More!” she said.
My stomach pumped hard. I kept my lips closed tight. Vomit filled my mouth. I tried to hold it, but the pressure increased. I barfed in her and on her.
“Whaaaaa! Whats happening?” she said.
I vomited more. I covered my mouth with my hands, and puke sprayed on her body and bed. I rolled onto the floor and continued to puke. I could no longer taste the rotten fish flavor. She was crying. By now, my stomach was empty, and I was only dry heaving. I was crying too.
“I’m sorry dear,” I said.
“You think I’m gross!” she said.
“No,” I said.
“I disgust you do I? My body disgusts you? How dare you!,” she said, raising her voice. “My body is beautiful and I like the way I taste. You know what your problem is?” she said.
“No,” I said.
“You can’t handle a strong women. I’m a strong woman and you’re a faggot with an AIDS-addled brain,” she said.
“Sorry. It must have been something I ate,” I said.
“You ate me you misogynist pig! You need to leave right now!” she said.
“I meant for lunch,” I said.
“Get out!! And you can kiss my ass on your way! ” she threw an empty wine bottle at me. It hit the wall and broke against the tile floor.
“Calm down I’m leaving.”
I was moving toward the door. She threw her bedside lamp. It crashed against the wall.
“Faggot! Get out! Go fuck your AIDS Faggot boyfriends!” she cackled hysterically when she said that.
She jumped out of bed and hit me dozens of times while I pulled on my pants and grabbed my shirt and boots. I blocked most of it, but a few punches hit me in the body and head. My eyes stung, and I was sure she gave me a bloody nose. She grabbed a handful of my hair and started pulling. When an attacker grabs your hair, they have nearly full control of your body.I couldn’t get away.
By now, Courtney was grinning in her self-righteous rage. She was 5’6” and only weighed 120 pounds. I weighed 200, benched 400, and was taking boxing lessons. I had enough training to know that one solid punch to the face could crush her cheekbone, break the orbital bone around her eye, collapse her sinus cavity, break her jaw, and fracture her skull, leaving her unconscious, brain damaged, or dead. “So this is how domestic violence starts,” I mumbled.
With the enforcement of domestic violence laws often heavily favoring the woman, I feared that if she had so much as one bruise on her body or a scrape on her knuckles from where she hit me, I could go to jail. It’s happened to other people. I was facing her. I gently grabbed her wrist with both hands and pulled it toward my head. I stepped backward toward the door, pulling her with me. She suddenly let go and fell. I jumped back toward the door.
“Get out faggot waaaahhhh waaaahhh WAAHHHHH!” she said. She crying again and was actually wailing now. Her voice was shrill and made my ears ring.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“BWahhhhh! Ayeeeee Ayyeeeeee!” She was shrieking like a tortured cat. She was on the floor hold her bare foot. It was bleeding. She had stepped on a piece of glass.
“Fingernails are pretty...”
On my way to the door, I pushed her CD player off her dresser and it smashed apart on the floor. Silence. I went outside. There was a series of loud crashes and the sound of breaking glass coming from inside. Inside, she alternated between cursing and shrieking hysterically.
It was a duplex. Her next door neighbor Tiffany was in the yard trying to
look in her window. She said she just called the police. I left.
To be continued.