Has Anyone Seen My Pants? Page 10

  He kept letting people go around him in line, which was making me more nervous. Why is he waiting to talk to me? I wondered. Also, he appeared to be alone, which made me nervous on a different level.

  Once the line started to wind down, Hot Ripped Guy came up and handed me a piece of paper.

  “That’s my number if you wanna get a drink when you’re done here, girl.” He smiled.

  Girl? I cringed a little. “So you aren’t waiting in line because you want to make a skin suit out of me?” I asked, only half joking.

  “I was wondering why you were looking at me so skeptically,” he laughed. “I swear you started to sweat as I got closer, but I was hoping that was out of attraction rather than fear.”

  “It’s rude to tell a girl she’s sweaty,” I declared.

  “But you are sweaty.”

  “Solid point,” I laughed as I self-consciously took the number out of his hand, careful not to raise my arm up much in case my armpit sweat was visible. Not only do I sweat when I talk to guys I’m attracted to, which I’m sure is a huge turn-on, but I sweat when I perform. Like, a lot. It’s terrible and embarrassing but there’s nothing I can do about it, except always wear dark colors or tank tops when I do stand-up . . . or talk to guys . . . or move.

  “So are you going to text me when you’re done so I can buy you a drink or was that all an act?”

  “Oh, it was definitely an act.” I smiled. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t let you buy me a drink.”

  “Good,” he laughed. “I’ll expect to hear from you soon.”

  When Hot Ripped Guy walked away, I noticed that he also had a hot ripped ass.

  When I got back to my room later, I stared at Hot Ripped Guy’s number for a while. I had never hooked up with a guy from the audience before, and I had never planned to. I may do a lot of dumb things, but work is work, and also, I know what can happen when a woman traveling alone on business invites a strapping young man up to her room. I told you—I watch Lifetime; I don’t want to end up in a freezer.

  He seemed pretty harmless . . . and ripped, I thought. And there’s always a first time for everything, right?

  I sat on the bed in my hotel room for about an hour contemplating texting Hot Ripped Guy. I couldn’t decide if it was a good idea or a bad idea, but I was definitely overthinking it. I hadn’t had sex for several months at this point and I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it now with a stranger at a casino in Florida.

  But all he said was he wanted to buy you a drink; what if he just wants to buy you a drink? That might be nice . . .

  Four hours later I woke up, still in my clothes and still clutching Hot Ripped Guy’s phone number. Now it was three o’clock in the morning and I definitely wasn’t texting anyone.

  The next day I woke up to more rain. Realizing my pool plans were ruined, I picked up Hot Ripped Guy’s number. I figured, Why not see what he’s up to since I have nothing to do until my show at eight p.m.? He can still buy me a drink, just in the daylight instead.

  “It’s Sarah . . . you still want to buy me a drink?” I texted.

  “Wow, your book signing just ended? That’s crazy . . .”

  “Yeah, my book-signing poster accidentally got switched out with a Twilight poster so people thought they were waiting in line for tickets. There were some pretty unhappy campers,” I joked. Okay, not my best, I know.

  Hot Ripped Guy met me at the pool bar and we sat under the awning in the rain and had a drink. We had a decent conversation, nothing groundbreaking, but I was able to determine that he was mildly intelligent and somewhat funny. I also knew not to expect too much from a hot ripped guy; I’ve made that mistake before.

  After he informed me that his name was “Jayson with a Y,” we ran out of things to talk about, so we decided to go gamble. We played a couple hands of blackjack in the crowded casino, where it seemed everyone had gone in order to escape the rain. So I suggested we go get something to eat.

  “Let’s go to your room and order room service,” Hot Ripped Jayson with a Y suggested, smiling.

  Clearly he wanted me to have penis for lunch.

  I decided that since I hadn’t seen a penis in a while, there were worse ideas. So I agreed and we headed up to my room.

  I hadn’t decided for sure if I was going to have sex with him and I really was hungry, so when we got to my room I picked up the phone to order room service. Within seconds, I felt a hand take the phone out of mine and hang it up; next thing I knew Hot Ripped Jayson with a Y had me pressed up against the hotel room door. I didn’t even know how he had moved me so quickly; I’m pretty sure I was airborne part of the way but I couldn’t really keep track of the details.

  “I really need to eat something . . . ,” I began to protest, but I didn’t mean it. I just felt as though acting like I needed to think about what was about to transpire was the proper thing to do.

  “I kind of want to eat something, too,” Hot Ripped Jayson with a Y responded in what I think was his attempt at a sexy voice.

  I laughed, which he didn’t seem to appreciate. But come on, who talks like that?

  He muffled my giggles with his mouth and suddenly I was pressed up against the hotel window and I was no longer wearing pants. Is this guy a Ninja? My room was really high up and it overlooked the pool, but still, my ass was on full display. I peeked over my shoulder and, wait . . . there were a bunch of people down by the pool now. The sun finally decides to come out, now that I’ve clearly committed to having intercourse with this guy? Just my luck.

  I tried to wriggle off the window, quietly suggesting we go over to the bed where other people couldn’t see us.

  “I doubt anyone can see us all the way up here, but if they can it’s pretty fucking sexy,” Hot Ripped Jayson with a Y responded.

  “I don’t know if it’s all that sexy,” I replied as I pictured what my ass must look like smashed against glass by a man three times my size.

  “Oh, it’s hot, girl, it’s hot, girl . . .”

  This guy is super talkative, I thought. And I really wish he’d stop calling me “girl.” The sex against the window, the dirty talk, it was all a little much for me considering we’d just met. That stuff usually starts happening once you’re comfortable with someone, not after one drink and a couple rounds of blackjack. I once again started to laugh.

  “You think this dick is funny, girl?” he asked me as he put my hand right on it.

  “What? No! What?” I said, totally embarrassed for both of us that he was talking this way.

  “You keep laughing; you think this dick is funny?”

  “No, your dick isn’t funny. I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I’m not used to all this talking, that’s all. Maybe less of that and more of the other stuff ?” I suggested in what I hoped was a sexy but stern voice.

  The more clothes he took off, the hotter I realized his body was, and I really wanted to be able to go through with the sex part of this, but in order to do so I really needed him to shut the fuck up.

  Hot Ripped Jayson with a Y spun me around and now it was his bare ass on display for the lovely folks of Fort Lauderdale. I moved my head to the side, which he took as a hint to kiss my neck, but really I was just trying to assess the pool situation. If we wrap this up quickly, I can still get in some suntanning time, I thought. Then I noticed that a woman who was probably in her seventies was staring directly up at us.

  “Oh my God, I think an old lady just saw us,” I yelled.

  “Yeah, that’s hot . . .”

  “It isn’t hot, get me away from this window; I can’t take it,” I demanded.

  Hot Ripped Jayson with a Y obeyed and took me over to the bed to have sex like normal people. I relaxed a little now that I was out of these strangers’ sight lines and started to enjoy myself. I mean, here was this really hot guy who was into me and now we were going to have sex—I’ve definitely had
worse weekends.

  Things proceeded to the stage of intercourse and now I was really starting to enjoy myself.

  Then Hot Ripped Jayson with a Y whispered softly into my ear, “Get that dick.”

  I thought I was getting it, but apparently not.

  I ignored him and kept on with what we were doing.

  “Get that dick,” he whispered again.

  “Okay,” I whispered back, hoping that would stop him from repeating it.

  “Get that dick,” he said, louder.

  “All right,” I replied, also louder.

  “Get that dick,” he yelled.

  I closed my eyes and tried to think about anything I could to keep from laughing. I thought about the old lady who just saw us having sex. I thought about the girl who punched the bouncer in the face. I thought about my dead cat. I tried everything, but I felt myself starting to break.

  “Get that dick!” he screamed.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. “I got it!” I yelled. “Jesus, I got it. Seriously, what the fuck?”

  Apparently that did it for him because suddenly it was all over. We separated and I started to laugh, then looked up to see that he was not laughing. Oh, he’s still serious, I thought.

  I got up and got dressed, but within seconds he was pulling at my clothes again.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, seriously unsure what he was doing.

  “I’m going for round two,” he said in his weird sex voice.

  “No, I’m still tired from round one,” I said as I wriggled away. I really wanted to get to the pool.

  “Come on, girl . . .”

  “You have to stop calling me ‘girl,’ I feel like I’m talking to the lead singer of a boy band.”

  “Ouch,” he laughed.

  Then it sank in. “Wait, how old are you?” I asked him. That detail hadn’t come up before (hey, at least I got his name this time).

  “Twenty-seven.” He smiled proudly.

  “Yeah, that makes more sense now,” I mumbled. Good Lord, he was ten years younger than me. I guess some people would have been proud of this fact but it just made me feel dirty(er).

  “Look, Jay-son; I like sex a whole bunch, and that was . . . sex . . . ,” I said gently, searching for an adjective but coming up with nothing. “But I’m really hungry and I have a show to do tonight, so I think let’s just call it a day.”

  Hot Ripped Jayson with a Y looked dejected. For a second I felt bad but then I remembered that I’d just had sex with him and that if I heard him say, “Get that dick,” one more time my head would explode.

  “Okay, girl,” he said as he kissed me on the forehead and headed for the door.

  He really doesn’t listen, I thought as I waved to him, which I now realize was a totally weird thing to do.

  He had told me earlier that he didn’t live far from the hotel, which meant he wasn’t staying at the hotel, which meant I could now safely go to the pool, order lunch, and get some sun. Alone, just how I like it. Uno.

  As I settled into a lounge chair, I spotted the older woman who got an eyeful of Jayson with a Y’s ass and pulled my sun hat down over my eyes. There was no way she would know I was the girl on the other side of that ass, but regardless I had to cover my face, if only so I didn’t have to look at her, knowing what I had done.

  I was texting my friend Jackie telling her all about Jayson with a Y and “Get that dick,” when Jayson with a Y texted me.

  “You let me know if you want to see this again, girl,” the text said, along with a photo of him shirtless, wearing headphones, and clearly in the locker room at a gym.

  I can’t believe he’s working out, I’m exhausted, I thought as I forwarded the picture to Jackie.

  “Wow,” Jackie wrote back. “Congratulations on getting that dick.”

  “Right?! He is hot,” I wrote back.

  “Are you going to get that dick again tonight?” she asked.

  “No way. I can’t go through that again.”

  “You should! You might as well—you’re always complaining that you aren’t having sex.”

  “I know, but I can’t have sex with him again. It wouldn’t be right. Somewhere out there is a twenty-five-year-old girl who would appreciate all of his bad lovemaking lingo. I can’t rob her of that joy tonight.”

  I texted his photo to three of my other girlfriends, polished off my hamburger, and headed back to my room to get ready for my shows.

  After my second show that night I went straight back to my room. It was around midnight and I was exhausted. I also didn’t want to risk running into Jayson with a Y in the casino. I had no idea if he would be there, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  Once safely in my room, I turned on the television, cracked open some wine and Peanut M&M’s from the minibar, and crawled into bed. I was so happy. God, I really do like being alone, I thought.

  Then there was a knock on my door. I assumed it was room service; I hadn’t ordered any and I figured they were just at the wrong room, but I was a little hungry and wanting to take a look at what someone else had ordered before I decided to tell them the order wasn’t actually mine.

  Thank God I peeked out the peephole first, because it was not room service, unless Jayson with a Y had started working for the hotel. I ducked, panicked he might have somehow seen me through the peephole.

  “You can see out, he can’t see in, stupid,” I whispered to myself as I crawled across the floor and into a corner.

  Jayson with a Y knocked again, rather persistently. And just as I was about to give in, I heard his weird sex voice through the door asking, “Sarah, baby . . . you in there, girl?”

  I rolled my eyes and continued to stuff Peanut M&M’s in my mouth, being careful to chew quietly so as not to alert him that I was hiding in a corner like a refugee.

  I swear another ten minutes went by before he gave up and went away. Twenty-seven-year-olds are so persistent. About two minutes later, I received another text from him, with another picture of him shirtless—this time in bed—asking if I wanted company tonight.

  It was clearly not taken in a bed in the hotel, so I was able to deduce that he had several shirtless photos of himself on deck for emergency situations. And since he didn’t know that I knew he was pounding on my door moments before he texted me, he was trying to make me think he was at home in bed and just casually texting to see if I was around to get that dick.

  This is probably going to sound ridiculous, but I thought it was kind of sweet. He was really making an effort to see me again. I thought about what Jackie said, how I was feeling lonely lately and maybe another round with a hot guy wouldn’t be a horrible way to end my weekend in Florida.

  Then I thought about him calling me “girl” and about the nice older lady who had to look at his smashed-against-the-glass ass when all she wanted to do was enjoy her chicken Caesar by the pool. And I decided against getting that dick one more time. I did, however, order room service and watch a bad movie on TV . . . and it was glorious.

  Maui-Owie

  One of our longest breaks when I was a full-time writer on Chelsea Lately was over Christmas and New Year’s, which is the trickiest time of year to find someone to take a vacation with you when you’re single, for obvious reasons. This is a double problem for me because my birthday is December twenty-ninth, so if I want to take a fun trip for my birthday, I have to ask people to try to squeeze me in between holidays. This pretty much rules out any and all married friends.

  I always go home to Arkansas for Christmas to see my family, but after about a week there, I’m all set and want to spend the next week facedown on a pool lounge with a cocktail placed right underneath my face and a long straw bringing the frozen joy into my mouth. Specific, I know.

  The year my book tour ended I was even more hell-bent on taking a vacation, and luckily my friend Jen was
on board. We looked into flights and ultimately decided on Maui. I’d never been to Hawaii and the last time Jen had been there was on her honeymoon, during which she got violently sick. Now she was divorced and appeared to have a stronger stomach. So Maui it was.

  Wanting to do it up, we looked into staying at the Four Seasons, but that was all booked—apparently that’s where the rest of the world goes in December. So we settled on a place called the Grand Wailea, because they prided themselves on having an “adults only” pool on site. Neither of us has children, neither of us wants children, neither of us hates children, but both of us loved the idea of not having to share our upcoming pool-lounging time with children all ramped up on guava juice, running around screaming and, God forbid, knocking over one of our many cocktails.

  Before this, Jen and I had taken a couple weekend getaways together to Santa Monica, which is about twenty minutes from where we live. It may sound silly to take a mini vacation so close to your own home, but the closest I can get to poolside drink service at my house is drinking wine in the bathtub, which can be very dangerous when you live alone and aren’t equipped with a med-alert bracelet. We’d also traveled out of the country together for work, as well as on group vacation trips, but this would be our first time spending more than two days together, alone, a long distance from home. This can be a very dangerous thing to do with a good friend because if it doesn’t go well, you have to find a way to let said friend know that you’d rather stick your tongue in a blender than ever again spend more than four hours at a time alone with them.

  However, I was not worried about that happening with Jen because I know her very well and we both like to do the same thing on vacation—nothing. Neither of us discussed a snorkeling outing or a hike up a fucking volcano. We both just wanted to relax by the hotel pool, wander down to the beach, and flip through reviews on TripAdvisor to determine where we would have dinner each night. Ours was a match made in heaven.