Even though I talk more shit than a chatty proctologist concerning my current single status, there are some definite benefits to being by yourself though. Besides not having to pretend to like someones belligerent whorish girlfriends, male friends with a possible hidden agenda, or wondering if your current love is giving it away like after-party fliers at a concert, you learn a lot about yourself when you are single. Besides that, not having to worry about your garden variety sexual transmitted disease is ever so comforting to a neurotic hypochondriac bastard like myself.
Usually the check-up that I have every six months is a very stressful ordeal even though I am practitioner of safe sex, the mere fact that condoms aren't 100% induces me to sweat like George Bush at a spelling bee and lose weight like Nicole Richie in a bathroom stall whenever I go to the doctors office and consider the questionable pieces of ass I had over the past few months. But my check-up last week was virtually stress free, being that I haven't been a full fledged whore since the Clinton Administration, so the staff there noticed my uncharacteristically calm demeaner.(OK, Bush Administration-3rd year, give a motherfucker a break!)
When the doctor told me that I had a clean bill of health I said, "No shit doc, I've passed up more ass than Ricky Martin, only I'm not gay but I'm sure my boys think I am" She asked why, so I went into detail about the questionable pieces of ass I had in my life, and the mere fact that I'm paranoid as fuck doesn't help my stress level. I just told him, exact quote to be honest, "I'm putting my cock on a sabbatical!" She told me that even though my paranoia scared the hell out of her, she said that she was proud of what I was doing. She then asked me if I had really been celibate for as long as I said, and when I asked her "Do hand-jobs and mouth-hugs count?", and she laughingly answered "Fuck no man!!", I knew I felt comfortable telling her anything. So even though she is my doctor, somehow I opened up like one of Oprah's guests and shit, and began to tell her about the most questionable pieces of sex I ever had. I don't know what's worse, me blabbing like a schoolgirl about my sexual escapades, or the eagerness in which she was listening to it.
Industry Rule #4082: Don't F*ck fans: This is kind of misleading since my band has only a couple handfuls of loyal fans anyway, but you get the picture. There are a few reasons why I told myself that I would never get intimate with anyone who frequented our shows. For one, it's kind of like that "don't shit where you eat" mantra, I wouldn't want to lose a loyal fan because things didn't work out with us, or because I gave her sex so bad that it was probably a step down from masturbation to her. But most of all, because I'm insecure, I wouldn't want any preconceived myth she has about me shattered only to learn that I am a single bastard with a love of foreign films and dialogue driven pornography. This lead me to Tonya, a woman who had expressed her affection for me many times during our shows a some years back. I told her my rule, thinking that would end it, but she said that she wanted to date me and to abide by my rule she would stop coming to our shows. I didn't think much about it at the time, but a month later when I was at a friends birthday party I noticed that Tonya was in attendance. Many laughs, dances, and drinks later, I find myself at Tonya's house where I openly spat in the face of rule #4082.
Right before my paranoia sets in, from sleeping with a woman that I don't really know any all, her cell phone rings off the hook for about the next 10 minutes. Instead of just ignoring the calls and basking in our post coitus glow, she answers her phone, every last fucking call. I heard her call someone Tom, Bobby, Jamal, and about 5 other guys name, provoking me to nervously ask, "Do you have a lot of brothers??" Well, those guys she was talking to weren't her siblings, but guys that she was sexually active with(How did I know, because she told me. Just lie to me goddammit!) OK, here comes the paranoia, and she seemed unsympathetic to my germaphibia as she told me that she was going to another guys house in the next few minutes. Moral of that story is, Industry Rule #4082 will leave you monitoring your piss for that burning sensation and regular aids tests for the next year or so.
Drinking and Cancun: When I told a female friend that my band and I were going to Cancun, she said "Isn't that a place where college kids go??", like it was a bad thing. What she failed to understand was that like Hip Hop, I will never outgrow the sight of young ass and titties congregated in one spot.(Not R Kelly young) We were there for a few days, and during those days of drinking and causing absolute ruckus, we met a woman named Renee. She was beautiful, a woman that I wouldn't mind getting to know intimately, but any chance of that happening died when she told me that she had slept with 10 guys since she arrived there. As disgusting as that thought is, we all would hang with Renee, partying with her three nights straight. Then one night when we had a party in my room, where not only did I pass out but I woke up butt naked beside her in the morning. Not remembering if we had sex or not, I looked around the room for a condom wrapper or something, a sign to let me know that if I did have sex that I didn't enter a burning building without my fireman suit. The only protection I could see was a pocketknife that I purchased a day earlier, a sudden rush of paranoia rushed over my body as I thought about the women I "probably" just slept with.
I was going to flat out ask her if we indeed had sex, but when my friends busted into my room in a congratulatory fashion, I let my masculine pride blind my mission of paranoid question asking. Next thing I knew she was gone, but I figured I would ask her later if we had sex or not. The thing was, I didn't see her again for the rest of our trip which ruined the remainder of our time in Cancun, me wondering if I had inserted myself inside of the human version of the "Outbreak Monkey". As soon as I got home and scheduled like a million doctors appointments hoping my dick wouldn't fall off, I remembered that Renee had given me her number. When I called her I learned that we didn't have sex after-all, apparently I refused to because I didn't have a condom. It's good to know that even when blackout drunk, I'm still looking out for the only head that I think with.
Revolving Ex: When you start a relationship, you know that your
mate has had partners before you, but you try to act like they don't exist
similar to the way I feel about the existence of Lil John. When I was in my sophomore year of college a girl that I was desperately in love with broke up with me, giving me the cliched reason of "needing space".(Sounds corny, but I always wanted to yell "Then be a god-damned astronaut then!!" when being given that reason) Anyway, we were apart for a few months, but I still talked regularly to her in hopes to win back her affection. After shameless begging only rivaled by Keith Sweat lyrics, she came back to me in the form of make-up sex. Unbelievably I didn't feel paranoid because she told me that she wasn't dating anyone so I felt pretty safe. That was until she sobbingly admitted to the "gang-bang" she had been a part of, and a handful of guys she had sexed in a 3 month period. To add insult to injury she said she did it because she "missed me", and right when I started to think about my own health she started coughing uncontrollably. I don't know what came first, the hyperventilating, the vomiting, or the chills induced by hypochondria, but she left because she claimed that my behavior was making her feel "dirty". I still remember saying, "And you didn't feel "dirty" as the point guard and the power forward filled you out like an application??!!"
I stood in the bathroom staring at my penis as if it was about to change colors like a mood ring, hoping that my doctor wouldn't be too pissed as I nervously dialed her house number in the middle of the night. Obviously everything was alright, but I still remember her husband asking me, "OK, what tramp did you fuck this week??"