My roommate Noelle* and I were grocery shopping the other day, and while looking at some cheap Valentine’s Day paraphernalia, she sighed and said to no one in particular, “Why is Valentine’s Day even a thing?”
Here’s the deal: Noelle and I are both single, and we thoroughly enjoy it. We go out when and where we want and do ridiculous things in public without fear of judgment. So why does V-Day make us feel so … shitty?
I try not to be bitter around Feb. 14 because it’s such a cliché, but it’s hard not to be when the guy you dated in middle school denies he ever knew you or when your hookup history includes a guy who asked mid-coitus, “Do you like John Mayer?”
To quell those feelings of insecurity and loneliness that inevitably creep up on us, I would like to share two tales of “romance” that might ease your suffering and make you think that maybe being single isn’t so bad.
The story of The Bleeder
I want to start off with the most cringe-worthy tale in my repertoire. Last year, I met an older guy named Alex* at a party. As the night was winding down, we decided to head back to his place for an adult slumber party.
Alex is not an ordinary fellow. Unlike most college boys just trying to get it in, Alex does not have sex unless he is in a committed relationship. Since this was not the case, most of the night was spent with our hands in each other’s pants. Not great.
Suddenly, a weird look crept across his face, and he immediately stopped everything and bolted out of bed. Totally freaked out, I debated putting my clothes back on and leaving until Alex came back … with tissues.
Because he just had a nosebleed.
On my face.
You would think that after this little incident, I’d never want to see this guy again. You would be incorrect. We hooked up on and off for a while, where he proceeded to bleed on me two more times.
Recent update: Alex now has a girlfriend, and I am still single.
The story of ‘Edward Scissorhands’
Bobby* was a cute friend of a friend who I met two summers ago at the beach. He was shy and sweet, and I could tell from his demeanor that he was inexperienced.
Whenever I encounter a boy of this variety, my brain immediately says, “Corrupt him, Carter. Corrupt him now.”
But don’t worry. This story doesn’t end the way you think.
One night, we left a party together to go back to our mutual friend’s beach house. While everyone else had passed out on the couch, Bobby and I went into my room and started making out. And it was bad.
First of all, he had cottonmouth. Kissing him was akin to making out with a vacuum cleaner (actually, the vacuum scenario probably would have been more pleasurable.)
Second, since Alex was inexperienced, we stuck to simple handiwork. I failed to mention this boy had the longest, skinniest fingers I’ve ever seen. He also may have had untrimmed fingernails, but my memory is hazy.
The only logical explanation for what happened next is that in Bobby’s view, the female anatomy is like the Earth’s stratosphere, and his fingers are like a rocket ship that must gather enough speed to penetrate it and enter outer space. Because that is exactly what he did — over and over and over again.
After a couple of forceful thrusts with his Edward Scissorhand fingers, I was dying and needed to escape. I faked a quick O and focused my attention on him, where he proceeded to shout, “Oh, man,” until he finished.
I then promptly kicked him out of my room.
My girlfriends now refer to this gentleman as “The Jackhammer.”
While these stories are not ones I’m likely to pass on to my grandchildren, these are stories that must be shared, my sexual friends. And while not all of us have a Valentine this year, take solace in the fact that masturbation never disappoints, unlike that dipshit significant other who forgot to make romantic dinner reservations.
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent and etc.