The Guy With No Baggage… But He Did Have a Lesbian Carry-on

For most of my junior year of college, I had meaningless fling after meaningless fling. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t relationship-hungry. And then I met “Mr. Perfect”… or so I thought.

I first spotted Mr. Perfect (Mr. P) at a Halloween party. He was a construction guy (the sexiest construction guy I had ever seen) and I was a firefighter (a sexy firefighter). The whole night I couldn’t stop staring at him. And who could blame me? He had on this tight white tank, which clung to his washboard abs, and had a pair of big mouthwatering biceps. Not to mention, he had a tool belt wrapped around his waist. I don’t know about you, but there’s something about a guy wearing a tool belt that really turns me on. Besides his ridiculous good looks, I also noticed there was a petite black hair beauty dressed as a sexy devil (truth) following him around all night. I figured it was his girlfriend, so I just continued creeping from a distance.

A bunch of my guy friends soon surrounded me in an attempt to flirt and trade the “friend card” for a “one-night-stand card.” It wasn’t happening. Suddenly Mr. P joined the flirting party. Immediately I stood up straight, propped out my chest, and sucked in my tummy full of beer, which has become somewhat of an involuntary response my body has when hot guys approach. My guy friends were talking about my tatas of course, which was a topic I had grown rather tired of. They were all saying how they thought my “girls” were fake, with the hope that I would let them cop a feel to prove them wrong. Unfortunately for them, I knew the trick all too well and their mission failed.

“I think they’re real. I believe her,” Mr. P said.

“Thank you, I appreciate your support,” I said.

When I turned back, the guys had already disappeared into the crowds of drunken people.

“Do you live here?” Mr. P asked.

“No, my good friends do. Who do you know here?”

“Well, no one really. To be completely honest, my friends and I were walking through the neighborhood just looking for a party to go to, and this house seemed to be hopping. Pretty pathetic, huh?”

“Nah, I’m glad you decided on this house.”

He reached into his tool belt, took out his iPhone, and handed it to me.

“Type your number in,” he said.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea…”


“Well, I don’t think that hot devil you’ve been with all night would appreciate that.”

“She’s just a friend, I promise.”

“Oh. Good. Well, in that case…”

I handed Mr. P the phone.

“And what should I store you as? Sexy firefighter?”

“Bree the sexy firefighter,” I said.

“Bree the sexy firefighter, I’m calling you now.”

“What can I store you as?”

“___________ the sexy version of Bob the Builder.”

For the rest of the party, Mr. P and I hung out. I also met the sexy devil following him around all night. When Mr. P was taking a leak, she took the opportunity to inform me that Mr. P and her once dated. The ex also told me that they were just friends now and didn’t feel anything more than that for each other. I don’t know if it was the way she said it, but something told me she wasn’t quite  over Mr. P yet.

Also, by the look on her face all night, I could tell that the ex wasn’t thrilled Mr. P and I were really hitting it off. I tried my best to get on her good side, and I guess my girl-to-girl charm seemed to work. For a little bit, at least.

That very night had a lifetime experience: I threw my first punch… and no, I didn’t hit Mr. Perfect’s ex. There happened to be a very drunk bitchy girl being nasty to people, acting like she owned the place, but she didn’t. The girls who owned the house happened to be my best friends. The drunken bitch made her way over to me and began running her mouth. I decided violence wasn’t the answer, since she was drunk and probably unaware of how stupid she was acting.

The girl kept spitting insults at everyone in the house, and my blood started to boil. Finally, her and her pathetic posse were almost out the door when the bitch got in my face and called me the forbidden four letter word no girl should ever, ever call another girl. It starts with a “C” and ends in a “T,” and it’s that word that can make a graceful young lady transform into the ferocious Hulk. It was the word that finally pushed me over the edge. Now, I have never believed in violence and I have never gotten in a physical fight with anyone before in my entire life. That night, my beliefs in anti-violence went out the window.

The girl was halfway out the door, when I grabbed her arm and flung her back in the house. At first, I thought I broke her arm because I’m pretty sure I heard a large crack, but it could have been my wishful imagination. When she landed in front of me, I became incredibly excited that I would finally have the opportunity to punch someone in the face (let’s be honest, everyone shares the dream of letting go and giving someone a knuckle sandwich at some point in their life). I drew my arm back and then with all my might I knocked the bitch in the mouth. And yes, there was blood. As soon as I punched her, I then realized I would have to keep fighting this crazy horse, so before she could even get up, I got the fuck out of there, and sought safety on the other side of the room.

The girl looked like a raging bull, with fire and fury in her eyes. My heart sunk when I knew she was going to charge and beat the crap out of me. But suddenly, the unexpected happened: Mr. P’s ex jumped in front of me like a protective mother bear and started attacking the bitch.  She went ape-shit, punching the girl on the head, ripping a huge chunk of her hair out, and stomping on her when she was down on the ground.

Mr. P saw the whole thing go down, and I thought I was going to look like the badass in the situation, but his ex stole my badass spotlight. Finally the fight got broken up and the ex walked away with a whole new kind of respect from everyone in the house. I, on the other hand, had a whole new stew of emotions; of course I was thankful for her to step in and have my back, yet I was scared shitless and didn’t know if I wanted to risk my face getting smashed if I pursued this guy.

Eventually Mr. P convinced me that his ex wouldn’t be hiding in the bushes and attack me if I came to his house. We started hanging out. A lot. We also decided to take things very slow since we really liked each other and we knew rushing sex would screw everything up. For an entire year, we hung out, watched movies, cuddled, and studied for exams together. We had amazing chemistry and had so much in common. It just seemed like this had potential for a serious relationship.

One day, he called me up and asked me out on a beach date. He told me to meet him at his house and we could walk to the beach together, since it was literally right down the street. He even offered to cook me dinner after our day at the beach. The date sounded like flawless romance.

The next day, I got to his house and walked in the front door since it was wide open. In the kitchen was a girl, wearing a bikini and jean shorts, stuffing a beach towel into her bag. She looked up.

“Hey, what’s up?” she said.

My mind was chaotic with confusion and racing with so many questions. I must have looked like I was hit in the head with a brick or in need of some psychiatric attention.

“Oh, hey. I’m good, how are you?” I said like an idiot.

“Good,” she said. “Except _______ is taking forever. You know him though.”

“Yah, “ I said, completely baffled as* to why she was concerned about him taking his time. I started studying the girl and something about her seemed too familiar. Where did I know her from? I heard her yell at Mr. P and suddenly it hit me. It’s the EX! Why is she here?!

I saw her go into the bedroom and slam some drawers. Why was she going through his roommate’s room? Then I started putting the puzzle pieces together: I never met his roommate but Mr. P told me that he lives with a girl. A lesbian. OH MY GOD! COULD HIS EX BE HIS LESBIAN ROOMMATE? AND WHY IS SHE COMING ON OUR “PERFECT DATE”? I felt the walls closing in on me. My stomach was turning into a pretzel and a cold sweat broke out on my face. All I wanted to do was make a run for it, but there was no escaping now.

On our-what felt like a century long- walk to the beach, I had never felt so frustrated, confused, and awkward at the same time. “The third wheel” took on a WHOLE new meaning for me. The two of them had conversations about their friends I didn’t know. They cracked several inside jokes. They even talked about when they dated and how jealous Mr. P always got when guys looked at her. I felt like I was on an episode of “Blind Date,” but I wasn’t on the date; they were. When we got to the beach, I knew I couldn’t leave since I had told him the day before that the realtor was showing my house all afternoon. So, I decided to make the best of it.

Before I even took off my beach cover-up I said, “I could really go for some cold beers right now. I think I’m going to run over to the liquor store.”

“I’ll go with you,” SHE said.

How the hell was I getting out of this one? Well, I wasn’t. The ex and I drove to the liquor store, struggling to make conversation. It was painfully awkward. Painfully. Anxious to get my lips on a much-needed stiff drink, I ran into the liquor store, bought an 18 pack of beer and a flask of vodka. Yes, it was 1:00 in the afternoon, and I’m certainly not an alcoholic, but drinking vodka on this early afternoon seemed like a great and necessary idea.

On the walk back, I whipped out the flask of vodka and said, “Got some vodka. I think I’m going to start working on this puppy now. I mean it is summer, so what the hell, right?”

She responded in a severely uncomfortable fake laugh. I took a couple of solid swigs and offered her some.

“Well, I don’t know. I have to work tonight,” she said.

“That’s the beauty of drinking early,” I explained, “so you can still function later in the night if you want to.”

Now, I’m not one to peer pressure, but I felt like this was the only way I could grab the reins of this situation and relieve it from the awkwardness. The peer pressure worked. She took the flask and took a couple of big swigs. By the time we got to the beach, we were loaded.

“Are you girls already drunk?” Mr. P asked. We both giggled like little schoolgirls.

Then, weirdest part of the whole day happened. I took off my beach dress and the ex was checking out my breasts in my revealing bathing suit.

“Dayamm, now I know what you were talking about. Those are REALLY NICE,” she said.

Wait, wait, wait just a minute! Let me get this straight: I’m on a date with this guy, his bisexual ex-girlfriend, and now she’s checking me out and hitting on me? Was I on Candid Camera? I’m not a hot celebrity, but was I getting Punk’d? Where was Ashton Kutcher at?  I don’t care how drunk she was or how drunk I was- it seemed a little out of line. Was she trying to make me feel uncomfortable? Did she decide to switch teams again and date Mr. P? Did she have some kind of master plan to get me out of the picture?

Recovering from the worsening situation, I began chugging beers, hoping this day would somehow find a way to rebound. After a half hour of baking under the sun and having a serious monologue of questions playing in my head, I heard giggling.

There she was with her perfect toned body, steel-iron abs, tan flawless skin, round bodacious booty, and long dark hair blowing in the breeze. She grabbed a football and took Mr. P by the hand. They didn’t bother inviting me, so I invited myself to their little game of throwing the football. Walking over to them, I started realizing how hard it is to walk on sand in a sexy way. It’s impossible.

The ex was practically a good yard down the beach, throwing the damn football like she was Joe Montana.

“Wow, she’s really good. I mean look how far she’s throwing,” I said, pretending to be impressed, but I was so jealous.

“Well yeah, but then again she’s a lesbian. Lesbians tend to be good at sports,” he said. Lesbian or bisexual? I’m confused.

It was at that moment, the questions came uncontrollably projectile vomiting out of my mouth.

“Isn’t she your ex-girlfriend, though?” and “She’s a lesbian?”

“Yeah, we used to date. But this year she decided to go the lesbian route. I mean, she had a serious girlfriend and everything. They even tried to have a surrogate child,” he said.

Okay, so now I’m thinking: and this is normal?

“Oh. Yeah, I was a little caught off guard when I saw her coming with us today, “ I said, loving the confidence from my liquid courage. Finally I was going to solve the mystery to this awkward and shocking date.

“Here,” he said, as he shoved the football at me. “Let’s see what that arm can do.”

Really? Like Really? He’s going to ignore that last comment? I took the football and realized I was about to make a complete and utter fool of myself. There’s no doubt about it- I looked like the evil, ditsy, princess, handling the football as though it was a diseased. With all my might, I threw the football as far as my arm knew how and it soon landed three feet in front of me. It’s not that I’m a ditsy girl- I’ve actually been pretty athletic most of my life, but football was never my cup of tea.

In the distance, I saw “miss quarterback” covering her mouth as she laughed out loud at my failures.

“Let me try again,” I said. “Can you just show me how to hold it?”

Mr. P stood right behind me, reached over my arm, and placed my hand along the seam of the football. Gently he took my arm and demonstrated a guided throw. As he repeated the demonstration again, I propped my chest out, and knew I had just scored some more attraction points. In the corner of my eye, I saw the “friend” grilling me. I knew the bitch was bisexual, or maybe the lesbian thing was just an act. I knew she still had feelings for Mr. P. I knew it. And now, it was game time.

Once more, I gained some momentum, stepped into my hard jolted throw…. And the ball went over her head. Mr. P started cheering, ran over and picked me up, celebrating my victorious throw. Five seconds later, the ex came over and complained her shoulder was “hurting.” She was done playing catch.

When the sun starting setting, I lied to Mr. P and said that I was going to have to skip dinner since my roommate’s parents were in town and really wanted to take us out. Mr. P was a great guy- it seemed like he had the whole package… yet, in that package, he also had a jealous bisexual girlfriend, which I was something I didn’t sign up for. I said goodbye that day, and I was pretty damn sure it was goodbye forever. I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

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4 thoughts on “The Guy With No Baggage… But He Did Have a Lesbian Carry-on

  1. Kim says:

    You wrote the hell out of that uncomfortable situation. Loved it!

  2. Billie says:

    Omg, I literally cringed for you! I can’t imagine being stuck in such an awkward situation.

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