To properly celebrate Woman's History Month, I will write about ex-girlfriends and other women I have encountered. All names have been changed to protect the subjects. I write these not from a misogynistic viewpoint, but from a place of sincere appreciation. I would not trade my experiences, my relationships, for all the graft in Tom DeLay's overseas bank accounts.
Come on, what's really under there?I met Sally Slingblade on my first night at college. She was part of a group of clueless freshman looking for a party. I was doing the same with another group. When we arrived together at the ZBT house at GSC, people were spilling out of the doorways and windows. I saw two Haitian boat people walk away in disgust complaining that the party was too crowded.
Sally was scared and didn't want to go to the party. I could sense that. It was her first night of independence, her first night away from the security and predictability of Boonville, Cumberland County. I was a couple years removed from high school, having served in the Navy. Neither alcohol, not paddle spanking frat boys interested me. I wanted to meet girls and Sally was now caught in the cross hairs of my libido.
Moving this story along, we smooched that night, and quite a few nights afterwards. We never went all the way, but heavy petting and youthful grinding filled up our dance card whenever we met. She would send me perfumed letters talking about her love for me and desire to watch the sun rise over duckshit pond. I would share the notes with my roommate Matt and we would laugh and giggle at what a proper response would be. I never did write back. I am from the mafia-school of correspondence. Never in writing. Never on the phone.
Sally's dependence on me grew. She would stakeout my classes and wait for me at my dorm. I had known her for about two weeks by this time. We were neither exclusive, nor did I fill her ears with false promises. I was a jerk to her, for sure--just look at this post--but not a jerk in the way one would assume.
One day, while searching for the keys to my suite door, Matt darted through the door.
"Sally is in the room,” he stammered. “She's been there for four hours and won't leave until she sees you!" Recognizing that I was cozy with a stalker, I did what any brave, formerly military, rippling muscles, trained killer would do. I hid in Bluto's room.
Sally saw me sneak into his room and pounded on the door with Waco/Branch Davinian-force. Bluto made an excuse and said I wasn't there. She demanded to search the 15' x 15' box and Bluto denied her request. "Do I know you?" he asked rhetorically. Funny thing is, Bluto didn’t know me. This was our introduction to each other. We would fast become friends.
Sally stomped back to my dorm room, cursing all the way. Realizing that both Matt and now Bluto were victims, I managed to muster the courage to confront Sally.
“Get out! Go away! I don’t want to see you again! You are crazy!” I tried to be delicate but firm.
She did leave, and our contact became less frequent. She called me a week later to tell me she was transferring because I broke her heart (cool, I’m a heart breaker!). My friends once stopped her outside my building; she was crazed and demanding to see me. (I was in the stairwell window, mooning my pals). And, the coup de grace, upon hearing I was seeing someone else, she summoned me downstairs to talk.
“What do you want Sally?” I disinterestingly asked.
“I know you want to kiss me,” she purred, her finger making coy little circles on my belly.
Is she freaking serious? “Is this a dream?” I asked myself.
Using the acting skills I perfected convincing my mother I was sick 14 times senior year, I played the role of the weakened male; unable to refuse the sexual advances of this little minky.
“ I do,” I hurriedly panted, pressing my lips to her lips, my hips to her hips. I kissed her slowly and deeply. She moaned.
Suddenly, I pulled away and ran.
“I hate the power you have over me, Sally. I must never see you again.”
Into my dorm I went, shared the story with my friends and became a folk hero to the moronic. Really, we are all folk heroes to someone; we just need to find what makes us interesting to others.
What is interesting about Sally is that in all the time we spent together, including naked interludes in her roommate-free dorm, she never took off her socks. Never.
I became convinced she possessed an extra toe and thusly gave her the nickname “Six-Toed Sally.”
She eventually got a boyfriend and I became invisible. She seemed pretty happy, which is good. I mean, just because I’m not the one for you, and you are definitely not the one for me, doesn’t mean I don’t want you to be happy.
Congratulations Six-Toed Sally. You are the first story in ArtieLange’s celebration of Women’s History Month!
