Last post I talked about a girl who, in college, dressed up like Michael Jackson to speak to our abnormal psychology class about pedophilia.
This girl also had a tiny squeaker.
I was very attracted to her, whom I’ll call Becky Katsopolis (Lori Loughlin) from the tv show, Full House. She looked sort of like her.
Hey, just be grateful I didn’t call her Kimmy Gibbler. Nobody wants to talk about Kimmy Gibbler.
Anyway, I was super attracted to Becky, and as luck would have it, we had three classes together, and she happened to live next door to me.
Most days Becky and I would walk to class together and goof around. She was really fun and seemed to dig me. After a few months of hanging out to and from class, I finally screwed up my courage and asked for her phone number. She gave it.
I called her the next night and she answered. We talked for an hour, with me continually trying to impress with my wit, the fact that I was studying hypnosis, and also that I had a radio show and played in a band. None of these things, it seems, have ever scored me an ounce of a girl’s affection. But at 21, I didn’t know this.
I’m not sure why or how Becky’s squeaker came up, but in the first conversation she mentioned that at that moment she was a virgin. When I asked why, she said she had a medical condition which resulted in a super–tiny squeaker. Sex was nearly impossible, and she might have to have surgery to enlarge her hoo.
Now, the obvious joke you’re all thinking? Yes, I said it.
“Well, you can get the surgery, or you can just spend seven minutes with me on my living room sectional. That’ll fix it.”
It was immature and not particularly funny (my jokes are much better today – here, I’ll prove it.).
Did you hear of Helen Keller’s newest book? It’s called Around the House in 80 Days.
That might be the funniest joke ever written. I have been wanting to throw that in a post for over a year now.
Okay, so she laughed off the idea that sex with me would fix her tiny squeaker. My guess is that I was the forty-third guy to make that joke, and it’s just plain gross, and not terribly clever. Plus, I’m no doctor, and I don’t think that would be a recommended solution from a competent medical practitioner.
But, Becky still seemed into me. She was going to come see my band play that next weekend. I was pumped. I didn’t care about her squeaker. I was in love.
She also, on the phone, had told me she lived with her best friend.
I called the next day, just to check in. Remember this is only the second time I’ve ever really spoken with her, other than the casual banter we would make to and from class.
Her roommate answered (whom I had never met). We joked around for a few minutes, and then I took a turn for the serious.
Watch this car wreck unfold. I’ll call her roommate D.J. Tanner.
D.J. Tanner: No, so Becky’s not around right now.
D.J. Paris: Okay, cool. So, that medical thing she has is pretty crazy, right?
D.J. Tanner: What medical thing?
D.J. Paris: THE thing – you know.
D.J. Tanner: No, I don’t know – what?
Holy Christ. Did I just find out that her best friend does not know about the tiny squeaker? No way, this can’t be. I mean, we’ve only talked once! She wouldn’t tell me and not her roommate. That would be insane. Maybe I should be a little more obvious.
D.J. Paris: The thing about her private area.
D.J. Tanner: What thing about her private area?
Uh oh. Time to bail.
D.J. Paris: Oh, nothing. I was just kidding around. I have to go. Bye!
Later that afternoon I got a pretty angry voicemail. Basically Becky said she never wanted to speak to me again, and if I ever called their apartment she would file a restraining order and have me arrested. She was crying and screaming at the same time. Women are so dramatic.
I felt a little bad. I mean, I wasn’t totally responsible, and I didn’t think she would keep this from her best friend while telling me on our first real conversation. That’s a little nutty. But, still, I had screwed up, so I wrote Becky a letter. I apologized, and told her I hoped she could forgive me. I tried to explain that I wasn’t a bad guy, just a little impulsive.
Two days later she left a tin of homemade cookies on my doorstep. We never really spoke again.
I was retelling this story to my friend Michelle last night, and I said, “God, I wish I could remember this girl’s name!”
And Michelle goes, “Why? So you can out her again to the public?”
See? I’m still a little impulsive.
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