Curiouser and curiouser

Please be advised, this one is going to get a little...graphic.

Ok, so I was psyched to get to the abode of Curious George, stingy tipper or not. It was Friday night and I was just glad to be out of the house and with a human. He had a nice home. I had the grand tour, and we ended up in the downstairs family room, complete with a popcorn machine (the big kind, with the wheels, like you see at school carnivals), a pool table and a drop down projection t.v. screen that took up an entire wall.

George opened up a bottle of wine, and we plopped ourselves down on the couch to get movie time started. I don't recall what movie it was that we watched...I think it may have been Killer Queen (yes the band, don't judge...they rocked). Or maybe it was Wedding Crashers, I don't know. One thing led to another, and I discovered another moniker for George: Ginormous George.

I won't go into too much detail, but will say a few words in hopes that the visuals will tell the tale. Redwood. Elephant trunk. Shetland Pony. Get it? Holy crap. Do the family planning sections in store pharmacies have a Big and Tall section? No way in hell was he doing his raincoat shopping in the same department as Average Joe.

Side note here: Although it may sound like I was giving it up at an alarming rate, please note that the events I am recalling took place over 4 or so years. And yes, I was a smart girl. No glove, no love. I am a certifiable hypochondriac who has lost nights of sleep worrying about thyroid disease and diabetes...no way can I even begin to let HIV or the other plethora of STD's join in that crazy parade.

George and I ended up dating for a few months. Little things (pardon the pun) kept bugging me, though. His daughter, who was Molly's age, apparently was on the chubbier side and he often expressed his disgust with her shape. Called her "hideous" and "a cow". As a mom, I was appalled. As a former/future fat girl, I was pissed.

The cheap aspect kept growing, too. On one particularly memorable date, he took me to a little hole-in-the-wall Thai place. Now, restaurants like this can be one of two things: charming, fabulous little hidden gems, just waiting to be discovered....or literally, holes in the wall. This was the latter. For one thing, they didn't serve booze. The ladies room had no seat on the toilet and a macabre collection of dead/dying bugs on the floor. The food was edible though, and the service was good, so I really do hope that they got their liquor license and hired an exterminator. Anyhoo. George had won a gift certificate for this amazing eatery at a silent auction for his daughter's school. Apparently, he got it for a song, go figure. After dinner the server brings over the bill. It was $21.50. The gift certificate was for $25.00. I tried to slip under the table when George asked the server if he could get cash back....yes, indeed it is the little things.

I think the final straw fell on my back about three months into our relationship. We were lying in my bed, having a little chat before George put on his CPAP mask (George suffered from sleep apnea, and I won't joke about that one. Actually, you can pretend that you are sleeping next to one of the guys in Top Gun. I preferred Iceman, myself). The conversation wandered towards things of a racier nature, like "Where is the strangest place you've had sex" and "what is the kinkiest thing you've done?". My answers were "in a porta-potty outside Champps downtown" and "I kind of like having my hair pulled". Imagine my surprise and clenching when George announced that he likes using anal beads on his ladies. Yes, anal beads. He added that the whole rear end thing was actually a fabulous turn on, the best sex ever. I'm pretty sure the only sound in the room after that was the hum of the apnea machine and the terrified whimpering of my sphincter.

What's the deal with that? I know I am somewhat sheltered, and maybe more than just a little conservative in the sack, but come on. Perhaps I am missing the best thing since string cheese, but I doubt it. I have never, ever considered letting anyone in the back entrance. Not once. I am a woman of a certain age, I've had four kids. The thought of even tapping on that particular door sounds painful, humiliating and messy. I pee my pants on a daily basis, I have zero desire to do number twosies in them as well. Add to that the thought of that third arm George was endowed with and the flames of desire started sputtering out, fast.

Things kind of petered out from then on, the last communication we had was an email I got from George:

Dear Jenny

A woman from my past has re-entered my life and I'd like to see where things go with this. You are a great gal and I've had a really nice time with you.

No hard feelings.

George

I wrote back:

Dear George

My butt and I say, "Best of luck to you".

No hard feelings at all. Trust me.

Jenny

And that was that.