Every guy has their "holy shit" girl. The one so twisted, so deviant, so possessing of a mind that conjures sexual scenarios rivaling the ones that live in our own fevered minds, we drop to our knees and exclaim, “Dear God, by all that is holy, please let me get a piece of this and I swear I’ll go to church every day and twice on weekends.”
For me it was… well, let’s call her Omontinya, because that’s her name. She was about five foot four, all hips, lips and tits, with a rear end that launched from the small of her back with such otherwordly curvature that rumor held she couldn’t slide her jeans on without applying for a city building permit.
Omontinya was a co-worker of mine at my first job out of grad school a couple years back, a gift of eye-candy from the heavens who reduced the menfolk to Spoon-Size Shredded Wheat and had the HR people scrambling to rewrite the company dress code. She also talked about sex the way guys talk about sex and by “the way guys talk about sex” I mean all the time. I’d listen to her describe a titanic blow job she’d given her boyfriend the night before while the circuits that direct blood flow within my body essentially lifted the tollgates and said, “Omu, you can take the day off.” After work, crammed into a dark corner at Bannilux and dizzy with beer and cigarette smoke, my eyes would glaze as she grabbed her spectacular breasts to punctuate a story or tried to stick her tongue in the ears of Isioma from Accounting.
Needless to say, little or no work got done on my watch. Days I should have been focused on the Airtel file were spent tracing the outline of Omontinya’s mouth, imagining her fingernails tearing up my back, and dreaming of her ample derriere slowly being lowered onto my face. I was obsessed; not in a creepy “I saw you in my ewa-agonyi this morning” way, but an awe-inspired “surely that girl could tear me apart” way.
Then, one evening, during an after-work drinkfest, the stars aligned and the moon embraced Capricorn and every other guy she knew apparently left the east coast because I became the target of Michele’s affections. Or her drunken groping. Or whatever you want to call it, I was it. And I wasn’t complaining. It began with a few grabs of my thigh under the table, then a talking-so-close-to-my-ear-I-swear-she’s-trying-to-lick-it thing, then a full-on pinned-to-the-walls-by-her-breasts assault when I returned from the men’s room.
She kissed my mouth in a way that you could have worked over my nuts with a rolling pin and I wouldn’t have felt a thing, then invited me to her apartment to watch "wedding party,” which I assumed to be code for “screw ourselves retarded.”
Back at her place, things started working just as I’d always fantasized they might, although without the singing moose and sideline cheerleaders. Her shirt came off, her jeans went flying, and she jumped at me with a fervor. After about fifteen minutes of floor rolling, as I finally retained control of my senses and began priming myself for the task ahead, she started licking my ear and talking up a filthy blue streak that essentially dipped my brain in the fry-o-later.
At least until she rolled on top of me and whispered, “What if I had a cock?”
I could almost hear my hard-on collapsing. “Huh?”
“What if I had a cock?” she repeated. “What would you do?”
“Er… besides recoil in terror and run screaming from your apartment?”
Apparently that wasn’t the answer she wanted. She rolled off me, and looked forlorn for a few minutes before getting up and taking a cigarette from her purse. A few seconds later, the TV was on, and we were watching wedding party. And that, as they say, was that.
For the record, she didn’t have a cock… and I sometimes wonder what that whole business was all about. But in the vast pantheon of strange-ass shit said to me in the heat of passion, this stands tallest. And still the single greatest buzzkill of my life.
