I have a very bad habit of “shitting where I eat.” If you are unfamiliar with this term, it pretty much means, don’t fuck someone you work with, or someone you have class with, or pretty much anyone you don’t want be stuck in an enclosed area for more than 13 minutes with after screwing.
Yeah. I have an issue with that. Especially with dumb guys.
The aftermath of sex, enclosed spaces and dumb guys is like a witch’s brew of death just stirring awkwardly around.
“So what if he just told you Africa is a country located in Europe,” you tell your drunken self aloud. “He’s hot.”
Not really.
“Who cares if he looks constipated when you use words with more than three syllables, as long as that isn’t is “O” face.”
It was.
“And who cares if you’ll see him tomorrow sober, he’s stupid so sex is probably the one thing he’s good at.“
It wasn’t.
You don’t really see the physical repercussions of “shitting where you eat” until weeks later. It’s like a bomb implanted in the back of your head that explodes at the sight of that stupid guy killing a fly.
With his bare hands.
In an apron.
Then your mind flashes back to that night and you suddenly realize that the expression he made while killing the fly is the same exact expression he had while you two were, for a lack of better words, doing it.
Boom.
It’s all fun and games until someone whispers, “That was inside of you.”
He’s proud of his manliness as he waves the dead bug in your face and while it would have been cute if it had been a dog or better yet a big fluffy bear wagging its paws in front of your face.
But no. It was an adult; a grown man. Whose greatest accomplishment in life was killing a fly.
Well done, whore. Well done.