From the Makers of Dab'n'Go: It's Sex'n'Jokes

I stood awkwardly against the corner of the stairwell. My left leg was pointed out to flee, my right leg was sitting steady ready to follow. My hands were in constant motion, each finger cracking as the opposing hand pulled it, pushed it, or bopped it. My eyes darted from the floor to my directions of escape to her eyes to the ceiling to inappropriate parts of her body and back to the floor. My mouth … words would be a compliment to the sounds that fell out of my mouth.

Her feet were just as indecisive. Her hands were luckily occupied with her laundry. Her eyes were… god knows what they were doing. Her breasts were sturdy. That’s maybe not the most attractive way to describe a pair of breasts, but they were the rock of our conversation - the only thing keeping us from jiggling off like two balls of flubber flicked from a slingshot.

Her mouth formed words faster than I could comprehend them. Her British accent, that once seemed cute and exotic, now was frustrating because speed had made it impossible to understand.

We had finished stalling the inevitable end of our socialization with a best of five match of foosball. We had even managed to push it to the fifth game. I had made some very clever revolutionary war jokes that went over her head, and she laughed anyway. (The fact that she played with the red guys and I with the blue was a source of much humor for one of us.) But now, bored with a game neither of us was good at, we struggled to find a follow up activity. The bumbling conversation seemed to last for minutes, if not hours, though I still cannot recall the words that were said. Except one sentence. One horrible sentence that managed to sneak its way through everyone of my filters and hang gently in the ether like a pair of testicles booby-trapped with razor sharp pubes.

“If you want to do something, I could use the company.”

Maybe it’s the fact that I’d just finished “The Catcher in the Rye,” so talking like Holden Caulfield didn’t seem that weird. Maybe it was that I had no idea what I was saying and words were just forming and finding there way into the world. Maybe I am a numbnuts, piece of shit, dumbass, clit-licking, twittering, mother-fucking pussy who was lonely - who wouldn’t have minded the company of a little blonde, boobed, British babe, but had no appealing offer besides myself.

“I’m gonna put my laundry away, then I’ll come back and maybe I’ll have thought of something interesting to do.”

Yeah right. I’ll see you never.

“Sounds good.”

I have many abilities. The ability to compute very difficult math problems in my head. The ability to juggle and strip at the same time. The ability to cry tears on command. The ability to masturbate successfully with my off-hand. But the most important ability I have right now is my ability to hold out hope. I held out hope that she would come back and say “hey, I thought of something very interesting for us to do, and afterward we will go somewhere private and do a little lite fucking.”

The problem was we had departed ways at the top of the stairwell. There was a couch next to the stairwell that faced towards a wall that I could wait in, but sitting in a high-traffic area by myself staring at a wall was even too desperate for me. I could go to the TV room, but that’s a closed room, and she wouldn’t be able to find me. I went back up to my locker, but I had just finished my book, so that wasn't really an option. I did have four books I had bought at the library for a quarter a piece. There was “Tim Allen’s: Never Stand Next to a Naked Man.” While I also feel uncomfortable standing next to naked men, I think my reasons and Tim Allen’s reasons are probably different, and I wasn’t in the mood for a diatribe on homophobia. My next choice was a book by Jerry Falwell. Once again, I wasn’t in the mood for a diatribe on homophobia. The next book was “Magic for Non-Magicians.” How do I explain that choice to the British blondie? “Hey, thanks for coming back so we could do our super-interesting activity. Do we need any money for it? Because there’s a whole wad of it behind your ear! Now for my final trick, I make you regret you ever found me mildly attractive!” My last option was “The Art of Japanese Management.” While the book is a fantastic read, I realized at this point that I am way too into irony.

I walked back down to the common room, hoping nobody realized that I just walked into the dorm room with nothing and left with nothing. I looked through the books in the common room, finding some sci-fi books on whales, and a James Bond rip-off, but I couldn’t bring myself to read again. I could have gotten my laptop, but then everyone would see me walking back and forth between common room and dorm again.

Then I remembered, I still do have my Andy Rooney book. And I realized, I had to wait somewhere where she would find me because we didn’t really set a meeting place. Well I thought of the perfect solution. Irony be damned, I’m reading Andy Rooney down in the dining hall, which she’ll have to pass if she is going anywhere, and she’ll see me, and she’ll not know who Andy Rooney is so she’ll think I’m reading something intelligent, and she’ll have something really interesting to do, and we’ll do it, and then we’ll do it. It’ll be brilliant. Back up the stairs to get my Andy Rooney book, back down the stairs to the smallest table in the dining hall so that no one could talk to me and make BriTanya think I was busy, and down into the seat I sat. And I waited. And waited. I waited for a while. A long while. I started to lose hope.

I thought, “why?” Why do I delude myself into thinking that a hot British girl was going to want to screw me after I told her “I could use some company.”? But I knew why. It was because I already had thought of the best revolutionary war joke to use when we were getting jiggy with it: At some well timed moment, I’d get to say: “The British are cumming, the British are cumming!” That would have been worth all the waiting in the world.