Le Desperation: Part Deux

This is really Mona’s story, so I’ll let her take it from here…

I coaxed (read: guilt tripped) Lori back into the cab and we went to The Standard as planned.

We walked into the beer garden weaving through the thick B & T crowd who must have just read about The Standard on Urban Daddy. As luck would have it, one of my Mr. B-strings was playing ping pong. (If you’re musing to yourself: “that sounds like too much of a coincidence to be true,” you obviously haven’t been to the Standard or you would know that it really has become a high school cafeteria.)

Before Mr. B-string served, we locked eyes. He didn’t even crack a smile- damn it, failed for the first time by my false eyelashes! He turned his attention back to his game and served that ping pong ball with a confident aloofness that had he exhibited while we were dating he probably would have been an actual contender. While Lori and I were milling around waiting for boys to get the courage to come talk to us, I remembered that I had kinda had a good time with B-string. He had called me his “little mermaid” after all… I decided to go talk to him.

Attempting to reignite some of our old repartee. I opened with, “Hey merman.”

Despite his best efforts to remain stoic, his eyes lit up like a menorah on the eighth day of Hanukkah. He pulled me in for a warm bear hug and kissed me on the forehead. I lingered in his arms, relishing in that old familiar feeling of having the upper hand. I forgot how good it felt. “Maybe this is better than love,” I thought to myself. The banter began. Not exactly the panty dropping banter that my MVP FBF delivers, but it was better than talking to the guidos at the bar (p dot s, standards at the Standard have plummeted in the last three weeks).

I easily persuaded him and his friends to invest in bottle service at Simyone Lounge. I know I said I was sooooo over bottle service, but I figured as long as I was giving B-string a second chance I could give Redbull vodkas a second chance as well.

Cut to I Got a Feeling bumpin’ and me surrounded by B-string and all of his slow-story telling friends. I mean, why does it take sooooooo long to get to the punch line??? T-t-t-today junior! Thanks to reeling my B-stringer back in, my relationship anxiety was down to a three Xanax level low, and I felt great for about half a second until….I spotted whom else but my MVP FBF (the one who I was pretty sure was going to dump me now that I had dumped all my B-stringers, ahhhhh the merry-go-round of love)

From the looks of things he was having a guy’s night out, which entailed a fair number of Bottle Poppin’ Girls. Was this a coincidence? Had he told me he was coming here? Or had I known, forgotten, and subconsciously showed up here? At that moment I decided to move to Alaska and save the wildlife because I obviously could no longer save myself.

B-stringer must have sensed that it was my turn to make a run for it (directly into Bristol Palin’s baby daddy’s toned arms) because he took the opportunity to shove his tongue down my throat.  As he lunged towards me, my MVP FBF spotted me.

Slow motion F*************CCCCCCCCKKKKKK!!!!! was all I could hear myself say.

My therapist was right.  Diffusing my feelings for my MVP FBF by keeping a B-string boyfriend around was not worth jeopardizing my relationship with the MVP FBF, but wait, without a B-string boyfriend on the side my relationship with the MVP FBF would surely self-destruct. Is this what a catch-69 is?

I quickly formulated my excuse: I had clearly been rape kissed. I mean, he saw the whole thing go down. There could be no doubt that I was the victim. Rape kissing is a legit problem (especially in the Meat Packing District) I don’t know where his mouth had just been, he could have just ingested a Kaluaha and milk- I’m lactose intolerant! He could have just eaten a PB & J sandwich- hasn’t he heard that peanut allergies are rampant in America?!?

After I extracted myself from Mr. B-Strings clutches. I strolled over to my MVP FBF prepared to commiserate with him on the rape kissing pandemic.  I was in the middle of a long-winded explanation of the dire consequences of rape kissing someone with a sever nut allergy when my MVP FBF interrupted my soliloquy, to deliver the following gem:

“Don’t worry babe, it’s totally cool. We’re just having fun, right?”

To make a long story longer, MVP was relieved that I was also dating other people. As for me, it turns out that the news that my FBF and I were “just having fun” was actually worse than ruining the relationship by getting caught with my B-stringer. I walked out of SL reeking of smoke, sweat, spilled Redbull, and the GAP perfume that the bathroom attendant had doused me in.

And that my friends, is the true smell of desperation.