Saturday, February 11, 2006

Where That Joke Came From
by Jessica Delfino

The best jokes have a little bit of truth and back story to them. Here is the story of the joke I tell about a guy in college who would never have sex with me - a joke which I still tell to this day. In the joke, I am the hero, winning the argument with a quippy line. In real life, it was rather traumatizing.

I met Justin (name has been left the same in hopes that the maximum amount of humiliation possible is had on his part) while studying animation at the Art School I went to in Philadelphia. He was a cute guy - kind of hip hoppy-ish, not the kind of guy I'd probably "typically" date. He drew graffiti-style art and cartoons and wore very baggy pants. He was a skinny white guy with short, dark hair and cute, puppy boy eyes. He tawked with a kind of New Yoowk accent that I didn't recognize as a New Yoowk accent at the time. I'd never been to New Yoowk.

He said he was from Lowng Island, which he also called Strowng Island to show how awesome and strowng he was.

We started talking during class and somehow over the course of the next few months, developed a casual, friendly relationship. Things took a turn for the fun when he invited me over to his apartment one early evening for dinner and to hang out.

When he told me that he had a girlfriend named Jessica before me whom things had gone horribly wrong with, I should have taken that as a clue of what to expect. But when it comes to clues and signs, I see them, acknowledge them, and then I cruise right by them, stopping only briefly to give that sign the finger.

I would go to his apartment every few days or so after school, a willing parcipitant in a game he invented which went something like this: We'd kiss for a long time. He'd tell me how beautiful I was. He'd remove articles of my clothing, one by one staying completely dressed, himself! (Clue #2 - ignored!) He'd get me completely naked and marvel at how beautiful my body was. He'd then yawn and say he had a big morning and had to get to sleep early. I'd get dressed in shame and walk myself to the train. It was always awkward and stupid, and yet, I kept going back for more.

Finally one night after this had been going on for about 4 months or so, he invited me over to his friend's house to hang out. There, his friend had many lines of "special k" laid out on the table for the two of them to enjoy. I was invited to share in the fun, but I opted out. I'd done enough acid for all of Philadelphia and was still recovering from the after-effects and experiencing random flash-backs.

But a bell rang in my head - perhaps his weiner was broken? I would think that if the stuff could tranquilize a horse, it surely could pack enough of a punch to render a fuckstick useless. Later, we went back to his apartment and went through the ritual. First, he took off all my clothes, but this time, he actually let me sleep over and tried to consumate our, um..., like. But his poor penis was out like a light. And soon after, we followed suit.

To make a long, boring story as short as possible, he set me up one night. He brought me back over to his friend's house, hung out for a bit and then left me there. I could feel where it was all leading. I'd mentioned his friend was cute (when he asked me!) and he kept insisting his friend thought I was cute, too. I hated Justin's shenanigans and his inability to be honest with me on almost any front. So, to spite him, or rather, to indulge him, when he left, I made out with his buddy. I knew he'd tell Justin and Justin would "break up" with me. And that is exactly what happened.

And that is the end of that.

Though the experience was sordid and littered with Bob Seger-like night move lust and half-hazard emotion, I rejoice in it, for it inspired the hit joke, a bastardized clipping of the above, elongated tale:

I used to date this guy in Philadelphia. He'd never have sex with me, and it hurt me so badly, because I thought he was "the one" - I thought we were going to get married and everything. So, eventually, I decided I should talk to him about this. I went to his house, knocked on the door and said, "Listen. We've been going out now for like, a week..., and I feel like this whole time, I've been washing my ass for nothing."

2 comments:

"Ed" Finkerton Humperfield said...

Jess, I really like you as a person. However, if your vagina was burned in a fire, I don't think I could love you.

Mark Daley said...

...but if your vagina burns like fire, THEN we've got something to talk about!