A couple of years ago someone on the reddit site challenged the readers to write a two sentence horror story. The results were pretty impressive, with gems such as this: “Growing up with cats and dogs, I got used to the sounds of scratching at my door while I slept. Now that I live alone, it is much more unsettling.” My own two line horror story goes like this: I woke up next to a guy. He was a twat. Creepy right? Okay two line stories may not be my strength. Let me tell the long version.
Last October, due to ideological differences with my landlady I was moving house for the second time in six months. It had been a tough month, and as one generally does at the end of a tough month, I went out and partied a little too hard and got a little too drunk. It was the night of Halloween and I had finished packing all my stuff. I spat on the memory of the landlady, found some body paint and a wig and made myself fit to rock out like a monster.
At the last house party, I found myself in that situation every girl experiences from time to time. You’re dancing with two zombies, they both seem like nice guys, and you’re just not sure which gore-faced one you want to go home with. So we all walk home together. I take my high-heels off and one of them offers to carry them for me. One of them says something rude and I have to shut him up. One of them asks about my writing and says he would like to read something I’ve written.We have arrived at my flat and after a while the moment to choose can’t be put off any longer. A threesome, I suggest? One of them is up for it, the other isn’t. A girl can’t have her cake and eat it, too, it seems. One finally leaves and I sleep with the other.
The next day I wake up next to the aftermath. He has smudged red face paint all over my pillow. He notes my flat is okay if you can’t afford better. He nags at the state of the it (an accurate assessment but none of his business) and then critizes our secret garden and magic tree (clearly an imbecile). He tries to climb the magic tree! I yell at him to get off. He makes a hundred critical comments about me and what little he can see of my life. Nothing it seems is up to scratch.
Over a hangover easing cup of tea I watch him strut about the flat like he’s the winner of a game show. No, not the winner, like he’s the host of a game show and I’ve just entered the contest and won him. He goes into the bathroom to wash the paint of his face and comes out to show me. ‘Well, what do you think?’ You have a face. Congratulations.
I’m wondering how I got this so wrong. My hungover mind goes back to the previous night. There were two zombies, the red-faced zombie and the green-faced zombie and they both seemed to have the same mix of good and bad in them. But a step-by-step recap of the drunken night (god, don’t you hate those?!) proves otherwise.
Green-face carried my shoes as we walked back. Red-face made the disparaging comments. Green-face asked about my writing and couldn’t go through with a threesome. Red-face was up for anything that got him laid and talked shit about my writing. Green face was a good guy and Red-face was a douche who probably reads the book The Game.
For the unaware, The Game is a book written by some dick telling other dicks that in order to get a woman to have sex with them they should undermine her self-esteem and make remarks which cut her down. This book was on the New York Times best sellers list for two months.
I came home with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde last night, but I ended up sleeping with Mr. Hyde. Fabulous. Eager to end the horror I start ushering Red-face towards the door. He gets his phone out, hands it to me and tells (not asks) me to put my number in. I’m stunned. “Why?” I ask him. Now at last he looks surprised. “Uh…we could like, get together or something.” “I don’t just give my phone number out like that.” “So it’s okay to sleep with me but we’re not intimate enough to exchange phone numbers?” When you relax the sphincter muscles on your bullshit so soon after we’ve had sex, yes.
So when you go out partying this Halloween folks, please check for monsters carefully and let the right one in. And if by some twisted Halloween luck you get the wrong zombie, just follow Polly’s Anti Game strategy (Not to be found on any best sellers list): 1. Don’t give a flying fuck about what anybody thinks of you.