Getting Waisted by Monica Parker

a teardown; I was my own slumlord. I was in need of chocolate and lots of it, as in deep, dark, soothing, mind-numbing chocolate. I had a spiritual ritual when it came to eating chocolate and no Hershey’s crap need ever apply. My chocolate had to be a silky, crave-worthy temptation, a dangerous and potent siren that called out to me, and I had a seductive ritual to consume it. I would slowly take off the outer wrapping and place the foil-wrapped bar between my thighs just long enough to get it to just the right texture, still hard but creamy-dreamy, mouth-meltingly perfect. Potatoes were my other solace-inducing, go-to antidepressants. I didn’t care if they were baked, roasted, mashed, scalloped or the most tantalizing of all, heavily salted and french-fried. “Aaahh” I would become weak at the knees at the oh-so familiar taste that would soothe me into a sense of tranquility.
    Normally, I wasn’t dumb enough to go out with my two hot and sexy best friends, but the deadening effects of a full stomach sometimes clouded my judgment. So once again we went to a club and the mating ritual began within minutes, with Katja swept off her feet by some poseur playboy and Beverly face-to-face in chemistry with her beautiful male doppelganger, leaving me to dance with all the pretty gay boys who loved me just the way I was. I was having a perfectly wonderful time despite knowing that when the clock struck midnight, whomever was making me feel so special would be out the door with someone slim and trim with a mustache. I was on the dance floor, pulsing to the music when a slow tune came on and everyone began to pair off. I was conspicuously alone, no longer able to pretend to be part of the crowd.
    I made my way over to the jammed-up bar and within minutes I accidentally made eye contact with one of the most beautiful men I had ever seen. He had the kind of naturally streaked blond hair that women pay big bucks for, a heartbreakingly warm smile, and vivid blue—nearly turquoise—eyes. He took my breath away, along with every other man-hungry guy’s and girl’s alongside me. I knew I would have to bump off every one of them to stand a chance of getting marginally close to this man even for a second. Why does one never have hemlock or eye of newt when one needs it? I prayed I wouldn’t have to resort to hostage-taking, but then he motioned for me to dance with him. Sigh . . . of course, he must be gay.
    The music was pulsating, the lights were strobing, and I was gyrating with blissful abandon as he and I danced three more dances. I had no breath left and thought I was going to die of a heart attack but I wouldn’t be the first to quit. I felt faint and thirsty. Thank God, he threw his hands up in defeat and returned to the bar. I tossed my hair around and kept up the pretense of dancing, but then he waved me over. I checked to make sure he meant me. He thought that was funny and handed me a drink—we still hadn’t said a word to each other but he had a beautiful smile and a very direct gaze that made me feel weak in the knees. It didn’t take long for me to discover he didn’t speak a word of English. I made a vow to only pick up young men fresh off the boat from there on in. He was “Johann from Amsterdam” and on the flip side, I still didn’t really know if he was gay or straight.
    I offered to show him the town, which culminated in a visit to my place so I could show him off to the girls. Up until then, I had always been the date-o-meter for Katja’s pickings. Whenever she’d bring a new guy back to our place, she would ask me to join them for a short while so I could assess his worthiness. Inevitably and quickly I’d give him a thumb’s down, as they were mostly creeps and cretins. Kat had terrible taste in men. Beverly usually was savvy and careful with her choices so I hadn’t had any to worry about with her. But the minute Johann stepped across the threshold of our house, it was obvious that neither Kat nor