They Say She’s A Cat Person

I had just moved out of my old apartment, but due to some poor planning, my roommate and I weren’t able to get a subletter and ended up paying rent on two places for a month. My wallet still hates me. My roommate had already moved across country, but I was still in the same city, so I planned a party on the final Saturday of our old lease. Since my former landlords were douches (for lack of a term which means more-douchey-than-douches), and since I didn’t have to pay a deposit on that place, I had no qualms inviting over 300 people, supplying a ton of booze, hiring a DJ, and throwing it down in the most down-throwingest style I could. When life hands you lemons, you throw a fucking party and serve the lemons with Jose Cuervo!

A few days before the party, I footed it over to the local pub to down a hard cider (what? I like cider!) and watch a little baseball. The regular drunken clientele were there, but there was also a new woman who appeared to be friendly with the bartender (always good), so I started up the chit-chat with her.

The conversation itself was innocent in nature. I was drinking by myself, and just wanted to hang out with cool folks. I actually thought she was lesbian. She was reading through the personal ads in the paper as we talked, and she never really mentioned any gendered pronouns or anything to give it away. I usually assume someone I meet is gay until I know otherwise (takes the pressure off, seriously), so I just figured. In any case, she seemed friendly enough, and before I left the bar I gave her my card with my OLD address written on the back with details about the upcoming party.

I asked a lot of people to come to the party (ran out of business cards), and was so busy that when Saturday came around I had totally forgotten about it. It appeared she had forgotten about it, too, because she didn’t show up at the party…

Until 2:30am. She arrived as the DJ was packing up. I could tell she was drunk, high, or both, because she immediately started cleaning up after all the party-goers. I can’t say I wasn’t appreciative, but it was a little strange considering she was a guest and I barely knew her. After a while, we were the only two people in this empty apartment (and when I say “empty,” I mean empty – no people, no furniture, no nothing – just empty beer bottles and trash), and I asked her, “Are you into women or men?”

She kind of smiled, drunkenly, and slurred, “I’m into men.”

So I kissed her.

They say kissing a smoker is like kissing a chimney, or like kissing a cigarette. It’s kind of both. Kissing a smoker is like kissing the flue pipe of a chimney that’s been filled with stale smoldering cigarette butts.

Why didn’t that stop me?!? Because I was lonely and horny. Blame a brother!

Since I wasn’t staying in this mess of an apartment, I asked her, “Where are we going now?”

“It would be nice if you came back to my place,” she stammered. After a 5-minute drive and some relatively legal parking jobs, we were there.

This is where things got uncomfortable.

Now I don’t live with pets, so I don’t know what it must be like, but there was a major stench about her apartment. It was the smell of cat piss. She apologized for it right away, but I got the sense that she didn’t actually care that much because it was the kind of smell you almost have to cultivate, like she hadn’t done anything about the cat piss in a long time. And I was much less concerned about the smell of stale cat piss than I was with the actual presence of fresh cat piss.

Let me take a moment to explain that I’m no Mr. Clean, and that’s probably why I forgave all of the cat piss in favor of more nasty, smoky kissing. It was 3:30 AM, I didn’t have to be anywhere in the morning, so let’s see where this thing goes.

She set a couple of Bud Light tall boys on the table in front of us, we both opened them and had a sip, but then she stood back up and proceeded to spend the next hour cleaning up her kitty litter. Why on earth was I still there?

After the kitty-litter cleaning, she asked what kind of music I wanted to listen to, and I convinced her to open her Usher CD, figuring the he smooth sexiness of Usher would surely get things moving into the bedroom.

Nope. Instead we sat on her living room floor, hard-wood and covered in a fine veneer of cat hair. Again, the stale kind, not the fresh kind, as if such a thing as fresh cat detritus exists (it does!). Did that stop me?

I started kissing her lips and neck, which she seemed to enjoy. She mostly just concentrated on her Bud Light tall boy, which she finished while mine was still one-sip in. After not receiving any real signs that much more was happening, I said, “I should probably go home.” Surprisingly, she responded, “No, I’d really like you to stay,” and she led me into her bedroom.

From what I recall, the bed had no frame or box spring… just a mattress on the floor and clothes strewn all over. I’m pretty sure the sheets hadn’t been washed in a while (read: months), and from the amount of candles mingling on top of stereo, head board (yes, a head board but no bed frame), desk, and door (yes, a candle balancing on top of a door), it was definitely a fire hazard. Did that stop me?

I lay down on her bed, and figured she’d join me, but then a confusing thing happened… she took her pants off and then slipped on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, but not before I caught a glimpse of a dark bruise (super black, super blue, super internal bleeding) which ran from the top of her right thigh all the way down past her knee. I didn’t even know you could bruise like that.

At this point, I realize I’m just in it for the wonderment of it all, and I make the wise and sober decision to get the eff out.

“I have to go,” I announce. She’s confused, and I’m definitely confused, but we agree, “Maybe we’ll see each other soon.” We haven’t.

I was happy to be out of there, but I wonder what would have happened had I stayed in her room? I’m not 100% sure, but I don’t think it would have been sex. I think it would have been her sleeping soundly cuddled against my shoulder with me kind of just staring into space waiting for her to get up so I could go home.

Most stories about missing out on sex are regretful, but in this case I may have dodged a bullet. The regretful thing is there were other folks at the party that evening with whom I would have been more than happy to go to bed. I suppose you choose your own adventure. Fill in the blanks: I was in the _____ place at the _____ time. Turn to page 48 to see what happens next.

Submitted by Lou, Age 29, Boston, MA