[Not for the faint of heart. Or squeamish.]
Clementine* is a wild child. I swear Jim Morrison wrote the song about some incarnation of her. The girl knows how to party. Party as in, waking up on an inflatable raft, floating in a pool in Vegas surrounded by gay men wearing budgy smugglers and having no fucking clue how she got there. Really. That happened.
Clementine’s a free spirit. The eccentric, bohemian chick who can discuss Plato but would also pause for a solid thirty seconds if you told her that deer actually climbed and lived in trees. Her flawless caramel skin and petite frame will blast into a room filling it up with sunshine and the blazing inferno she wears on her sleeve known as her sexuality. Her deep commitment to always live in the moment rivals her thorough appreciation of older men, both of which can lead to entertainment ranging from holy shitballs awesomeness to, if only I could lobotomize myself so that I can go back to a time where that story never existed.
Clementine had just dumped her fifty-three year-old (yes, you read that right) philosophy professor boyfriend on the spot after he had ordered the 2008 Spottswoode Cabernet Sauvignon over Clementine’s suggestion of the far superior 2005 Bodegas Roda Cirsion, and THEN had the audacity to imply that her view on marriage being modern day enslavement, may be a little excessive. There were two things Clementine believed in – wine and free love. Period. After listening to him grovel for a week to take him back, she bored of him entirely, as she does with most men, and told him that she was pretty sure she was a lesbian and that they would be better off as friends.
So on a hot summer night, post-breakup Clementine was on the prowl, hating all men and only wanting one for a good solid revenge fuck. On this particular evening she was looking to change it up and find herself a pretty young thing. She had just finished dining with her roommate Jane* at her favorite restaurant and was now in the process of surveying the room for available cock. When Clementine got in this type of mood, there was no stopping her. Aside from a slight upset stomach and a dull headache she chalked up to stress, she looked hot and was busy dialing up the charm. Hair tossing, laughing infectiously, biting her bee-stung lower lip seductively – she was practically howling at the moon and rubbing her ass on the legs of her potential suitors.
Within the hour Clementine had secured John*, a twenty-three year old aspiring actor from Iowa. His favorite book was Jack Kerouac’s, ‘On The Road’ (he couldn’t ‘recall’ the main character’s name) and his favorite song was ‘I’m A Slave 4 U’ by Ms. Britney Spears (he knew every word). According to John, both were genius.
He was so pretty. It was on.
One quick exit and a short cab ride later they arrived at his apartment. After they had settled in, a few beers lead to an intense discussion on whether or not webbed feet were a deal breaker. Then it was on to an hour-long make out session on his living room floor until he asked if they should move to the bedroom.
It was pitch black in John’s boudoir and he preferred it that way. Were those black out curtains? Clementine asked if they should light a few candles for some ambience but John was insistent that the deprivation of the visual senses would make every other sensation that much more intense. Um. Ok. Clementine briefly considered leaving after she wracked her brain for the possible horrors John was desperate to keep cloaked in darkness in his cave of sin. She could blame her swift departure on her stomachache that was just a nagging bitch at that point or her headache, which had increased its status to thoroughly annoying. Fuck it. She wanted to have angry, hate sex with this corn fed farm boy.
One hour later, after being thrown around the room and deliciously violated in every which way, Clementine lay breathless on John’s chest. As they drifted off to sleep, naked, sweaty and satisfied, Clementine detected a strange scent in the air. Something metallic. Weird.
The blaring siren of an alarm launched them both out of their deep sleep and John’s California King.
WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!
Shit! Fuck. It’s my fucking smoke detector. It’s been going off all week. Fuck. Hold on. Let me turn the light on.
When Farmer John switched on the bedside table lamp, flooding the dark room with illumination, neither of them were prepared for the sight that was revealed.
Sweet Mother of God. It was a massacre. Blood. Massive amounts of blood. Everywhere. It looked like a home birth gone wrong. Or perhaps the crime scene of a quadruple murder-suicide. Bedding destroyed. Bloody hand and tit prints on the mirrored closet doors. The brilliant red stain of Clementine’s ass was tattooed onto John’s eggshell painted walls. Bright red knee marks on his hideous canary yellow carpet. With every eye sweep of the room, a new assault was discovered.
Cue blood-curdling screams.
WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!
Both John and Clementine looked down and across the bed at each other. They looked like Sissy Spacek post pig’s blood attack. Screaming, they frantically self-searched themselves for injuries without finding any open wounds.
Like the bitter taste of a cheap red stinging her tongue, Clementine started to piece the hard reality together. Her cramping abdomen. Her lingering headache. The metallic smell in the air, post-coitus. The fact that she hadn’t had her period in almost SIX FUCKING MONTHS because she was on arm implant birth control and never knew when the red sea was going to (de)part. Her uterus had effectively destroyed Iowa John’s bedroom. Mutilated it. Fucking gutted it like a slaughtered animal.
While Clementine was processing the absolute horror of the situation, John had gone to deal with the still raging smoke detector. When he returned Clementine was sheepishly pulling on her jeans.
Um, so. Yeah. I’m gonna go now. I am so sorry, John. Wow. Terribly, terribly sorry about your sheets.
As Clementine backed slowly away from him and crossed the threshold of his bedroom, John the aspiring actor who loved Jack Kerouac and Britney Spears equally, just stared at her naked and bloodied with his mouth gaping open in complete and utter disbelief.
Revenge fuck, accomplished.
MORAL OF THE STORY: Follow Mother Nature’s rules. Just suck it up once a month. Yeah, it’s a pain in the ass, but there’s many a reason why your body is on a monthly cycle. Preventing the scarring of another human being for life is one of them. Additionally, if something like this ever happens to you – at least offer to buy the poor guy some new sheets. Small price to pay when you should be paying for someone to come in to bleach, blowtorch, gut and rebuild his entire bedroom.
By Tracy Pope
*Disclaimer, Yo: The content is real, provided by several different consenting sources and based on fictional characters inspired by actual people. Names have been changed for obvious reasons. Creative liberties are taken to character build but these hilarious and mortifying experiences are all true. Hot, weird, crazy, funny shit occurs when people get naked together. It’s awesome.