So, before I was married I was an aspiring comedy writer. What this means is, I would go to comedy shows and drink a lot and try to pick out funny/date-worthy people in either the stand up line up or in the crowd. It never worked out in my favor. One comedian in particular was an uber creep. I won't mention his name, although women should be wary of this guy so maybe I should put him on blast... No, I'll be the bigger person.
Anyhow, the guy, we'll call him Frances because I've always liked that name for men, made a joke about babies with AIDS, and somewhere in my stupid mind I thought, "Man, this guy is both hilarious and brave. I must talk with him further." Stupid move, me. I caught him outside of the comedy club, told him he was super funny (when you tell a comedian he/she is funny it is a known fact that they orgasm on the spot), asked him what other projects he works on besides stand up, and told him that I was working on an idea for a sitcom and I'd love his input and maybe to collaborate at some point in the near future. Now, the guy wasn't hideous looking, but he wasn't really my type either, but he took this as me hitting on him and immediately wanted to bang somewhere. I declined his offer, thinking it was just another risque joke (I'm pretty naive), and we went our separate ways after exchanging his business card for my number on the back of a Walgreen's receipt.
A couple weeks go by and I had to go to LA for what I thought was a very important meeting about a possible sitcom because that's what I had been told. Instead, this "very important meeting" was nothing more than hanging out with other funny people who knew a guy, who knew a famous comedian, who was married to someone who had Disney connections. We literally did zero writing together, but we did get to see a super funny set from the aforementioned famous comedian and she was great. Anyway, I asked Frances to go with me to LA to meet everyone, mostly because I hate driving on freeways, but also I didn't realize he was a wacko. On the drive down there he was asking how the sleeping arrangement was going to work out and I basically shut him down. No. NO. NOOOOOOO. He wasn't happy with that, so he tried to persuade me. He told me he was masochist who loved to be hurt during sex. He then proceeded to tell me why.
"I was working at a grocery store as a janitor and we worked with really strong chemicals to strip the floors. One of the bottles of this stuff got on my pants and ate through the material and got on my dick. It basically blistered my entire penis and my wife was mad at me for not wanting to have sex with her while I was healing so she basically raped me one night and the pain was so intense because of the blisters and the skin started coming off and she wouldn't stop until I finished and when I did, I realized I was a masochist."
Frances finished up his story about skinless finishing and I stared at him in disbelief and silently blinked about a hundred and twenty-seven times.
OK, so I'm stuck in a car, on the LA freeway, listening to Frances basically tell me he's a fucking serial killer who loves to have sex with necrotic wounds. I check the speed of the car. Nope, too fast to tuck and roll out. I look out the window. That's a pretty steep cliff. Nix the jumping into a pile of abandoned pillows idea... So, I just have to wait. We get to LA and I ditch that motherfucker. I did bring him to the comedy show, as promised, but other than that I was hanging out with internet friends while making fun of Frances on the outside and secretly being a little terrified of the 5 hour ride back home with this monster.
He didn't end up murdering me and I dropped him off in front of a Denny's when we got back to our hometown. Then, I passive aggressively accepted his friend request on Facebook and immediately unfriended him. Which, can be a very serious ordeal according to the murdery-type shows I watch on tv sometimes. Unfriending can equal your death. But, this guy isn't even acquaintance material (for me) let alone friend material. I realize I shouldn't judge and everyone has their own little quirks and fetishes, and maybe this one (rough, terrifying sex with a sloughing, chemical wound penis) just wasn't for me.
"Story Three" by Christopher of the website Freethinkers Anonymous:
Amy was never really invited. She just kind of showed up, and that was okay. Scott’s room was a hub of activity and I guess she glommed on to our little group because she didn’t have anywhere else to go. Although I feel kind of mean for saying it wasn’t long before we all started wishing she’d find someplace else to go. First she spent a lot of time sitting very close to Scott, then draping herself over him, and when he started moving away whenever she came into the room she moved on to Drew and when Drew found ways to avoid her she started walking next to me, although she didn’t get as touchy-feely with me as she had with them.
At least not until the night an older guy down the hall gave us most of a bottle of Everclear and we mixed it with grape Kool-Aid and…well, we were young and inexperienced drinkers (read: lightweights). Scott passed out in the bathroom after a marathon vomiting session and I don’t remember where everybody else ended up, but somehow I passed out on Scott’s bed with Amy lying next to me. All the lights were on when I closed my eyes and it was completely dark when I woke up and felt something. Someone was holding my hand. And I could feel the fabric of sweatpants. And my hand was being moved up and down on those sweatpants. And then there was hot breath in my ear and a voice said, “Many men have picked at the lock but I’m giving you the key.”
It’s a lucky thing there was a strategically placed garbage can next to Scott’s bed and that when I rolled over and threw up, most of it went in there.
And I hoped that would be the end of it but while Amy stopped coming around as much I started getting phone calls at all hours reminding me that the offer was “still open” and that she loved me. It was the “I love you” that creeped me out more than anything else. I didn't ask but I wondered if she'd done the same thing to Scott and Drew. We can all agree that nothing's more flattering than being at least third choice, right? And the rumors that got back to me that I was an alcoholic and needed help were annoying too.
She met me in a hall one day and I just yelled, “Don’t you get it? This is why no one likes you. This is why no one wants you around.”
I still feel bad about doing that and I intended to apologize, but I never got an opportunity. She glommed onto another group and after that our paths never crossed again.
And my job required that I sit on this damn passenger bus for several hours to get to some big work thing.
So there I was. Me and two guys. And those two guys' assistants.
They were pleasant enough, in that they didn't openly pick their noses or grab my ass. Still, something about the larger of the two dudes made me feel... well, pure revulsion. But we had to be on this bus together for HOURS, so I figured I needed to at least be polite.
The big dude came right up to me and introduced himself in a booming Southern drawl. He called me "little lady," and I had to resist rubbing my hands on my slacks after shaking his clammy, greasy hand.
No, literally, his hand was greasy. Because he was eating fried chicken. Which quickly became a point of contention.
This guy wanted me to share his fried chicken with him and his friend. They were both in suits and red ties, and they were going at that poor, dead bird. I declined, but they wouldn't take no for an answer. I declined and declined and declined, but eventually, I realized that this hours-long bus ride would just be easier if I ate the goddamned fowl.
So, there I was, eating a drumstick, when the big dude was all like, "Now, have you accepted Jesus in your heart?" I deferred. But he asked again, "You know that nothing in life is more important than our Lord and Savior?" I nodded. I figured vague agreement would mean he'd shut up sooner rather than later.
I'm not going to bore you with the details of the rest of the conversation, but for your sake, I'm going to paraphrase: "Gay people are gross, and I don't like liberals. Jesus is what government should be about. Oh, and guns. Lots and lots of guns. Guns everywhere. And I sure don't like them immigrants. But you know what I don't like more than immigrants? Women who get abortions. Those babies sure are precious."
The chicken settled in my stomach like a rock, and I mutely listened to his ramblings.
Well, actually, I did more than listen. I took notes and recorded them. Because I was a journalist. And the creep on the bus was a presidential candidate. And my job was to observe him as he toured Iowa to gain votes for the 2008 caucus.
Eventually our bus reached the campaign event, and Mike Huckabee stepped off that bus with chicken grease on his fingers, a grin on his face, and his creepy opinions in check. And the crowds roared.
But don't worry. I have plenty of others "creepy guy" stories to tell. Here's one that happened when I was 20:
When I was a college student, I also worked part-time at a local optical store as a receptionist. The optical store was located adjacent to one of the busiest intersections in town. To get on the interstate to go home, I needed to turn left. I'm not kidding when I say that it was at least five minutes or more between green lights. I've uploaded an image from Google Maps of the EXACT intersection to help you imagine the scenario. You'll need to change the blue cartoon car to a crappy old orangish-brown Toyota Corolla (lovingly nicknamed "The Turd" by my sister) to correctly imagine me.