Song: “Jane Fonda” by Mickey Avalon
(Picture taken from http://updates.mainetoday.com/blogs/single-slice/the-whirligig-of-time)
I throw open the front door from the apartment building and nearly go tumbling down the stairs. Which would have been perfect.
Instead, I right myself, slip on the other heel, and awkwardly clamber my way down to the sidewalk. My shirt is still unbuttoned, my skirt is backwards. I do not give a damn. I just know I can not be in that man’s apartment, in that man’s bed one second longer.
That man, Brad, is shouting to me from his stoop as I turn the corner. I did not even pause to hear what he had to say. Maybe someday I’ll be in the mood to hear him but that day is not today. I descend below ground to the Metro and pray he does not follow me. The Silver Spring train arrives a moment later and I slide through the doors. When the train begins to ease into the darkness, I finally can breathe a sigh or two of relief. Time to put miles of train between myself and that freak.
I want to be clear here, I am not a prude. I’ve had…experiences. I’ve explored my boundaries and found I enjoyed things I never expected I would. But that does not mean I am up for every odd sexual desire you have. And you certainly don’t get to spring it on me on date four without any preamble.
I mean, of all the sick, weird things. And again, I’ve done plenty. I’ve been tied up. I’ve tied up someone. Two someones, actually. I’ve gone into bars and flirted with other people so my boyfriend could watch me and get all jealous aroused because it. I’ve worn costumes. I’ve done it in public. I am the kind of woman who is a lady in the street and a freak in the sack, I cannot stress this enough.
But this…ugh. My stomach just turns thinking out it.
And I liked Brad. A lot. We were having such a good time. But now I’m on the train racing home to scrub this gross off with my loofah.
I know, I know. I’m being too vague. It’s just so…fresh right now, you know.
Ok. So he and I were kissing and I asked him if, maybe, he’d like to show me his bedroom and he almost literally jumped at the change. I was thinking that we were both in for one fuuuuuuuuuuuun night.
I got cocky though. We both did, I guess. I started to tease him. Asked him to tell me something sexy, tell me something he’d like to do with me that no one else ever let him do. He was hesitant at first, but I convinced him. That’s when he handed me the leotard and scrunchy socks.
“Be my Jane,” he said, eyes hopeful.
I was stunned, confused. “Jane?” I wondered aloud.
He clarified, voice making it clear how incredulous he was that I didn’t just know, “Jane Fonda.”
And I tried, I did. I tried to be his Jane Fonda. But some things are too sick, too awful to even try. When he put in that exercise tape in the world’s oldest VCR, I just had to run.
I will be your Little Bo Peep, your naughty babysitter, your tough but tender postwoman, but I will never be your Jane Fonda.
That’s just gross.
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