As a taxpaying, hardworking citizen of Atlanta, I would like to lodge a public complaint. YOU BITCHES GOTTA DO SOMETHING ABOUT THE ROAD BAND-AIDS.
I have no idea what the hell they’re doing that requires them to put thirty of ‘em down in a row and leave them untouched for a week, but it is preposterous. Now, I don’t personally drive a car, so I’m not at great risk of property damage, but when road band-aids start affecting my sex life, this has just gone too fucking far.
This requires a little backstory.
Friday night at the bar. I didn’t even spot the preppy boy with pretty eyes until my roommate George was standing at the exit jangling his car keys. Time was not on my side.
“Five minutes,” I begged. “A guy just made eyes at me.”
“Absolutely not,” said George. “This bar is dead to me. There will be other men with eyes at our next stop.”
“One minute!”
“I will leave you, Topher!”
So I grabbed his keys and ran directly to Preppy, who was standing with a pretty girl. I had an instant of pause, thinking he might be a straight guy out with his girlfriend (have y’all noticed there’s a lot more of those lately? What’s goin’ on there?), but this was no time to finesse or hesitate. I knew George would be back to tackle me for his keys at any moment. And he’d get ‘em back, too. George may be a skinny thing, but he fights dirty.
“Hey,” I said to Preppy. “I swear I would normally spend the next hour flirting with you, but my ride is ready to try his luck elsewhere so I gotta go. But you’re really cute and I’d like your number. Assuming you might be interested. And that she’s not your girlfriend.”
“That’s really sweet,” he said. And then he kissed me, which is a really great way to let someone know you’re interested. Then I got his number, and his NAME, which usually comes before the kiss, but who says there’s rules to these things?
George tapped me on the shoulder.
“Give me my damn keys, you trollop,” said George. “We’ll stay. But you owe me.”
I spent the night fawning over Preppy, right up until the lights came up at closing, which is always so disorienting and leaves everyone scrambling like blinded lab rats. I said goodnight, and found George outside, already sitting in the car with the engine running. He opened the window.
“I assumed you wouldn’t be home tonight,” he said.
“He offered, but I’ve got a lot of work tomorrow and stuff. I told him to call me. Now unlock the door.”
“Darling, really, you should go home with him. You’re so much easier to live with when you’ve gotten laid.”
I wavered.
“Well, it’s too late now. I already said goodnight.”
“Then you’d better hurry,” said George, who then threw the car in drive and peeled off, leaving me standing in the parking lot.
I ran back around to the front of the bar, where I found Preppy getting in his car. I yelled for him to stop. He turned and smiled.
“Change your mind?”
“My roommate ditched me because I turned you down.”
“Wow. I like your roommate. Come on, I’ll take you to your house.”
“No,” I said. “Your house is fine.”
George was right. This would be great. A good time to be had by all. Preppy was gainfully employed, funny, had his own place… this was very, very good.
Or, it would have been. A road band-aid was lying askew over the gaping maw that was once Monroe Drive. Preppy’s car managed to hit it just wrong, causing the tire to rip to shreds on impact. I’m pretty handy in these scenarios (pedestrians should always know simple auto repair or nobody will ever offer you a ride), so I broke out the spare and changed his tire.
But by the time everything was said and done, we were filthy, pissed, and exhausted. The moment just didn’t scream romance anymore. Fuck you, road band-aid.
So someone, I’m not sure exactly who, but I’m gonna Google it, should be held responsible. Mayor Shirley Franklin? The Pothole Posse? I’ll find out. And when I do, I expect some assistance. Because y’all made me miss out on potentially good sex here, and George will tell you: I’m gonna be impossible to live with until that changes.
This requires a little backstory.
Friday night at the bar. I didn’t even spot the preppy boy with pretty eyes until my roommate George was standing at the exit jangling his car keys. Time was not on my side.
“Five minutes,” I begged. “A guy just made eyes at me.”
“Absolutely not,” said George. “This bar is dead to me. There will be other men with eyes at our next stop.”
“One minute!”
“I will leave you, Topher!”
So I grabbed his keys and ran directly to Preppy, who was standing with a pretty girl. I had an instant of pause, thinking he might be a straight guy out with his girlfriend (have y’all noticed there’s a lot more of those lately? What’s goin’ on there?), but this was no time to finesse or hesitate. I knew George would be back to tackle me for his keys at any moment. And he’d get ‘em back, too. George may be a skinny thing, but he fights dirty.
“Hey,” I said to Preppy. “I swear I would normally spend the next hour flirting with you, but my ride is ready to try his luck elsewhere so I gotta go. But you’re really cute and I’d like your number. Assuming you might be interested. And that she’s not your girlfriend.”
“That’s really sweet,” he said. And then he kissed me, which is a really great way to let someone know you’re interested. Then I got his number, and his NAME, which usually comes before the kiss, but who says there’s rules to these things?
George tapped me on the shoulder.
“Give me my damn keys, you trollop,” said George. “We’ll stay. But you owe me.”
I spent the night fawning over Preppy, right up until the lights came up at closing, which is always so disorienting and leaves everyone scrambling like blinded lab rats. I said goodnight, and found George outside, already sitting in the car with the engine running. He opened the window.
“I assumed you wouldn’t be home tonight,” he said.
“He offered, but I’ve got a lot of work tomorrow and stuff. I told him to call me. Now unlock the door.”
“Darling, really, you should go home with him. You’re so much easier to live with when you’ve gotten laid.”
I wavered.
“Well, it’s too late now. I already said goodnight.”
“Then you’d better hurry,” said George, who then threw the car in drive and peeled off, leaving me standing in the parking lot.
I ran back around to the front of the bar, where I found Preppy getting in his car. I yelled for him to stop. He turned and smiled.
“Change your mind?”
“My roommate ditched me because I turned you down.”
“Wow. I like your roommate. Come on, I’ll take you to your house.”
“No,” I said. “Your house is fine.”
George was right. This would be great. A good time to be had by all. Preppy was gainfully employed, funny, had his own place… this was very, very good.
Or, it would have been. A road band-aid was lying askew over the gaping maw that was once Monroe Drive. Preppy’s car managed to hit it just wrong, causing the tire to rip to shreds on impact. I’m pretty handy in these scenarios (pedestrians should always know simple auto repair or nobody will ever offer you a ride), so I broke out the spare and changed his tire.
But by the time everything was said and done, we were filthy, pissed, and exhausted. The moment just didn’t scream romance anymore. Fuck you, road band-aid.
So someone, I’m not sure exactly who, but I’m gonna Google it, should be held responsible. Mayor Shirley Franklin? The Pothole Posse? I’ll find out. And when I do, I expect some assistance. Because y’all made me miss out on potentially good sex here, and George will tell you: I’m gonna be impossible to live with until that changes.
