Worst One Night Stand

[Photo by Terry Richardson]

Five page papers due on Wednesday regarding the "Mystery of God" are no fun at all. I never met the guy, but he bumped into me at Q-Bar once and didn't even say sorry. So instead, I write for you this twisted little tale:

It all began as too many early collegiate nights did. Before weeding out the cities best spots (and best friends) a group of notoriously on-point girls headed downtown to make the rounds. Starting at Sugar and ending at The Cellar, things were darkening by the minute and bobby-pins were finding themselves scattering across the slimy floor as they rocked and cocked their heads to the sounds of a Saturday night.

As things progress I strongly urge you to keep your eye on the one who we'll call "Olive." Don't lose her cause, she the lead here. At The Cellar "Megan" and "Olive" met two good looking lads. One introduced himself as Borha from Barcelona and the Euro thing was the only thing saving him from getting him beaten rotten for the Abercrombie and Fitch sweatshirt he had on. Olive was too drunk for a name like "Borha" and told him she was just going to call him Jack. Jack returned the favor with, "Fine, I'll just call you Lucy." Both placing aliases on the other, perfect: another matchbook romance.

The girls all leave the bar and head over to Geary for some pizza. Hating all things bread-like, Olive soon gladly received a phone call from none other than Barcelona-Jack. He and a friend picked up her and Megan from the pizzeria in a lavishly cheesy Benz and took them to their lavishly cheesy apartment.

They enter a pad that you love because it makes you look so tan, but you hate because you're afraid the vibrations from your voice are going to stain something. WHITE WHITE WHITE. Not cream, not off-white, not fucking periwinkle or beige. From the walls to the floor, to the bed to the sheets, to the fucking couch, it was all very blanco.

Megan and Barcelona-Jack disappeared or left, whatever. Punch drunk and alone, Olive and Jack begin hooking-up and as any sly seductress would, Olive swiftly avoided answering the question: how old are you anyway? She mumbled a doubtful '19' and Jack replied that he was 29 as he lite a series of white candles around the room.

BAM-BAM-BAM. Instant sex. Literally 45 seconds after the last candle was lite, clothes were flying about like $2 day at Goodwill on Haight. Allegedly it was full blown, jack rabbit sex for about 10 minuted, fully equipped with one Spaniard speaking the naughtiest sentences in his native tongue. What happened next to interrupt the beautiful 'bow chica bow wow' that was going down was unexpected to say the least.

Pre-note let me say (if this story didn't already tell you) Olive is not a virgin. You are not reading of her sacred 'first time' into womanhood experience. Alright, so they're going at it and Olive looks down to find herself covered in blood. Blood all over. It's all over the white bedsheets, pillow cases, comforter, and beloved Barcelona-Jack. Fuck my life moment.

Olive gets up as fast as her confused-self can, noticing that it is getting light outside. She drips down the hallway into the bathroom, blood all over. She comes back to the bedroom to find Jack frantically trying to get the blood out, naked, a cigarette dangling dangerously from his lip. They exchange a series of forgotten dialogue as he blows out each candle, she puts her clothes and runs out. Downtown San Francisco at 5:30 am, with a low battery cell phone, no money, no bus pass. She gets in a cab, calls a friend who agrees to meet her outside and pay for it. After telling the cab driver the story, he dumbfounded asked her, "Do you need a napkin?"

Two days later, Olive got a text that said, "Sorry I yelled at you like that, but I need to now something." Here is the rest of their texting conversation:

Olive: Who is this?

Jack: It's Jack. Were you a virgin?
Olive: Haha no.

Jack: Then why wouldn't you tell me you were on your period?

Olive: I wasn't. I just bled for 30 minutes.

Jack: Tell me how old you are really.

Olive: 17

Jack: (no response)

And that was the last they spoke. After half-surviving the worst one night stand after finding out her age Jack ran for the hills. Ironically it wasn't the bloody mess he found to be a complete dealbreaker, rather her age. It hasn't happened since then, but of all nights for Olive's vagina to act up (and out), it made sure to pick the one-nighter with the Spaniard living in a white castle.

Carpe-fucking-diem.