Vibrations of a Vixen

…stories from under the sheets…

My Brazilian November 25, 2009

Filed under: dating,sex — vixations @ 5:34 am

I get my vagina waxed once every 4-6 weeks. I allow hot wax to be spread onto it and then ripped off, usually by an Asian or Eastern European woman. I started getting waxed when I moved to California for three reasons. 1. Shaving hurts way too much after the second day. 2. I’m at the beach way more that I was while living in NYC. 3. I feel way sexier when my muffin is hairless and not bushy. Am I allowed to call it a muffin or was that only in Mean Girls?

My Brazilian (and my love for sexual activities) has gotten me laid many times in the past, but my Brazilian has never gotten me laid BY a Brazilian. Until now.

I posted my roommate’s bed for $50 on Craigslist (she had already moved out and left me to deal with it), and Rodrigo was the first to call about buying it. I assumed he was a Latino father who lived in the ghetto like me and was buying a cheap bed for his kid. I didn’t care, I just needed the 50 bucks. His messy brown hair and light eyes attracted me immediately, but the accent got me to a place where I felt like taking my vibrator with me to the bathroom and listening to him talk about how comfortable the mattress is and how he can’t wait to lie on it… Ahem. Anyway.

All I knew was that he was taking car design classes in Pasadena and that he had a nice ass. Other than that, I had a bit too much dick in my life at the time (is that possible?) so I didn’t bother saving his number. A few weeks later I got a call from a 626 phone number. Pasadena. He was asking me to come to First Fridays on Abbot Kinney. It took me almost a year of being in L.A. to find out about First Fridays. He’s been here for 2 months and already knows about them. He must be cool. I told him I would call if I made it down there, but I was already drunk in Santa Monica so I knew I wouldn’t. I figured that was the end of Brazilian boy, so again I didn’t both saving his number.

Last Sunday afternoon, I got a text message from an unknown number: ‘Hey bed girl!’

What?

This could mean so many things. Did I pass out in someone’s bed and leave them to sleep on the floor? Did I kick someone out of my bed because I was taking up too much room? Did I have sex in too many beds so someone decided to come up with the nickname ‘Bed Girl’??

I looked at the number. 626 area code again.  It’s Brazilian boy! He told me he wanted to see me again, but not to buy anything this time. Haha. Alright. So the actual date part wound up going something like this:

Leave for the Beechwood around 4:30. Happy Hour is the Best Hour after all. Get a text when I’m five minutes away saying he’s five minutes away. Park on the street and then find a seat outside by the fire. Decide it’s too cold and move inside to a table. Decide it’s too awkward because no one else is sitting at tables and move to the bar. Decide drinks come faster there anyway and wonder why I didn’t sit there in the first place. Order a four dollar glass of Pinot Grigio. Order another one. Wonder if the Brazilian walked in, took one look at me, and realized I wasn’t as hot as he remembered. Realize that I need to leave soon to go to the ex’s concert anyway. Order the best edamame ever. Continue drinking and waiting. See taller-than-I-remember Brazilian at the door. Fight the urge to run away. See that he’s not only taller, but also cuter-than-I-remember Brazilian. Decide that if I drink one more glass of wine I will definitely try to kiss him. Order another glass of wine.

One order of fig and truffle grilled cheese, two more glasses of wine, and a beer later, we decided to go over to the Other Room for some more wine. He’s open to wines I like, which is sexy. I need to be in charge sometimes. Start making out on the couch at the bar, but attempt to remind myself that going home alone will feel much better in the morning than waking up next to a naked Brazilian, no matter how cute he is, how good of a kisser he is, or how sexy his accent would sound in the bedroom.

Go home and get naked with the Brazilian after stopping at 7-11 for more wine.

Wake up at 7:43 the next morning. Almost cry when I see the broken condom on the floor. Go through all the worst scenario thoughts in my head. Do I have HIV now? Or is it just chlamydia? Do they have herpes in Brazil? Do I have those too? Remember that he’s still in my bed. Close my eyes and think about rainbows and sunshine. Wake up at 11:35 and look through my entire purse and apartment for my cell phone, trying to figure out what time we got home, how we got home, where my car is, and how many inappropriate text messages I sent. Notice my cell phone is missing, but that my keys are out on the table. Wander outside to find my car. See it across the street in a legal spot. Realize I drove drunk and didn’t get pulled over OR crash into anything. Slap myself on the wrist for being SO STUPID. Look for my phone on the street, in the grass, and under the seats of the car. Go back in the house to look up the nearest Verizon store while also updating Facebook and Gmail to tell everyone that my phone is gone and that I’m sorry in advance for raucous text messages I may or may not have sent last night.

Complain to my new roommate about how wine makes me a whore. Evaluate his reaction, and think that maybe it’s not the wine that makes me a whore, but that I actually just am a whore. Discard that thought immediately.

Wait for the Brazilian to wake up, and decide that he actually may be a guy that I want to see again. Go to the Verizon store to buy a new phone. Find my phone in the front pocket of my purse, where it had been the entire time. Text Rodrigo and let him know that if he ever wants to see me again he needs to get tested (in America) for all STDs including HIV and herpes. Receive a text saying that he will let me know when he gets the results and that he misses me already. Sigh. Call my Eastern European woman to schedule my next Brazilian wax.

Advertisements
 

2 Responses to “My Brazilian”

  1. […] One of those ‘day after pills’???? Great. He DIDN’T use a condom. Again. After I FREAKED OUT last time. What the hell is wrong with everyone??? Why is it MY responsibility to ask YOU to throw […]

  2. […] my last post, I talked about My Brazilian, his irresponsability (yes, I spelled that wrong on purpose because that’s how HE spelled […]


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s