Baked Potato - May 3, 2008

(Reconditioning Batteries)

*New message. Recorded on Tuesday, April 29th at 3:37 p.m.:*

"Mike, it's Suzie. I just wanted to let you know that, well...my period stopped yesterday - - click"

My phone hit the bed before I even hit "end". The robotic voice muffled by my comforter rattled off options to save or delete my new message as immediate, acute panic set in; the kind of panic that would send you climbing up the walls of an impossible crevice you've just fallen into, fully well knowing that you're going to tear every one of your fingernails out in the process. The fear caused my heart to beat erratically. My breathing became irregular and the newly familiar signs of an impending anxiety attack ravaged my consciousness, tunnel vision and the whole shebang.

I am not ready for this. I am not ready for this at all.


I had started hanging out with Suzie back in February. She moved to Portsmouth from out of state a few months prior and had nobody to hang out with, which is understandable because it's hard to meet anybody here during the winter unless you're out at a bar doing the standard seasonally affected New Englander "forget juice shuffle." She found me on Myspace, struck up a conversation and figured out that we lived on the same street, literally lived three doors apart from each other.

We quickly made plans to have a drink and chat in person and I was stunned when a ridiculously hot little Greek/Brazilian girl answered the door. For the first time in the history of the Universe, somebody was actually hotter in person than in their pictures online.

Suzie and I became fast friends. She works as a waitress by day and dances at strip clubs a few nights a week. In a past life she'd been an esthetician, but after being in a major car accident that left her with massive brain trauma, the resulting mild insanity and a mountain of hospital bills robbed her of the profession.

Suzie doesn't think like regular people anymore. She thinks, acts and talks more like a wildly eccentric artist, waxing about her acid fueled, gothic electronica scored glory days and will blow money barely earned money on a $60 fleece shark puppet before stocking her fridge with food or paying bills. Her worldly possessions consist of a bag of clothes, stacks and stacks of spiral notebooks used as hastily scrawled journals and a talkative Siamese cat aptly named "Pussy". Suzie is crazy, good natured and immensely entertaining and that's why I love spending time with her. She's so different from the people I'm exposed to on a daily basis; a breath of fresh air. Correction; more like a breath of fresh hurricane.

I guess you could call Suzie my quazi-"friend with benefits". When Suzie and I are drunk around each other, we fuck. It's inevitable. Sober? We won't lay a finger on one another. Three drinks into the evening? Our clothes are scattered across New Hampshire and we're making wet spots on my sheets. We don't plan it out like that; it just works out that way. At first I was kind of weirded out that we only had sex under the influence. I didn't understand why I was waking up to awkward morning-after conversations instead of good morning blowjobs, partly because I love being woken up with enthusiastic fellatio, but mostly because I felt like a piece of meat, as gay as that sounds.

Although I'd prefer to say otherwise, my ego typically demands stoking via being sought after before, during and after casual encounters and this whole pump-and-dump operation was playing Jai-Alai with my emotions. I definitely wasn't looking for a girlfriend in Suzie but I did feel like I wanted to be ... well, wanted - on or off the wagon. What the fuck? I'm awesome; when did I become disposable? Strangely enough, excellent pussy clouded a man's convictions and I ended up abandoning the whole Troll King from Labyrinth mentality for pinker pastures. Quick, somebody call Ripley's Believe it or Not.

Suzie spent the night Friday after a three hour round of post-bar, rapid position switching, dirty talking coitus before she hopped on a Greyhound to her hometown to dance and waitress at her usual strip club. The next morning we woke up, looked at each other and asked the same question almost simultaneously.

"Did we use a condom last night?"


After finally digesting the news, I frantically dialed Suzie over and over again, getting nothing but voicemail. I pictured myself ten years into the future, T.V. dinner gut slumped over the counter of a gas station with my name embroidered on a short sleeve button up and a stack of pay stubs stamped with red letters spelling "GARNISHED" sitting on the ripped seat of a rusty 1977 Toyota Starlet in the parking lot. My hopes, dreams and aspirations were sitting in a microwave and the Devil was reaching for the "baked potato" button. After ten tries, I threw the phone back onto the bed and stared at my feet.

As I stared at my feet waiting for my Herbie Hancock ringtone to shock me out of panicked, obsessive thought, I speculated on how the situation would play out. Seeing as though she was a dancer and not ready for kids in any way, she would probably want to 86 our Miracle Baby of the Immaculate Conception as soon as possible. But what if she didn't? What if she wanted to keep it for some insane reason? What would I do? How would I explain it to my elegant mother that I got a GreekZilian stripper pregnant without her jumping out of a moving Prius? I could barely take care of myself (if you consider my Monday through Friday diet of Lean Cuisine, Cliff Bars and Newcastle "sustenance"), how was I supposed to support a rug monkey? I mean, I would do the honorable thing and be there for my little Antichrist, but what would I have to give up in order to man up? Going out and getting drunk? Definitely, that costs money. Travel? Out the window. Writing? I made a pittance at my seasonal gig and my website didn't generate enough traffic to make my Rudius checks able to support anything above a Ramen noodle habit. I would have to go out and get a real job, probably back in the sinister, soul sucking world of energy trading. 70-80 hour work weeks would demolish my ability to write coherently. After time, I would probably abandon writing altogether because I'd be too focused on making enough scratch for braces, school clothes and whatever I need to baby-proof the skuzzy studio apartment that I'd undoubtedly have to live in. The life I have envisioned for myself now would be put on hold for 18 years. Who knows if I would ever get it back after that kind of time. That's the part that scared me the most.

Just as I got off the phone with Planned Parenthood to get some blood work after my adventures in raw dogging, the screen on my T-Mobile Dash lit up.

Call from:
Suzie, cell


"I don't know. My period stopped three days into it. I'm kind of nervous."

"Kind of?! I'm losing my fucking mind over here, hun." I rummaged through my desk drawer for a stale pack of Parliament Lights that I reserved for when I was extremely drunk or something terrible happened. "What should we do?"

"I don't know, Mike. This has never happened to me before."

"Yeah, me neither. I mean, I was too drunk to cum on Friday night. How did this happen? Isn't it impossible to get pregnant when your tin roof's rusty?"

"I think it's possible, but just really rare. Why don't you Google it?"

I spent the next 20 minutes looking up every possible Boolean combination of "sex, period and pregnant" while on the phone with Suzie. Every website, forum and blog all echoing the same sentiment; it's not impossible to get pregnant, but there was only a very, very slim chance that it could happen.

"It says that it's next to impossible, so that's good. It also says that your flow can be interrupted if you have sex during it. That could also be it." My voice didn't sound relieved in the slightest.

"That's true, I never thought about that." Suzie's voice didn't sound relieved in the slightest either.

"Well, what...what should we do, Suzie?"

"Look Mike, chances are it's nothing, but just in case it isn't nothing...I'm not keeping it. Don't worry. I'm going to go to the store and grab a Plan B."

The tension left my body immediately upon hearing Suzie say that.

"OK, phew! You have no idea how worried I was about that very thing."

"I figured as much. I just need to figure out how to get to the store. I have no car down here. I might have to borrow my friend's van, but it's not registered, inspected or insured."

The tension re-entered my body with all the grace of a serial rapist gorilla. A new vision emerged; Suzie with a big fat mom stomach behind bars. Another vision overlapped that one; me with big bags under my eyes, sipping a McDonald's coffee and staring off into the distance as my seed held the other children in the Play Place hostage with a Lunchables spork.

"Honey, just be careful." I didn't want her to drive that van, but I didn't want an heir either. "Drive slow."

"I will, don't worry. Hey, you should totally write about this."

"I am buying a pallet worth of condoms after this. I'm going to drop them everywhere like Hansel's bread crumbs so I'm never without one again."

"Don't bother. We're not having sex anymore. The next time we get drunk and horny around each other, I'm just going to suck your dick."

"I guess that works too."

Post Script: My Planned Parenthood test came out spotless, once again solidifying my theory that I am living proof that karma doesn't exist. That's right, ladies. My swimmers swim and my junk is Purel clean. Please form an organized line at the door.

Post, Post Script: I just got this comment and I can't stop laughing. I think he's right.

"Karma doesn't exist? Bullshit. This is all happening because you tried that lame april fools joke on us. It's coming right around to bite you in the ass."

Posted by KungFu Mike at 12:37 PM

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you have had sober sex before? that is astounding to me.

Posted by: Anonymous at May 3, 2008 01:22 PM

Why on earth doesn't this woman just take the goddamn birth control pill? I do since I've been 15, and I don't even have her habits regarding random sex...

Posted by: Eva at May 3, 2008 01:50 PM

Why on earth doesn't this woman just take the goddamn birth control pill? I do since I've been 15, and I don't even have her habits regarding random sex...

Posted by: Eva at May 3, 2008 01:50 PM

You had me up until the part where you fucked a girl who was having her period

Posted by: Phil at May 3, 2008 04:48 PM

A solid attempt to breathe life into a drunkard washed up on a beach, only to come out of that vision and realize your breathing through the third paper bag out of a CVS 50 count package.

Whats next?

Posted by: john at May 4, 2008 01:05 AM

Karma doesn't exist? Bullshit. This is all happening because you tried that lame april fools joke on us. It's coming right around to bite you in the ass.

Posted by: cheesedinverts at May 4, 2008 07:29 AM

Haha, do you really think she can cut you off from sex?

Posted by: Wayland at May 4, 2008 11:40 AM

Stripper, likes to fuck when drunk, on her period, bareback. You might want to do that test again in about 6 months.

Also...pallet, not palate.

Posted by: estar gwars at May 5, 2008 05:57 AM

Following on from estar's observation above ... stripper who likes to fuck bareback.

Might want to get your own kind of testing done there, sport.

Or just show us some pictures of the Greekzilian - inquiring minds need to know ;)

Posted by: General Asshole :p at May 5, 2008 10:11 PM

tits of gtfo

Posted by: Anonymous at May 8, 2008 03:56 AM

yeah, pics or it didn't happen.

Posted by: tits or gtfo at May 8, 2008 03:59 AM

No, guys, she looked better irl than on the Internet. So he can show us a photo of Sasquatch and she'll still be a hot GreekZillian.

Posted by: at May 8, 2008 02:07 PM

You people are haters. Mike has loads of hot little fuckbuddies. Don't get jealous. You'll never get his sloppy seconds if you're bitter. I learned that the hard way.

Posted by: TheBunny at May 8, 2008 04:13 PM

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