the drunk lusty texter gets angry

pretty sure i already told You about it but a few months ago, at a brickell ave. bar that i frequented, i struck up conversation with a tall woman who was there as often as i was and who seemed to be just as chummy with the bartenders as i was but who drank way more than i did, both in terms of the volume and firepower.

while i usually maxed out at three beers (four if i was feeling festive and wealthy) this woman was doing Patron on the rocks after Patron on the rocks (heavy shit) and when she said she was feeling tipsy, usually after her third or fourth, she’d switch to wine–an intermission of red wine–and then, once she’d presumably gotten her bearings straight, she’d go back to the Patron.

but you could never tell she was plowed. she was one of those drinkers who just never show it except in subtle ways. you’d have to look at her closely and see something was off about her blinking. a tiny slur.

anyway. one thing led to another, there were two episodes of intimacy, and then she started texting me. a lot. and the texts would be friendly at around 5 p.m., inviting me for happy hour, and then at around 10 p.m., once she was drunk, they’d turn licentious.

like, ridiculously vulgar.

i’ll refer you, if you’ll allow it, to a quick flash from one of James Joyce’s letters to Nora Barnacle, his beloved:

“You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I fucked them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties…”

James Joyce

we didn’t have sex on either of those two nights, and farts were not part of the affair (at least none that i perceived), but i immediately drew the Joyce comparison because of how uncomfortably wild and frank her text messages became.

she invited me out for several consecutive nights and each night i said no, sorry, i’m busy—until, when her texts turned hostile, i stopped responding, and after two or three nights of silence on my end, she relented.

radio silence.

i thought, “great! i’m off the hook!”

but of course that was naive of me and a couple nights later she sent me a text: “so i guess you’re just not talking to me now??”

then later in the evening she texted me some drunken thing about masturbating.

i didn’t respond.

the next night she invited me out again for happy hour and followed it up with, “or are you still not talking to me? LOL”

the point–and i think i’ve illustrated this with that recent post about how i can’t seem to stand up for myself against employers–is that i don’t really do confrontation, and i have a hard time shooting people down.

this person was freaking me out, though, so i sent her a text saying, “you’re freaking me out, making me really uncomfortable, please please stop with these kindsa texts,” etc. dwelling mostly on the vulgar sex stuff so that she wouldn’t think i was shooting her down. just…i wanted to communicate that her behavior was what i found so repellent. cuz there were a couple mornings where she’d send me a text before heading out to work saying shit like, “whoops, looks like i was a little too frisky last night.” and i’d get pissed at this and wanna be like, “texts about your shrieking labia aren’t ‘frisky.'”

pero i digress.

she responded to my freak-out text by calling my a “psycho” and wishing me good luck with my life.

and she never texted me again.

today at Pasion i was working at a small two-top when a tall woman in a skirt suit started settling down at the table beside me, lifting folders and files out of a bag and spreading them out, and i realized, with a couple of sideways glances that, good fucking lord, it’s her! it’s Patron-after-Patron!

and I was seized with fear.

had to talk myself down from it like, “ok…ok…if that is her, she probably doesn’t wanna talk to me either.”

turns out it wasn’t her–but still! freaked me out. and it got me thinking about how people will lash out when their ego is wounded, and i think that she (Ms. Patron) might be really embarrassed about what transpired: that she was getting rejected night after night, drunktexting vulgar shit that she was routinely realizing she had to apologize for the next morning, and then, finally, the dude she was hitting on, in a flagrant way and for so many days, just lashed out and said, “YOU’RE FREAKING ME OUT,” and…ahdunno.

what’s coming to mind, frankly, is the ending of American Beauty where (spoilers) R. Lee Ermey’s character tries to kiss Kevin Spacey, gets rejected, and then Ermey panics, mortified to’ve been outed, and so he murders Spacey’s character to make sure word never gets out.

he’s keener to kill somebody and spend his life in prison than he is to be publicly humiliated by having his tough-guy persona cracked. that delicate and profound sensitivity to sexual rejection.

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