I'll try anything once. At least. Yes, sometimes you need a second taste, but for the most part, I know after the first bite. If that first go-round sucks? I'm done. No need for recount or retry. I'm good.
That said, I don't go home with unknown guys from parties or clubs. Here's why:
Some random year during college at some random club in some random part of the city, I met a guy who we will call anything but random. We will call him: D'Angelo. *
Need I say more as to why I went home with him?
We eyed each other up, started dancing, talking while dancing, drinking while dancing, drinking while kissing, kissing while leaving, and eventually, kissing while driving. We somehow made it back to his living situation. This was my first warning. D'Angelo lived in nothing short of a frat house, except you couldn't use that as an excuse because it wasn't, well, a frat house. The residence looked as if seventeen wild parties had taken place in one weekend. Despite the trashed lawn, broken screen door, and wall to wall stained carpet, I still headed up the stairs with D'Angelo behind me, finding new places to grab. When we reached the landing, I started praying his bedroom looked nothing like the bathroom we scooted by, and I mentally calculated how long I could hold it. With no intention of sleeping over, I figured I could Tim Gunn it and make it work.
He kicked his door open and pushed me onto what I prayed as I fell back was a bed. I felt a lump of clothes, a rogue sneaker, and other bits and pieces of his life. Shoving it aside, I thought we could just get it in with the lights off. That way his fine as wine image would stay intact and I'd remember him fondly without seeing what else shared the bed with us.
"Wait, I wanna see your gorgeous ass," he said as he stopped undressing me and moved to what I assumed was going to be some sort of light source. I couldn't grab him fast enough. It was like slow motion. My brain moaned, "Nooooo!" But my mouth didn't get the memo in time. The room flooded with light and ooohh emmmm geeee. Stained sheets, a floor covered in the remnants of fast food from yesteryear, a sheet as a curtain, and the worst part. A yellow python in the corner. A cage? Yes. A lid on that cage? No.
I screamed at the top of my lungs and immediately starting doing a combination of grabbing my clothes and hyperventilating. There are no words to describe my fear of snakes. I cannot see them on television or in movies. I still have nightmares about them. I once saw one in my backyard and called the police. I don't even mess with the stuffed ones you win at amusement parks. I. Don't. Like. Snakes.
D'Angelo was perhaps the most beautiful man to get lucky with me, but there was no hemming and hawing. While there are few things that keep me from getting what I want, a snake is definitely at the top of that list. I ran like the wind, dressing along the way, not even thinking of what diseases I was catching on the rug as I was holding my heels. D' Angelo was at a loss. He called after me, chased me, inquired what was wrong. I stood on the front lawn and demanded a ride home. I told him I didn't fuck with snakes. At all. I explained this the whole way to my apartment and before I shut the door, I told him his poor excuse for a house needed Merry Maids (or stronger) at the very least.
I know the likelihood of a repeat situation is slim to none, but the window of going home with randoms has closed. I'm too old for that and as I said: it only takes one bite to know the taste...
Which is exactly why I let D'Angelo come inside.
That bitch stole my line,
*you don't have to watch that video now, but I recommend you do at some point in your day. It's delightful.