GUEST BLOG: My stripper friend “Dakota” talks about her awkward high school romancesMy friend, we’ll call her “Dakota,” has a blog that’s way funnier than mine. It’s very different than BlahBethany.com, though. She writes hilarious (HILARIOUS) stories about her life, and shares it with her friends. I’m privileged enough to be one of those friends. I asked her if I could start anonymously reposting her blogs because they crack me the hell up, and she graciously agreed. We decided to invent a persona for her, so you guys could put a face to the name. Here’s a photo of my friend “Dakota,” who I decided is a stripper. Please enjoy her writing. This will hopefully become a regular feature, so I made a category for her posts as well so they’ll all be in one spot. You can visit back here:
On a sadness scale of The Little Mermaid to Titanic, my romantic life in high school was probably at The Notebook.
So I was talking to some friends recently about being romantically challenged in high school, and it reminded me of my first ill-fated attempt at procuring a boyfriend.
Believe it or not, the pickings at my suburban Iowa high school were what some might consider “slim,” so I had to lower my standards considerably to find worthy objects of my obsessive teenage affections. My junior year I settled on a boy in my Physics class named “John.” He was tall, met the minimum qualifications for my teenage fetish for effeminate Aryans, and according to my high school diary, “pulled out some kind of container in Physics class and drank what was inside. That was pretty dumb, but it was funny as hell because it was really old distilled water which obviously tasted like shit because he started gagging and he spit it out in the trash can. Then he pulled out a 2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew from his backpack, which was amusing in itself since it explains why he’s so hyper all the time, and drank a bunch of it. John is also the guy who stuck money in his mouth that one time.” This struck me as quirky and charming.
Conveniently enough, John lived next door to my friend Michelle, and she was close enough with him to nonchalantly organize opportunities for us to spend time together. Our first outing was a game of Frisbee golf at a local park with Michelle, John, and one of his friends. By the end of the day, I was sure that my charm and sense of humor had made up for my egregious lack of coordination or athletic prowess, so I asked Michelle to organize another “date” in the near future.
The next time around Michelle and I went over to John’s house to watch House on Haunted Hill (the version with Famke Janssen and Taye Diggs, in case you thought we had taste). While I was inordinately terrified of scary movies and would still panic at the sight of Chucky dolls (despite having only seen the previews for Child’s Play when I was 4 years old), I decided to suck it up for the chance to awkwardly suck face on John’s couch. This strategy would also fail two years later when I agreed to see Freddy vs. Jason with a boy I had a crush on and two of our friends. The awkward jumble for seats left both of them between us, and me in the aisle seat praying that Jason didn’t come lumbering down the movie theater stairs to decapitate me with a chainsaw instead of praying for a loose, clammy hand-holding session over the armrest.
Anyway, during the course of the movie, Michelle came up with an excuse to go back over to her house, leaving John and me alone to our hormonal teenage devices. While one might assume that this ended in the vigorous rubbing of a pants-clad erection or some flat-chested boob fondling, the climax of that evening’s action was me working myself up into such a nervous state watching him out of the corner of my eye that when he shouted, “BOO!” at me during a tense scene in the movie, I literally screamed out loud and probably flailed a bit. Any young slut worth her weight in sparkly thongs would know that this was a perfect opening to lean over, lightly smack John on the arm, chastise him for being mean and then proceed to french with a fury. Instead, I chose to stay in my spot approximately fifteen inches away from him for the remainder of the movie, all while my mind chanted, “SCOOT CLOSER TO HIM!” the entire time. There was no making out during the credits or goodbye kiss. He just got me my shoes when the movie was over and we exchanged awkward, “Well…see ya!”s before I walked back over to Michelle’s.
After grilling me about how things had gone, she told me that I should call him and ask him to hang out one-on-one the following week. As instructed, I called John exactly one week later with a script in my head to invite him out to the movies. Depending on how the conversation went, I would either suggest we go with Michelle and one of his friends or, if it went smoothly, keep it to just the two of us. Holding back my impending cardiac arrest, I dialed the number and asked for John when his mom answered.
“Hello?” he asked.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. “Hi, John? This is Dakota.”
“Dakota?” He sounded puzzled. “Uhh…hi.”
“Umm…I was wondering if you wanted to go see a movie tonight?”
“I can’t. I’m sick right now.”
“Oh no, I’m sorry…well, I hope you feel better!”
“Well, I guess I’ll talk to you later then,” I said.
After I hung up I chose to decipher John’s dismissive tone during the phone conversation as an indicator that he must have truly been feeling bad, so I decided that the best course of action would be to do something to make him feel better. I baked him chocolate chip cookies and left them on top of his car with a get well soon note. Yeah. I did that.
Not surprisingly, I never got an enamored phone call from him thanking me profusely for the kind, romantic gesture. Still, I managed to rationalize it in my mind. Maybe his neighbors stole the cookies off his car. Maybe a raccoon got to them first. Maybe his mother was an overbearing religious zealot who didn’t want him talking to girls and she made him watch her put the cookies down the garbage disposal one by one while she proselytized about sinful behavior.
I decided to make one last grand attempt. The Homecoming dance was quickly approaching, and I wanted to spend the evening with him, our lanky, skeletal bodies, clad in ill-fitting formal wear swaying side by side to a Brian McKnight song while he whispered into my ear that he loved my updo and that it totally looked like Rachael Leigh Cook’s hair in She’s All That.
I approached John in the hallway by his locker after a pep talk from Michelle. Of course he would want to go to the dance with me. We were both tall. We were both funny. We were both painfully gawky and socially inept. In hindsight, I should’ve seen the alarm in his eyes as he saw me approaching.
“Hi, John. I was wondering if you wanted to go to the Homec— ”
“I can’t. I have to work.”
I stood there utterly stunned and at a loss for words. I hadn’t even finished my sentence. What the fuck?
“Oh…okay. Well, that’s too bad. Umm…see you later.”
I turned and walked away quickly before he could see the embarrassment on my face. I spent the rest of the day convincing myself that maybe he did have to work. Maybe I could show up after the dance at the store where he worked in my stunning $20 gown from D.E.B. and sweep him off his feet.
Instead, he showed up at the dance with one of the female German exchange students. I spent the rest of the night staring daggers at that Kraut bitch and talking trash with my other dateless friends about what an asshole he was. We decided to remedy the situation the way most Iowan teens with a curfew and a lack of dignity and/or propriety would: with petty vandalism.
Over the course of the next two months, we toilet papered his house, saran wrapped his car, wrote indignities on his windshield with white shoe polish and left fake dirty diapers filled with melted Snickers bars on his porch. How dare he have the gall to lie to me like that? I baked him cookies and in return he stepped out on me with some slut whose grandpa was probably in the Hitler Youth. I guess I should’ve expected him to be into that sort of thing since he was Aryan.
In retrospect, I can’t harbor resentment for the guy. He never filed a restraining order against me, and for that I am grateful. By the time I got to college, I learned that the most effort a lady should really put into seducing a man is wearing a freshman skank top and grinding on his crotch to a Lil’ Jon song while getting hammered off the Smirnoff Ice he just bought you.
Whatever. Bitches don’t know ’bout my cookies.