Slow Adventures in Slothville

November 18, 2004

The Amateur

Filed under: Boys, Photography — shhville @ 11:01 am


This is a calalily. Yes, it is highly suggestive. Yes, I have a date tonight.

I did a post a while back about nicknames for romantic liaisons. The list goes like this:

The Talker
The Prince of Darkness
The Amateur
The Mastodon
The Bee Sting (also known as Fathead)
The Dart
The Navy Seal
The Shakes

There is a story behind each of these names, and most of the stories (though not all) involve some sort of woe. Today, as part of an ongoing series, I will tell you the story of The Amateur.

I met The Amateur in a bar in Portland, Maine exactly a year ago, a few days after I broke up with a man I had been dating for two years. I was visiting the parentals for some decompress-me, feed-me, give-me-unconditional-love time (oh, and also Thanksgiving) and an old friend from high school was in town so we decided to go out. We were both in serious rebound mode and I don't know about her, but I just wanted to get my flirt on. So we went to this trendy little wine bar in the Old Port that is always filled with Maine's version of eurotrash – namely, leather jackets, tiny cell phones, too much lipstick and……a giant LL Bean muffler. You have to make concessions for climate, you know?

So blah blah blah, we were getting very drunk and along came the dynamic duo – a super cute guy with spiky black hair, a lanky body, and a little scruff on his chin and his less-cute, Miami-spring-break-type sidekick who claimed to be a "tennis pro." Yeah, ok. The tennis pro told me, in a candid whisper, that The Amateur was suffering the effects of a recent break-up and needed to get out more. Of course, drunk, needy Sloth found this story totally credible, being that she was going through that exact thing. So there was much flirting and then, around 2 a.m., there was The Amateur driving me home in his jeep. Needless to say, many in-jeep shenanigans occurred and I finally went inside an hour later a thoroughly-petted sloth. Not my proudest moment, but oh yes, it gets worse.

The Amateur had given me his phone number – his HOME phone number – to call him the next day before I went back to Boston, ostensibly for more shenanigans, but I was too hungover so we didn't get together. A couple of weeks later I was due back in Portland for some pre-Christmas preparation and whatnot, and decided to call him and tell him I would be in town over the weekend if he wanted to get together.

I have two friends named Chris. Chris #1 was like, dude, don't call him. You should leave that shit at the bar where it belongs. Chris #2 was like, dude, give him a jingle – it's just smooching, who cares? I chose the latter. Rang him up, he wasn't home, left a message.

The next day I got a message from him on my home phone (a number I had not given him) that essentially said, my ex-girlfriend got this message, we broke up but she still lives here, this is incredibly awkward and difficult to explain to her, don't ever, EVER call here again. Oooooooooookay.

Chris #1 was like, toldja!! Here's to learning things the hard way! Chris #2 was just horrified and inclined to hunt The Amateur down and kick his skinny ass. I was simultaneously horrified and entertained. The entertainment primarily revolved around imagining his (clearly NOT ex) girlfriend listening to the message on the answering machine and his terrified face as he stammered and huffed and tried to explain who I was and why I was calling for shenanigans.

The lesson: cheating 101 – if you want to step out on your girlfriend while she's visiting her family for Thanksgiving, get a cell phone, you fucking amateur!!

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