As soon as I got to college, I started dating a guy who was a junior. Martin* wasn’t my typical type (basically, he was a lot less attractive, motivated, and thoughtful than what I’m used to) but I decided to give him a shot anyway. I was the typical nervous freshman and I think I subconsciously felt like he had knowledge that could make my transition into college a little easier.
Plus, who doesn’t want to date an older man?
We dated for almost a year, but things started falling apart when we went home for the summer. We fought all the time over the tiniest things, and the fact that my parents and friends absolutely hated him didn’t help. But I couldn’t stay away! When we got back to school, we would meet secretly; I couldn’t let anyone know that we were still seeing each other (and seeing a lot of each other, if you know what I mean) because they would have all been really pissed off. And I just didn’t care to deal with that.
One night, I sneaked Martin into my room and we got down to business. The next morning we woke up early and I shoved him out the back door; I didn’t want anyone to see him! I went back to my room and started making the bed. As I pulled back the covers I noticed some brown marks on my sheets. I love chocolate so I thought maybe I had somehow smeared some in my bed during a late night Reese’s binge.
Not really thinking, I bent over and sniffed the stains.
…and almost hurled.
That was not chocolate. Not at all.
Somehow, there were skid marks in my bed. Being an obsessively hygienic person, I knew Martin had to be the culprit. I mean, I know how to wipe my own ass; there’s no way that sh*t (literally) was mine.
I debated what to do. Do I call him and yell? Do I clean up the mess and let him maintain his dignity? Do I write an article about it on a national website and hope other people find it funny? Do I buy him baby wipes for the next major holiday? I just didn’t know. Yes, it was totally his fault, but how do you even go about accusing someone of leaving skid marks on your sheets?!
Thoroughly disgusted, I ended up calling him.
“Hey, baby,” he said as he picked up the phone.
“Did you poop before you came over last night?”
I asked him again. He denied it and kept denying it until I told him what I had found…and inhaled. Finally, he fessed up, then quickly came over to wash my sheets. He probably thought that would get him out of the dog house (…or outhouse) but it was too late. The fights were one thing, but the runs were just inexcusable. After he folded my sheets I kicked him to the curb.
I always thought that with him being older, he had things he could teach me. Turns out, I was the one who could teach a few things. Mostly, how to wipe your own ass.