Growing up, my mom never made me clean my room. She never made me make my bed. She would even put my dirty clothes down the laundry chute for me. She loved me dearly but pampered me in this regard from childhood through high school.

 
9 years later

My room is still a mess. I'll start with my desk. As I write this, there are beer bottles from partying two weeks ago on the right corner. Old receipts. Loose change. Useless pen caps. A McDonalds water cup.  Junk mail. A half finished stick of cough drops from November. Empty gum cartridges. A light bulb.

My floor is even worse. Two shoe boxes. Seven different pairs of shoes. A DVD. Three empty water bottles wedged between my bed and the nightstand. Five of Taylor's loopy earings. Loose change. A movie stub for I am Legend from December. A white conversation heart. A condom wrapper wedged between my dresser and nightstand. To the left of me is a pile eighteen inches high of dirty clothes, and laundry day isn't until Tuesday.

Some might call me cluttered. Some might call me messy. Some might call me a slob. Some may look down on this, and maybe they have good reason to. But really, I just don't give a fuck. I'll curb this habit when I get a girlfriend. As for now, I am not trying to impress anyone with physical organization. I am comfortable.

I met "Cara" at Woody's. Cara was some blonde has-been underground singer or something. Though American-born, her high cheekbones, oily-clear skin, well-defined jaw, and unique fashion sense (she was literally wearing boots with the fur), made her look fresh off an airplane from Paris. She has a website and has sold over a million albums, but isn't even famous enough for her own Wikipedia page. I looked. The moment I walked in that place I could sense her staring at me. A half hour later, I approached her and ultimately won her over when I guessed three out of the four European countries of her nationality. Five minutes later we made out on the dance floor. Shortly after, we were walking out of the bar to go back to my place when suddenly she felt a guilt trip for abandoning her drunk friend. Her friend, a short blonde with round features, was making out with a dude who looked like Shrek. I understood Cara's guilt trip. We made a U-turn and went back in to baby-sit. After an hour of taking care of her clumsy friend, we popped Clumso in a cab and sent her home. I went home with Cara.

When we arrived home, this giant golden retriever began barking up a storm. Oh no. Not again. We took him for a walk around her apartment complex. It was lame. After returning from the walk, I tried to go in her room. She went apeshit.

"No! You are not seeing my room!"

"Why?" I asked.

"You're just not. I barely know you, and I haven't cleaned it in a while."

"So what, my room is a mess too. I like messy rooms. I wanna see." I walked toward her room.

She raced ahead of me, blockaded the doorway, and started kissing me, ultimately pushing me back into the living room.

We ended up on the couch. I persisted with the room idea but it was a dead end battle that would only end in failure. We continued to make out on the couch where she wouldn't let me put my hand up her skirt. She wouldn't grab my cock. She wouldn't even let me take her top off.

On the frustrating drive back to my place, she decided she felt like venting all this bullshit information to me about her career. Here are some statements made by this "professional singer."

"I get like fifty emails a day from fans."

"One woman didn't commit suicide because my music saved her."

"You are so lucky to be with me."

"The people I work with are people who work with the most prestigious artists in the world."

"No you don't understand. I help people."

There were several more notable statements, but I can't remember them all. It was an insecurity marathon. I sat in the passenger seat and just answered her with confirmations like "Yeah" or "No way" or "Really?"  She didn't impress me, but I was a good listener and made her feel important.

When I got home, I jerked off and went to bed.

3 months later

Kaygee, Ron, Vick, and I went out to Woody's. The guy-to-girl ratio was an abominable 4 to 1. Whatever. We were chilling outside in the smoking area for maybe 25 minutes when I went inside to take a leak. On the way to the bathroom, there leaning against the bar was Cara talking to this bona fide dork with his shirt tucked in. Dude, his drink was red. Geezus. I took a leak, came back out, and stuck my head in her ear and said, "What's up, Cara?" I pulled away and smiled. She retreated from her escapade with the Power Ranger and immediately grabbed my hand and pushed me against the wall. We walked to the other side of the bar and made out after just three minutes of "catching up."  I looked back in the Power Ranger's direction. He was staring at us. Furiously. I kissed Cara some more.

I had some decision making to do for her. I demanded: "This time, we are partying. We are not getting interrupted by that drunk friend of yours. You are coming back to my place. You are drinking a beer with me." I had said it with conviction and I meant it. Drunk cockblocking friends would not be hindering me tonight.

But of course, that same clumsy cockblocking friend was there at the bar, even drunker than last time. At least this time, there was a third friend present to take responsibility for her. While we were sitting at a table, Clumso grabbed my arm and tried to yank me out of the seat. I got up, let her take my seat, and looked back at Cara with a look of disappointment. Cara was embarrassed. I went to the bathroom and when I came out, Cara said we needed to leave: a fabulous idea.

We would have taken a cab home, but I didn't want to pay the five bucks. I reasoned that she would feel more invested in her trip to my place by walking. Sex was more likely. I consider my decision to walk a very economical one. I am proud of it.

When we got home, she was disappointed with my place. There was an empty beer bottle on the living room table and two empty cups on the coffee table. Fuck. She was already grossed out, and she hadn't even seen my room yet, let alone the bathroom. Our bathroom had been declared the worst bathroom in Orange County. Your knees touched the wall while taking a shit, the sink had a mysterious black crust in it, and for some unidentified reason there were seventeen hooks on the wall. It had been said that a hole in the ground accompanied with a hose and a curtain would be more sanitary. One friend even commented, "My hands would have been cleaner had I not washed them." It was terrible but would have to do. I moved out a week later.

The lights were out when we entered my room. Had they been on, she surely would have called a cab and bolted. I kicked a shoebox to the side. She scolded me. She then closed all the drawers of my dresser for me. Well, actually for her. I got on the bed and took her mind off the filth. She still hadn't seen the pile of dirty clothes.

It took her forever to get naked. When I finally got her panties off, she asked if I had "protection." Yes, I had several condoms. Sex would be had on this night. I put one on and we fucked.

During sex she made several provocative statements:

"I haven't sex in months. I only do this with someone special."

"Turn the lights on. I wanna see your face while you fuck me."

"That feels so good."

"If I was in love with you, I would taste you."

I almost laughed when she implied I was someone "special." It was comical. She mentioned the word "love" at least three times. I wish I could remember the other two "love" statements. They were good ones. I finished by getting my cumshot blocked with authority. It wasn't a Dikembe Mutombo block this time. It was Shaquille O'Neal in his prime. She sent it flying back toward my stomach.

She got dressed and turned the lights on. Uh oh. The end was approaching. I wished I’d had a video camera. If you could replay the look on her face in slow motion, it would make for a beautiful re-enactment from the movie Scream. She didn't actually scream, but a look of both disgust and horror materialized. I think she was horrified because of the pile of clothes in the corner and disgusted because she realized she had just slept with me. I tried to reason with "But your room is a mess too." She replied, "Not like this. My room is a mess. This place is a science project." I didn't see what the big deal was. I mean, the sex was good at least.

As if things could get any worse for her, she caught a glimpse of two of Taylor's loopy earrings. Then she saw the empty condom wrapper wedged between my nightstand and dresser. Shit! This chick was catching everything. She probably found Waldo every time when she was little. After seeing the condom wrapper and the earrings, she asked, "What the fuck? So are you some sort of womanizing creep? What is all this shit? How many girls have you been with?" I didn't have an answer. She had me. I just said, "That wrapper isn't even mine."

My lie left her speechless and she power walked to the bathroom. I listened carefully. Three seconds after she shut the bathroom door, she shrieked. Then I heard her talking to herself.

"Oh my god."

"I can't believe I did this."

"I am so fucking drunk."

After she finished her potty, she yelled back at me, "What is this shit on your sink? You are fucking disgusting!" I laughed quietly.

She walked back into my room and then instantly walked back out. I heard the front door open, then close, and then the clank of her high heels walking down the alley. The clanking stopped mid-alley and she began clanking her way back inside and into my room. Where did she think she was going?

For her sake I turned the lights back off. I grabbed her hand, and we laid down for a bit. More statements were made.

"I can't believe you got a piece of me."

"You need a maid. And a mommy."

"You are 27? Let me see your ID."

Shortly after, I called her a cab and she took off.

When she left I threw away my used condom, its wrapper, and the old wrapper. I grabbed Taylor's earrings and put them in my drawer. I left the dirty clothes where they were. Laundry day wasn't until Tuesday.