The Friend Zone Episode 5: The Yoga Instructor – Part 3: The Sofa
Posted on November 4, 2019
The Friend Zone
(Twilight Zone music: Di-di-di-di-di-di-di-di, di-di-di-di-di-di-di) There is a vaginal dimension beyond that which is known to the penis. It is a dimension as dumbfounding and as senseless as most religious beliefs. It is the middle ground between a man’s happiness and despair, between his hope and hopelessness and it lies between the pit of his fears and the summit of his desperation. This is a dimension of ignorance. It is an area which we call…the Friend Zone. (buhd-oo-bud-up!)
Written by: Terry Allen Cummings on 01/13/10
Brought to you by: Cous’n Cumm’ns Entertainment
Featuring: The Ghost of Rod Serling
Episode 5: The Yoga Instructor – Part 3: The Sofa
Ghost of Rod Serling: Portrait of a lovelorn loser named Terry Cummings. This is a man who’s begun his dying alone early. A long agonizing route through a maze of non-commital vagina. Terry Cummings, who would probably have given an arm or a leg or even shaved a few inches off of his pecker, for a chance at love; to shake the dirt from his psyche and the lonely dreams from his conciousness. Terry Cummings has given up and walked himself into…The Friend Zone
Ah, rejection…nothing quite like it, huh? Rejection leaves you feeling vulnerable, lonely, and sick to your stomach. Everyone has their own way of dealing with rejection and mine is to sleep. Boy, when I’ve improperly convinced myself that I can get a girl and then she tells me to go fuck myself? I just want to sleep that shit away until I don’t even remember her name. It seems like sleep is the ONLY cure for those kinds of blues. Alcohol just makes you more depressed, pot only makes you realize ridiculous mistakes you made, and cocaine just puts you in debt to colorful yet evil 80’s movie villains (My fantasy).
And what’s even WORSE than rejection? Missed opportunity. Yes I’m talking about that feeling a man gets when he KNOWS he could have gotten laid, but he fucked up his chance. THIS feeling sucks ass because you CAN’T sleep it away. All you can do is sit up for hours on end pondering what you could have done differently. You think you can bury your emotions in work but eventually it pops back up in your mind like an unwelcome visitor and shits all over your day. You go to a nice family gathering with thoughts of suppressing your embarrassment with good family company, when you see grama and grampa holding hands and your thoughts turn to the hand job you COULD have gotten. And finally you try to ignore your depression through mindless entertainment on your TV when you see Arnold rubbing mud all over himself to hide from the Predator and you think “shit….I could be stomping a mud hole in that pussy RIGHT now.”
The one good thing about fucking up a potential sexual opportunity is that time will eventually heal that shit. I’m old enough to know that time heals ALL wounds; no matter how deep they go. When I was younger, like many people, I thought that rejection, getting dumped, or making a dumb mistake that ruined my chances with the girl of my dreams was the end of the world. I’d punch holes in the walls, I’d wait until nobody was around and scream at the top of lungs, and I’d hide in my bedroom listening to sad songs about being dumped, not wanting to see another human being ever again. My anger, humiliation, and depression would know no bounds.
Now I know that life is just a series of rejections, getting dumped, and making stupid mistakes. It’s an endless wheel of feeling like shit. So I don’t let it get to me anymore because I know that when I feel like shit because of a girl, there’ll be another one around the corner waiting to make me feel like shit all over again. Love is a Karmic asshole like that.
Another lesson that I’ve learned with age is that often times in life, things are NOT what they seem. I’ve found that one needs look no further than internet dating to prove that theory. Some of the women I’ve met in my search so far have painted a picture of themselves that a pope would commission for a vaulted church ceiling. However, the picture that inevitably surfaces looks more like a kids menu from a shitty Italian restaurant that has beer bottle sweat rings on it and a cock drawn over Italy in red lipstick.
I’m starting to doubt myself in this quest, and its beginning to feel a little like Deal or No Deal. Only instead of my fortune getting smaller and smaller with each suitcase I open, I’m afraid that each unsuccessful date I have will only make the fat girl I’ll eventually have to settle for, that much fatter. I may as well just cut my losses now and settle on the next uninteresting hippo I meet.
I’m not a dumb guy. I received a scholarship based on my SAT math score which earned me a pilot’s license, I scored so well on the ASVAB that the navy told me I could pick any post in the world that I wanted, and my I.Q. is so fucking high that Willie Nelson and Woody Harrelson are playing video games and eating Doritos with it right now. So why the fuck can’t I figure this internet dating thing out?
I know that I have things about myself that I need to work on (Humility?), I KNOW this…but it can’t all be me, can it? Sure I’m an asshole, sure I can be unrealistic at times, and of course I’m caustic and vulgar. Yeah, I talk about fat girls, but fat girls? You know I love you.
What I’m coming to realize is that it’s NOT only the women I’ve met who’ve lied to me…I’ve lied to myself as well. I recently did to myself what I so brazenly blame women for doing…I painted a picture in my head of one girl in particular that was completely inaccurate. This woman TOLD me about her who-erish nature. This woman TOLD me about her flaws, which would be fine, but she’s so fucking vain that she doesn’t even see them as flaws. This woman told me lies that had more holes in them than a fucking Light-Brite. I should have seen through ALL of her bullshit, but I didn’t. Why? Because she was hot. I saw something shiny and like the ‘special needs’ single man that I am, I just had to fucking pick it up. I’m talking of course, about the Yoga Instructor.
When I met the yoga instructor, I was full of hope. Here was a girl that was beautiful, intelligent, and successful. The kind of woman that I’ve always wanted to be with. Hell, the kind of woman that MOST guys would want. Yet for some reason I fucked it up. At least that’s how I felt at first.
The Yoga Instructor and I went on a Halloween date, and after a pretty romantic make out session under a full moon, I didn’t hear from her again. Although I was a tad miffed by what seemed like a missed opportunity, I didn’t really feel like that was my fault so I got over it pretty easily. Then, from out of nowhere she called me in December and we went on a second date on Christmas Eve. The evening ended when I snored so loud that she couldn’t sleep, and then I farted on her as we kissed. Some would say that these are bodily functions and I can hardly blame myself for their presence, but I didn’t hear from her after that…until a few weeks ago.
I blew a foregone sexual conclusion with the yoga instructor on Christmas Eve, partly because of my inaction, and partly because of my gas. For weeks after that date I was kicking myself for not just fucking her. At one point in the evening she was stretched out on my bed in nothing but her panties. But two things stayed my cock that night, and it wasn’t until recently that I realized how complex our brains can be in deducing things that our eyes don’t see. The first thing that led to me not fucking the Yoga instructor was a nagging in the back of my brain that was telling me NOT to fuck her. I blew off those thoughts at first because my dick didn’t want to hear them, but then the second thing happened…although the yoga instructor was super hot and down to fuck as ‘The Sitch’ would say, she just laid there and didn’t make any move towards my cock. I’m sorry but making sex is a TWO player game.
The problem with hot chicks is that they’re SO used to guys wanting to fuck them that at times they just lay there and wait for the guy to fuck them. It ain’t that kinda party with me. I expect some participation in a sexual endeavor, whether she’s hot or a complete mess. Otherwise I may as well just blow up a doll and have sex with a rubber toy. But after my recent experience with the yoga instructor I found out that MY inaction at taking advantage of a ripe 22 year old laid out before me like a bagel waiting for a shmear, was actually the work of my mind giving me a heads up. And HER inaction kept me from making a huge mistake.
I use ‘The Friend Zone’ part of my blog to vent and tell you about my search for love on the internet, and when you read the first part of the yoga instructor story you may have felt that I found it. Hell, I was full of hope myself. But let’s be honest, I ALWAYS start off romanticizing the women I meet and like as not the bottom inevitably drops out. I started this quest for love for the simple reason that I don’t want to settle. I’m not saying that I need to be with a super model, and I’m not saying that I expect to find a perfect woman, but I don’t want to be with a girl JUST to be with a girl. I see a lot of people, everyday, who’ve settled with someone who, although they may get along, they have nothing in common with. No common goals, no common interests, and together they have no sense of humor towards life or the ridiculous nature of simply being.
Everything with these people is bills, drama, and sitting around waiting for life to happen to them. They’ve come together out of a fear of being alone, boredom, or convenience. Personally I’d rather be alone than be with someone just because society tells me that I have to be married by a certain age and have kids at a certain age or because I’m afraid, lonely, or bored. It’s not fair to the woman I’m with, it’s not fair to the kids we’d have, and it’s not fair to me. So fuck you society. (Sorry, I felt defensive towards my stand there.)
I‘ve been so enamored of the yoga instructor’s physical beauty, that I’ve completely ignored the fact that she’s a knarled up piece of shit on the inside. You see, over the past few months I haven’t made a clear definition of what I want from a woman within myself. I thought that I’d like to get laid, preferably on a consistent basis with the same woman, and leave it at that. Meeting new women time and time again is a crapshoot at best, and although I’ve been unsure of what I want BEYOND a sexual relationship, I now know that pussy isn’t enough. I have to thank the Yoga Instructor for showing me that.
I’ve told you about my desire to not date a heavy woman. I don’t have anything against heavy women in particular, but in general by now you should recognize that this is a psychological stand. My mother was an overbearing alcoholic heavy woman, I was beat up by heavy women as a kid, and I was frightened by heavy women when they raped Monroe in that episode of ‘Too Close for Comfort’. Taking that into consideration a lot of you out there might think that, as hot as she is, the yoga instructor was a slam dunk. But what I’ve learned about myself from this experience is that humor plays an important role in what I’m looking for. Even more important than looks. And hot though she may be, the yoga instructor has NO sense of humor…in fact I came to realize that she’s something of an asshole.
This past weekend I made a few comments on my face book page that made the yoga instructor angrier than Bill Bixby when the car jack breaks during the opening credits for The Hulk. As I was just about to embark on a 30 second masturbation marathon last night, my phone started blowing up with text messages. I put the Crisco down and looked to see who could possibly be bothering me right before I started my Golden Girls Greatest Nipple Slips DVD. I was actually grateful for the interruption because I’ve WATCHED this disc so much, that I can no longer make love to a woman unless The Golden Girls theme song is playing in the background…Thank you for bein’ a friend, travelled down the road and back again, your heart is true, you’re a pal and a confi….FUCK, now I’ve turned myself on again.
In this third and final installment of my adventures with the Yoga Instructor, I’ll tell you what I said to piss her off, why I said it, and why I just don’t give a fuck. Now I’m not perfect to be sure, and I don’t like passing down judgment on anyone. That’s not my job. But sometimes we’re forced to voice an unflattering opinion of someone else because they’re so blinded by other people kissing their ass. This is the bane of good looks.
So what did I say that pissed her off? Simple “The Yoga Instructor is a cunt”. That’s it. Five little words that I stand by even now. A damning and harsh declaration to say the least, but one that I feel was not only necessary but well deserved. Not funny nor subtle, but I’ll get into my reasons for making this statement in a minute; for now I can tell you that the yoga instructor told me things on our Christmas Eve date that I chose to ignore, and then when she reached out to me again last week to ask for a favor, she not only handled the ASKING of that favor in a wholly slutty way, but she insulted my good friend Mike and humiliated me in the carrying out of it.
The yoga instructor does NOT take criticism well. She’s hot and she’s used to guys treating her like the hot piece of ass that she is. The problem is that, that is ALL she is. There is no conversation with her that does not begin and end with her telling you how hot she is. She has all the personality of a fucking roof shingle. She may have tricked me with her pussy for a time, but once that vaginal veil was lifted by her rude, inconsiderate, and infantile behavior, I realized a simple truth; pussy is pussy. It’s what’s BEHIND that pussy that matters. And what lies behind the yoga instructors pussy is a vile, disgusting, black hole of a woman. She is the very reason that the axiom ‘bros before hoes’ exists.
After she read my declaration of her cuntyness on my face book page, she decided that rather than respond on that public forum, she would send me a text message ass pounding instead. She basically mother fucked me in 17 texts. That’s 120 characters per text times 17, the formula I came up with looks something like this; 120c x 17t = fucking crazy. Some of her messages included such gems as: You exaggerate in your posts, you try to garner sympathy from your readers by embellishing the truth, you have no confidence, and you need to figure yourself out you fat mother fucker.
As hurtful as she may have been in her response, things like that slide off of me pretty easily. Being made fun of and picked on as a fat little kid has made me immune to the quips of others. What DID piss me off though was her criticism of my writing. But before I respond to her textual outburst, let’s delve into the story that led to this unfortunate and argumentative encounter.
The yoga instructor told me some things during our first 2 dates that I chose to ignore. I chose to ignore these facts because I’m an idiot and thought that I would be the one to change her. Sometimes men find themselves in shitty situations with women simply because we feel a need to be a hero and save a woman from herself. It’s narcissistic, it’s conceited, it’s egotistical, and it’s a self absorbed fantasy. Although our intentions may be pure, the end result rarely works out for anyone.
I’ve been trying since Halloween to force myself to like the yoga instructor, to ignore her narcissism, and to sympathize with her rather than judge her. Her attitude towards ME has been pretty shitty since I met her, but it wasn’t until she turned that attitude towards a friend of mine that her spell finally wore the fuck out. I finally realized my great mistake this past week, in thinking that I could change the yoga instructor, in thinking that she would make a good girlfriend, and in convincing myself that she isn’t a dirty dirty who-er. In The Yoga Instructor Part 2, I glossed over a few key facts that I can give you now simply because the dick blinders have been removed from my brain and I now know that the yoga instructor is FAR from ‘the one’.
When I first met the Yoga Instructor, I thought that she was everything that I wanted in a woman; I found her to be smart, beautiful, self confident, engaging in conversation, and a down to earth mom who didn’t over exaggerate her parenthood by consistently telling tales of how ‘cute’ her daughter was because she made a spit bubble that looked like Nixon. However, and I think that a lot of men have found themselves in this same situation; I was cock-blind.
While we sat on my couch on Christmas Eve this past year, the yoga instructor told me that there were some things that she thought I should know about her, simply because she liked me and she wanted to be honest. I sat up, looked her square in the eye and put on my listening face. I figured that whatever she had to say couldn’t be that bad if she was willing to come right out with it. Maybe she cheated on a test one time, or she was still married, or she stole a neighbors rollerblades, whatever the case…I was confident that it wasn’t going to be a big deal and it would afford ME the opportunity to show her how understanding I could be. After all, this was a beautiful, intelligent woman; how bad could it be?
“I have a fetish” she began after a long inhale. Well now, my mind flashed to the possibilities; please say anal sex, please say anal sex! My face was stoic and I tried to make it seem like a sponge absorbing her words. I raised my eyebrows and nodded in non-judgmental acceptance.
“I ONLY like to have sex with married men”
My face slid off of my skull and landed in a sloppy mess on the couch cushion.
I tried not to waver from my stoic acceptance, and I DO like to be surprised like that, but…what the fuck did she just say?
She went on to tell me that the reason she had divorced her husband was because she likes fucking married men, and it had just gotten too easy to do it behind his back. It wasn’t fun anymore. She had discovered a website 2 years ago, where married women or men can go to meet OTHER married women or men and cheat on their spouses: Ashley Madison.com. In those 2 years she’d cheated on her husband 37 times with rich men and poor men, young men and old men, hot guys and fat guys, but they all had ONE thing that made it exciting and sensual to her…they were married. She told me that some of these men had bought her expensive gifts; some STILL gave her money whenever they see each other, and some had even taken her to exotic locations…but she wasn’t a whore. She said that…”but I’m not a whore.”
Surely her ex-husband must have been a horrible man. My mind raced with images of him beating her nightly, flagrantly sleeping with her friends, and drunkenly belittling her in front of their daughter. I didn’t know what horrors this man could have committed to make the yoga instructor feel the need to empower herself in this way, but I knew that he must have deserved it. Looking the yoga instructor in the eye, I told her to continue.
And she did…
It seems that she took custody of their child in the divorce by claiming that her husband had cheated on her, even though she knew that he hadn’t, and therefore he was an unfit parent. Because her ex husband makes a good amount of money, she gets more money every month from the alimony than I do from working 56 hours a week.
Good for her, I thought. Whatever atrocities this man committed were obviously too painful for the Yoga instructor to drudge up in court, so she fibbed a little in order to rescue her daughter from what must have been an unpleasant situation. I raised my inner eyebrows in understanding and nodded for her to continue…
She told me that when she was 16, in an effort to piss off her rich father, she started hanging out with a drug crowd and got hooked on heroin. She ran away from home and was arrested several times and brought up on drug charges. “What did your father do to drive you away” I asked sympathetically. “Nothing really, he was actually quite a nice man. But I wasn’t going to sit around and wait for him to die before I got his money. I was determined to make my own fortune.”
That’s odd. She had a nice rich family, but decided that heroin was the road to fame and fortune? She was waiting for her father to die in order to claim the inheritance? I brushed these revelations aside thinking that there was more to the story that she wasn’t giving me. It was O.K. though, she could tell me in her own time. I urged her to continue…
After being arrested for stealing a car when she was 18, she was given a physical in jail. The doctors told her that she had cancer. The kind you don’t get better from. They told her that she had 2 years to live.
What? Do doctors do that? I’ve seen them tell people they have a few months, but 2 years? Well, if she says so. Poor thing.
While she was receiving treatment for her cancer, she met her ex husband. Because the doctors had told her that she had a limited window in which she would be able to give birth, she asked this man to impregnate her so that she could have a child before she died. He fucked her the old fashioned way, and married her so that her daughter would not be born out of wedlock. Then, against the general consensus of her doctors…she got better. The cancer went away, and she found herself married with a child at 19.
“So…your husband did you a favor?” I asked. “Yes, but I only married him because I thought I was dying. He was a great provider, but I just wasn’t ready to settle down after I found out that I was going to live.”
Ok, Who am I? Oprah over here? This chick is 22 years old for fuck’s sake.
She then went on to explain to me, that the reason she wanted to fuck ME was because she liked my writing and could tell that I would be famous one day (Again, HER words), and she’d never fucked anyone famous. Well, not a famous WRITER anyway, she added. I guess she wanted to get in on the ground floor of this shit.
As a man…how are you supposed to process all of that? As a human fucking being how do you process that? My first instinct was to feel sorry for her, but then I started to realize that she was telling me (and I reserve the right to not believe any of this) fucked over a guy who was nice enough to give her a chance at life when hers was ending. Fucked him over BAD. Then she told me that she wanted to fuck me because I’m going to be famous, which I have my doubts about, but doesn’t it stand to reason that if I let my cock do my thinking for me in this situation, I could end up just like him?
There were two possibilities that played out in my mind; 1.) She was a basket case and completely full of shit. I don’t think she was trying to impress me, but she MAY be one of those pathological dickheads who thinks that because she’s cute, everyone on the planet will fall for her bullshit. My friend Action Jim, but with a pussy (Read ‘Heroland Issue 2: The Legend of Action Jim’ for more!). And since people will believe everything she says, she knows that her lies can be as outrageous as she wants to make them. Or 2.) She’s just the most despicable human fucking being on the planet. Either way, I was fucked.
It was right after these stunning revelations that the yoga instructor put her head on my lap and said; “I feel really comfortable around you because you don’t judge me.” Soon after that I asked her if she would like me to put a blanket over her or wake her up if she fell asleep. My brain had taken over at that point and I had no intention of fucking her. I felt like I was betraying all men just by being in the same room with her. She saw my budding disgust but mistook it for low self esteem, and then she dug into me about my confidence and made that sexy move all but telling me to fuck her…Hey, after all…I’m only a man.
As tired as I was, my dork was wide awake and I followed her into the bedroom after making a pit stop in the powder room for some dick primping. The sight of that naked body on my bed beat the shit out of any indecision or indifference I may have had only five minutes before, and I mounted her back for the Hempen back massage. But all she did was lie there. I kissed her neck, I rubbed her back, I nearly stuck my finger in her asshole, but when the time came for fucking…she just lay there on top of my covers like a tree branch lazily floating on top of a still pond.
The night played out exactly as I described in ‘The Friend Zone Episode 4: The Yoga Instructor – Part 2’, with her just lying there being hot and doing nothing to sexually stimulate me. My later gassy exploits were probably brought on by a sub conscious desire to sabotage my relationship with the yoga instructor before any real damage was done. I like that my ass looks out for me in this way.
I didn’t hear from her for a few weeks, and I wasn’t gonna make contact. Let sleeping dogs lie and all of that. Then she called me this past weekend to barter sex for a favor. She told me that she would go on a date with me again if I would help her move into her new condo downtown, which one of her Asheley Madison guys had bought for her. At LEAST she’s a high priced who-er. The fact that she just assumed that I was pining away for another date kind of pissed me off. But she was a pretty woman in distress, so I decided to help her out. That’s my dick thinking for me again.
At this point in my story, I wasn’t yet fed up with her. My ego insisted that I call a mulligan on the first hole. As a man, sometimes every fiber of your being will tell you to stay the fuck away from a woman, but that need to cum all over something pretty takes over your good senses. I’d been on several dates with this girl, she’d been to my home on multiple occasions, and she all but told me of her intention to fuck me. Even though I should know better at this point in life, I felt that if I didn’t bang her my manhood had to be called into question. That’s what it’s like to have a dick ladies, so….yeah.
And then she asked me to get that fucking couch. Look, I’m no stranger to the wonders of Craigslist, be it pussy or furniture, you can find it all there. It was through Craigslist that I got my Playstation 3 from the trunk of 93 Chevy Impala at 3 in the morning in a Dunkin Doughnuts parking lot for 100 bucks, I got a thousand dollar couch for 50, and I even got my Sony e-reader from a black woman who ended up giving me a hand job in my car behind a K-Mart. You can find anything on Craigslist, so if you call someone and the item they were selling is gone? Someone else is sure to have the same thing or a similar item up within the same day. And if YOU can’t get said item? Just look again in five minutes and it’ll be up there. I don’t think that the Yoga Instructor understands this dynamic of the internet flea market. Either that or she knew she had a patsy in me.
Apparently, the yoga instructor found the PERFECT couch for her new condo. It had some fancy designer name, and it was the one she had dreamed of having. The problem was that the rules of her condo forbade her from moving furniture in after 5, and the woman who was selling the couch wouldn’t be home until after 7. She wanted the couch gone that night, and if the yoga instructor couldn’t pick it up, she would sell it to the next person in line. Here’s where I come in.
She asked me to do this at 6PM while I was at work. I had to work until 10PM. The woman’s apartment was in downtown Chicago, about 20 minutes from my job. She told me that if I did this for her, she would show me pleasures beyond the wildest dreams of a man. What was I gonna do?
She asked me to go pick up the couch, keep it overnight, and bring it to her condo the next day. This created a myriad of technical problems for me, but because I’m a fucking idiot, I said yes.
Since I was at work, my plan was to take one of my employees (don’t worry, I used to fuck his sister 10 years ago, so we’re like family), put the couch in the back of my truck, drop it off in at my store, and bring it to her after I got off of work the next day. No problem, right?
I told my employee that I needed his help, and the two of us left the store to go pick up the couch. When we arrived at the address that the yoga instructor had given me, we waited outside for the woman until 8PM. My other employee who I had left at the store would be leaving at 9PM and activating the alarm when she did, and I can’t deactivate the alarm until the morning. This left us with an hour. No problem.
When the woman from Craigslist finally arrived, she led us down 3 flights of stairs to a murky, moist, spider filled Chicago basement. As she turned on the lights, my employee and I both gasped at what we saw. There, in the corner, lies the biggest fucking couch we had ever seen. It was a one piece, 8 foot long white behemoth that sat 4 feet wide with big round wooden legs. The Yoga Instructor had assured me that the couch wasn’t that big and would easily fit into the back of my truck. This thing wouldn’t fit on the back of a fucking Star Destroyer. As my employee and I attempted to move the couch, we realized that the building must have been erected around it, because there was no fucking way it was fitting up the narrow staircase that led to the alley outside. We borrowed a screwdriver from the nice Craigslist lady, and removed the legs, then using a great deal of physics, geometry, and magic, we managed to move it into a standing position just outside the basement door.
My employee is 19 years old and works out daily, but he could barely lift this thing. We eventually got it outside, however the wooden gate that surrounded this building had been built AFTER the couch was already in it, and so we had to spend 40 minutes, in the snow, taking the gate door off of the hinges so this mammoth fucking couch could fit through it. Now came the daunting task of lifting the couch above our heads and putting it on the roof of my truck because there was no way in hell it was fitting inside of it.
Luckily I had a great deal of rope in the back of my truck (don’t ask), so we eventually got it tied down and we were ready to drive back to the store. My other employee was nice enough to wait until we got back at around 930, and we dropped it off in the back room of my job.
The next day, I had to have the couch at the Yoga Instructor’s new condo before 5, and my ex’s brother couldn’t work. None of my other employees were available to help me move Moby Sofa, so I asked my friend Mike to help me move it. Mike didn’t want to help me at first because he knew that the yoga instructor was bad for business. I told him of her slut-shot ways and his advice was for me to stay FAR away. He could see that I was going out of my way to be nice to a woman who I had no chance with. It was a waste of everyone’s time, including his. But, being a man himself, Mike couldn’t deny that second chances are a rare thing with a woman, and even though it went against his better judgment, he saw that I was in vaginal distress and decided to help me out.
Mike lives about 15 miles from where I work, and as his car had broken down recently, I had to pick him up. Add this to the list of fucking inconveniences involved in getting this couch over to The Yoga Instructors new condo, because I would have to drive 40 minutes to pick Mike up, drive 30 minutes to drop the couch off, drive an hour to drop Mike back off, and then drive 40 minutes back to my store. I was almost ready to trade in my pussy pass for gas money.
This particular day was a cold and windy Chicago nightmare. A fresh snow had fallen over night and the freezing wind that blew in from Lake Michigan bit through our clothes like razor sharp teeth. Mike and I got the couch on top of my truck and tied it down as tightly as we could. When I saw how big the couch was on the roof of my car in the daylight it looked like I had another truck tied down to the top of my truck. I turned the heat in my car up to full blast and we headed to the north side of the city.
The Yoga Instructors new condo was a few blocks off of Lake Shore Drive so my GPS took us along the lakefront to our destination. The problem with this route was that the winds were 10 times stronger right off of Lake Michigan and Mike and I feared the ropes would snap and the couch would go flying off the roof. I had to open the sun roof so Mike could keep his hand on the couch and make sure that it wasn’t moving TOO much. This let the cold in and nearly froze our balls off. Not only was the couch moving around on the roof, but it was acting like a sail and moving the car around with it. At one point my truck tipped to the right and we thought we would go flying over the wall that led to North Street Beach. It was the most nerve racking drive I’ve ever been on.
Mike was obviously frustrated as well and kept asking me why I was going to such lengths for this woman. I didn’t have a good answer for him.
When we arrived at the address the Yoga Instructor had given us, she was standing outside talking to an old man in his fifties. She approached my car and as I got out to give her a hug, she said in a snippy tone ‘finally, what took you so long?’ Mike said ”Gravity.” and I slapped him on the shoulder. Ignoring us, The Yoga instructor barked out orders to 3 different men who were carrying things to and from the front door of her building. Then she looked at us and said “well, don’t just stand there, let’s get this inside.”
As Mike and I carried the couch to the door, I asked her who these guys were to which she replied “I know them from Ashley Madison.” Surprised, I loud-whispered “These are married guys you fucked?” She stopped at the door and snapped “That’s none of your business Michael!” then she went inside without holding the door open for us.
Mike was getting more agitated by the minute at my pussness. He knows my limits with people and he was shocked that I hadn’t dropped that fucking couch and told the Yoga Instructor to fuck off by that point. But like a cuckold, I was still in the grips of being humiliated for a bitch. I don’t think I even realized I was being humiliated yet.
We put the couch down outside of the front door of the building and went in to scope the hallway and elevator. There was NO way this couch was fitting in either. Mike asked the Yoga Instructor if there was another entrance or a service elevator to which she replied with a wave of her hand, as if talking to a servant “This one will be fine.” Mike snipped at her “Look, this isn’t going to fit through the hallway, much less in this tiny elevator.” Pissed at Mike’s lack of patience at her, she snipped back “Just bring it in.”
I could see Mike’s face contort as he held in his temper, and I kept my mouth shut. The fog was just beginning to lift as I realized how nice Mike was being on MY behalf. I recognized the yoga instructor’s cuntiness, but I was still held under the spell of a vagina I had not yet been privy to.
The yoga instructor went up in the elevator and Mike and I went back to the couch. “Dude, did you see that old ass guy? He looks like Stan Lee.” Mike said as we turned the couch on its side in order to fit it through the doorway. “And that black guy looks like Fat Albert; her vagina must smell like pipe tobacco and ice cream.” “Let’s just get this over with.” I said in a defeated tone, head hung low.
The couch fit easily enough through the doorway, but the hallway leading to the elevator was an even tighter squeeze. It was obvious, when we reached the elevator, that even if we stood the couch up on end, we’d never have the room to turn it inside. 30 minutes later Mike and I were sweating heavily from trying to squeeze the couch in, when the yoga instructor came in through the front door. Her hair was tussled and she had a hickey on her neck that wasn’t there earlier. Angrily she said “What’s taking so long? I had to come down the back staircase.”
“If it doesn’t fit, bring it up the back” she said and turned to walk out. Under his breath, Mike said “Looks like that’s not the FIRST time she’s said that today”. The yoga instructor turned, looked at me, and said “What did he just say? You better keep your friend quiet if you want to see ME again!” and then she stormed out the front door. I hung my head and said “Yes ma’am.”
Mike put his hand on my shoulder and said, “C’mon, let’s bring it around back and get this over with. You owe me a shitload of beer after this.” Downtrodden I said “Ok.”
We walked the couch through the parking garage to the stair case that led to her condo. When we got to the door, the yoga instructor opened it, and gave us instructions. “Don’t scratch the walls with it, don’t rip the couch, and I have to leave in 20 minutes so hurry up.” At this point I was tired, I was embarrassed that Mike was seeing me act like such an asshole, and my muscles were killing me. Mike asked which floor was hers and she said the fifth. Fuck, that was the top floor which meant 10 flights of stairs and 5 turns.
When we reached the stair case Mike and I were shocked. The fucking stair case was a tighter squeeze than the hallway leading to the elevator. We could get it up the first flight, but how the fuck would we turn this monster? The yoga instructor led us up the staircase, watching us carefully and shouting out occasionally “DON’T TOUCH THE WALLS!” I was finally beginning to get pissed. I was sweating my balls off and listening to this woman, who had just fucked either a 400 pound black man or a 50 year old white guy or both, was beginning to play on my nerves.
The walls of the stairwell were cedar brick. There was no paint to scratch so telling us not to touch the walls with the couch was an unnecessary measure. It was like playing ‘Operation’. When we reached the first landing, Mike and I tried standing the couch up to fit it around the corner, but there was no way to do it without touching the ceiling. Every time we got close, the yoga instructor would shout out “DON’T TOUCH THE CEILING!”
Mike’s anger was growing and he kept making comments under his breath which just pissed the yoga instructor off more. In an effort to get her to leave us alone for a bit while we moved the couch, I asked her for a glass of water. She told me that she didn’t have time for that. Just then the old man came down the stairs with a bright grin on his face. Completely ignoring us he asked the yoga instructor to come up stairs and show him which shelf in the refrigerator she would like him to put her (he paused insidiously) ‘hot dogs’. I shuddered violently at that disgusting and obvious sexual reference and Mike said “Really?” She shot Mike a hateful look and then turned to the old man. She smiled sweetly at him and followed him upstairs.
Mike looked at me with a blank expression and said “can we just go now?” I told him we had a job to finish and finish it we would. We scraped and janga’d our way up the stairs with the couch, and finally made it to the fifth floor.
We got the couch into her condo and set it down on the hardwood floor next to the giant balcony. The sliding glass door was open and the cool breeze felt great. We sat down on the couch and let the breeze begin to dry the sweat dripping off of us. Our clothes were soaked through and we both thought we could sleep right there for hours. At the kitchen table sat 3 men. The fat black guy, a bald guy who was my age, and a humongous body builder. We could see that all of them were wearing wedding rings.
“Where’s the yoga instructor?” I asked them. “She’s in the bedroom with Leonard.” The bodybuilder said. All of them looked as humbled as I was. The Yoga Instructor came out of the bedroom a few minutes later in a silky robe. She circled the table and kissed the body builder on the cheek. When she got to the fat black guy she started rubbing his shoulders and then she noticed us. “Took you guys long enough. I’d ask you to stay but I have to get going. So thanks for coming, there’s the door.”
And I snapped.
I don’t know why the yoga instructor felt the need to treat Mike and I like pieces of shit. Maybe it was because we weren’t married, maybe it was because we weren’t giving her money or a condo, or maybe it was just because she was a filthy godless who-er. But when she told us to leave in THAT tone? I was fed up. When she said ‘there’s the door’, I felt like Popeye after a large tin of Spinach, I felt like Superman in Two, when he’s at the Daily Planet window and says “Care to step outside Zod?” I felt like Rocky in Five when he said “Sue me for what?” before punching George Washington Duke in the face.
I got up, head down, with a look of complete defeat on my face. Mike was looking at me with a mixture of sadness and anger on his. He couldn’t believe I was letting her treat me like this. Mike’s seen me call women ‘filthy pirate hookers’ just because they asked me to buy them a drink. I walked onto the balcony, put my hands on the rail and looked down into the front yard five floors below. I breathed in the sweet cool air blowing in off of Lake Michigan and closed my eyes. I knew what we had to do.
When I walked back in, without looking at me, the yoga instructor said “BYE!” in a smart ass tone. Mike stood up and gave me one more look of disappointment. I walked over to him and whispered “Grab an end, out the window with it.” A bright smile flashed across Mike’s face. We picked up the couch and before the yoga instructor knew what was happening, Mike set his end on top of the railing of the balcony, and I pushed it over with everything I had. There was complete silence as the couch soared through the air for what seemed like forever. It hit a tree first, breaking all the branches as it tumbled down. The wooden inside of the couch shattered as it hit the ground, but the pieces were still held inside of the fabric. From our vantage point it looked like a giant human body with broken bones pushing through the skin.
The Yoga Instructor screamed and ran over to the balcony. She stood between Mike and I looking down in disbelief. Mike and I high fived each other over her head, and when she looked up at me, all I said was “Go fuck yourself. Or one of those guys; I don’t give a shit.” And out the door we went. As we left, the three men sitting at the table simply nodded at us in understanding while the yoga instructor shouted obscenities. We got in the elevator with HUGE smiles on our faces and were gone.
And THAT’S why I announced that the Yoga Instructor is a cunt on Facebook.
So the question then becomes, not ‘WHY didn’t I fuck her?’, but ‘why did I try?’ I don’t really have an answer to that. I was blinded for a time, and I imagine those guys in her apartment were blinded as well. She bewitched us all with her beauty and sexuality, but there was nothing behind it. It was all an act and not a very good one at that. Mike was like Short Round in Temple burning me with the torch while I was under the spell of Kali Ma, and I’m glad he was there to do it. Being a cock block isn’t always a bad thing because it can really show you the measure of your friends.
I don’t know at what point in the Yoga Instructor’s life that fucking EVERYONE became as acceptable as having a bowl of cereal in the morning, but I don’t judge her on that choice. The point in which I DO judge her is in her choice to wield her vagina as a weapon to force people to move a giant couch upstairs for her. That is NOT a fair use of a vagina and when a woman uses in that way? She becomes nothing more than that…a cunt.
But although her use of vaginal labor may be vicious, SHE is not the crazy one…I’M the crazy one. They say that the definition of crazy is when you do the same thing over and over and expect a different result. I think that’s also the definition of love. We fall in love many times in our lives and we always expect to live happily ever after. However, it rarely turns out that way, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing these blogs. I’ve been searching for love all my life, and every time I find it I expect to walk off into the sunset with my prospective partner, only to be cheated on, lied to, dumped or pissed on (foreshadowing: read my next yarn). Yet I keep pushing on, moving from relationship to relationship expecting a different outcome.
Bottom line? I can take the Yoga Instructors criticism because at this point I care more about the shits I leave behind me than I do her. But I won’t have her insult my integrity. She wanted confidence, honesty and sincerity? Well here’s a steaming hot cup of it.
Ghost of Rod Serling: Up there; up there in the vastness of love, in the void that is hope. Up there is an enemy known as loneliness. It sits there stewing on the fringe of desire, waiting; waiting with the patience of eons. Forever waiting…in The Friend Zone.