So what brings you to New York?

I wanna be a stripper.

I look her up and down…  not really cut out for the gig… but I don’t wanna spoil her enthusiasm…

Oh yeah?

Yeah they have some open calls tomorrow so I’m gonna go.

She looks around my small studio apartment.

Can I sleep here tonight?

Sleep here?  Ummm….  Absolutely.

FASTFORWARD TO

JAM!

She shoves her finger in my ass.

You like that?

Uhhh…. [still thinking]

She rides me harder, finger still in ass.

Uhhh… I don’t know about that–

She jams it in further.  I hang on for dear life.  And then… 

“I’m gonna punch you in the face”

What?

“Shhhhh”

She puts her hand on my throat and squeezes. 

“You like that?”

She clenches her fist.

Don’t punch me.

BLAM

Right in the fucking nose. I gush blood everywhere and throw her off me.

“Oh my god! Are you okay? I’m so sorry!”

Yeah—

She rushed to get me a towel.

—it’s all good.

Are you mad? Can we still have sex?

Nah I’m done.  I gotta do stuff anyway.

Like what?

Work.

But you don’t work.

I have an appointment tomorrow.

An appointment with who?

A big photographer.

You’re getting photos taken?

I’m selling him pot.  Let’s just go to sleep.

Is it cause I punched you?

It’s 2:43AM.  You’re drunk.  So am I.  Let’s just go to bed.

FASTFORWARD TO THE MORNING.

I need you to leave, he’s almost here.

“I’ll just wait.”

No, you can’t be in here.

“Why not?”

Cause.

“I’ll hide in the bathroom.”

Are you serious?  No.

“Why not?”

What if he has to go to the bathroom?

“Then I’ll just sit quietly on your bed and not say anything.”

He won’t come in if anyone is here.

CUT TO THE TRUTH:  No one is actually coming over.

CUT BACK TO CRAZY CHICK THAT GAVE ME BLOODY NOSE:

I’ll tell you what… just go to that deli across the street, let me just take care of him then come back.  Okay? Cool?

“But why do I have to leave?”

You’re not leaving, you’re just grabbing some bagels while I do business.  Can you grab me a bagel?

I hand her a twenty.

“But I don’t wanna leave.”

I walk her to the door.

That’s okay.  You’ll be right back… Let’s go.

We go down the stairs and I hold her hand to make sure she keeps moving.  We go through my shitty cement courtyard thingy then through another set of doors then to the front door and out to the street.

This way…

And we turn right.

I walk her to Third avenue and show her to the deli.

Just wait here and buzz my apartment in fifteen minutes.  K?  See you in a sec…

I play it cool as I walk away… then the walk got faster… I cut the corner, waited till I was out of sight then hopped in a cab and went to my brother’s apartment around the block and waited till nightfall before I went back to my apartment.

I’m in the clear.

Phew.

Until one day… 

Four months later, my phone buzzes from an anonymous number.

–>I’m pregnant.

Who is this?<–

–>Fuck you faggot.

Who is this?<– 

–>You’ll never see him.  It’s a boy.

WHO IS THIS?<–

I call.  No response, no voicemail.  I call again.  No response.

–>Fuck you I’m not picking up your fucking calls.

Okay.  Did I do something wrong?  Give me a clue.<–

–>Wait till I sue you for child support.

What?!?!?!?!?!  WHO R U?!?!?!<–

Nothing.

You’re not pregnant whoever the fuck this is.<–

–>Okay…

No, you’re not.<–

–>Yes I am.  And you’re NEVER gonna see the kid.

Right.  Okay… bye.<–

–>Don’t believe?  Fine.  Wait till I sue you for child support you fucking faggot.

Did this number just call me a faggot?  Again?  What in the fuck? I change my tactics.

Okay, look, do you wanna talk on the phone?<–

–>Too late for that.

I call her again anyway.  She doesn’t pick up.

–>Too late I said.

Whatever.<–

EVERY FEW DAYs FOR THE NEXT THREE MONTHS

another text came through telling me how shitty of a father I would be.  I figure out it’s the crazy stripper from San Diego and start calling her out by name… she acted as if she doesn’t know who the fuck the name I called her was.

Months and months…

I start to wonder, IS she REALLY pregnant?  How in the fuck would she know it was me anyway?  Did I cum in her?  I can’t remember.  Did I?

Fuck.

I text her back and say

I’d like to work this out<–

Nothing.

I freak out.

LOOK YOU FUCKING WHORE<–

I called her a million times.  My head was going crazy.  I had no idea what to do.

Finally she says

–>it’s too late to talk.  I’m back in San Diego preparing for the baby.

Jeez.  I’m so mindfucked I have no idea what I’d gotten myself into. 

Then one day…

I decide to go to a concert, Bad Fish, this fucking Sublime tribute band.  I get to Terminal 5.. a music venue in NYC.  I pay for the ticket and go to the top floor of the venue and head to the bar.

HOLY.  SHIT.

Guess who’s NOT back in San Diego like she told me she was?

Guess who is THIN AS FUCK?

Guess who is DEFINITELY not pregnant?

Yup… the girl who shoved her finger in my ass then punched me in the face, gave me a bloody nose then wouldn’t leave my apartment and told me she was seven months pregnant, called me a faggot fifty times and threatened to sue me for child support.

Yup.  THAT’S who’s not pregnant.

There she was.  With some other dude.  I take out my phone.  A grin crowds my face.  I smile with relief and a chilling vengeance pumps me up with adrenaline.  The first text:

I see you.<–

–>huh?

Sublime fan?<–

I see her looking around. 

Who’s that dude you’re with?<–

Beat.

You’re pretty skinny for seven months into your pregnancy… maybe you shouldn’t be drinking at the bar of Terminal 5?<–

–>I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.

YOU UGLY ASS SKANKED OUT WHOREBAG CUNTLICKING WHITE TRASHY PIECE OF GARBAGE SHIT!<–

I’m kidding.

No I’m not.

Maybe I am.

But the moral of the story is… if a chick you met from HotorNot(dot)com comes over with her friend who says she’s from San Diego and moved to NYC to become a stripper but she’s not actually hot enough to ever BE a stripper asks to spend the night at your studio apartment in your bed within two minutes of meeting you then shoves her finger in your ass and punches you in the face while having sex….

RUN!