When cooking class follows you home

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About three years ago, I was taking a cooking class, which I figured marked the beginning of me as a mature worldly person who knew how to use the other utensils I previously cursed at for jamming my wine cork drawer.  This class taught me a few things, but like all things I learn in classrooms (algebra and what the hell to do with a semi colon - half colon, half comma, who are you!?!>#) I forgot it all immediately and now rely heavily on Chinese takeout.  However, enclosed in the folds of these cooking classes emerged something that I didn't forget - couldn't forget - that continues to haunt me to this day...

The man who was stationed to my left was handsome, but boyish.  Being an older man person myself, I passed immediately.  For some reason so did all the other girls in the class.  The second to last class found us all twelve at a bar around the corner from the school in Gramercy Park one night.  The boyish man turned out to be kind of funny, seemed sweet and when people began to leave, just the two of us were left and it was so late he had missed his train back to Long Island wherevers.  Wine drinking me offered to let this guy crash on my couch, which since I lived in a studio was actually the fouton that was perpendicular to the fouton I slept on.   Slowly, or really horribly quickly, as the trip from the bar, to a train, to my building, up the stairs, turning the lock continued, he became mister super chattybox.   I, like anyone who drinks wine and accidentally skips dinner - hello all my friends -  became sluggish and unable to carry polite conversation.

“My brother is a foot taller than me, he’s a model,” he confessed walking down the street.

“We look identical except that I used to be sixty five pounds heavier until two years ago,” he said in the McDonalds he forced me to go into.

“I never eat these!” He exclaimed with shredded lettuce bits from his big mac hanging out of his mouth on the 1 train.

God someone kill me.

Finally.  Finally, it was almost over.  I gave him some generic pajamas and threw a new toothbrush at him, all the while saying that I had a mental disorder and if I did not fall asleep BY midnight I might stab him in his sleep.  He took it VERY seriously, even though any sane person would see I was using our good old friend exaggeration to make a point.

“I am in pharmaceuticals,” he told me.

“But, I don’t know anything about psychiatrics.  We are doing studies of humans perceptions of the male penis.”

“Great,” I said blocking out all light with my duvet.

After about ten minutes of peaceful silent bliss later, right after red wine mind literally sails you straight into a legal coma, I hear him whispering my name.  Sleepy and delirious I pulled the duvet down off my head and found myself smack eye to eye with him.  He was leaning off the fouton straight into my face.

“Do you mind if I hug you?  I broke up with my girlfriend about six months ago and I really just need to hug someone.”  He whispered.

Basically the lesson to this story is ask me to do anything when I am tired and it will probably happen.   Hoping this was just a bad dream and if I let him hug me, in the bounds I stated, which was he could not sit, or get into/onto the bed in any way shape or form, it happened.  The night that was supposed to help me become a hotter Nigella Lawson, ended with a stocky former fat kid on his knees leaning over my bed giving me the longest most inappropriate bear hug I had ever received.

Before he got up, sometime around minute 1, he said, “Did you know that the average male penis size is four and a half inches?”

Sleep getting the better of me I actually responded, “Great.”