SoMa Literary Review - I Really Want to Watch Thelma and Louise Tonight (w4m)

I Really Want to Watch Thelma and Louise Tonight (w4m)

By Liz Doherty

Those women are HOT and MAD and they know what to do about it. I just moved in, don’t have a TV yet, much less a microwave for the popcorn. If you own this movie and would like to watch it at your place with a slender, attractive, smart SWF tonight, hit me back.

After two months of checking out the city, fucking a couple dozen strangers and sorta kinda falling for one, I’d decided to give San Francisco a more permanent try. My hand shook as I signed a one-year lease on a great, airy apartment I found on a rainy April afternoon. Outside the big corner windows, fire trucks were blocking off the side street outside, where an apartment fire was keeping the neighborhood entertained, but the smell of wet, burned wood didn’t deter me. The guy I was into at the moment was a fire chaser, and it seemed apt that this fire was happening right under my new windows. Hot, wet firemen were entertaining the mangy crowd in front of the divey looking bar across busy Valencia street . At least I knew where to get a probably flat beer when I needed one. I knew my old life wasn’t working for me, and I thought I’d give this a shot. I moved in an hour later.

My gear consisted of two wet suitcases, an air mattress and some scratchy sheets bought at a cheap mission junk store, my computer, my books and journals, and my cell phone and charger. It was Tuesday, and I figured I’d hit some garage sales on the weekend for some more basics, but until I found a lamp, I was stuck with the lighting available to me. For three nights, I figured out that by leaving the bathroom and kitchen lights on and the beige drapes open at night, I could keep the living room in a kind of orangey glow in the evening. The street light outside one living room window cast enough light that if I positioned my air mattress just so I could read at night, but the street noise kept me pretty restless.

After a couple of nights of struggling to focus on murky type, what I really wanted was to watch TV. You know, a big screen, a comfy couch, a coffee table to put my feet up on, maybe a joint, a beer, with someone with a kitchen and dishes and popcorn and a remote. I really would have been happy hang out alone at home if I’d had that gear, but Thursday night didn’t seem like the best time to go TV and furniture shopping in the city, especially without a car.

I figured if I could find a guy who owned Thelma and Louise, he’d be pretty evolved, and maybe we’d click enough for a nice tumble, too. Susan Sarandon is smart as shit, and Geena Davis – well, Geena Davis is about as hot as it gets. I’ve seen the movie dozens of times, and it never fails to leave me feeling strong and sure about the superiority of women. I posted this at about 7 pm, and by 7:15, the responses were pouring in to my in-box.

I got the usual array of cock shots, lame ‘call me babes’ and cut and paste responses (hey!, I live in Haight and Ashbury! I am 26 years old, I like sports, dancing, and watching underground movies, I am a Robotic engineer,,, electronic musician, passionate with sci fi, I love arts, and computers, please contact me if you want to hang out, please send me pics and IM screen name so we can chat better see where it leads at!!!). A bunch of guys offered to rush out and rent the movie for me, but I was holding out for someone who owned it.

Then I heard from Scott. He had taken the time to change the subject line of the email to “I’ve Never Seen a Post Like That” and seemed genuinely puzzled by what I was getting at. He said he had his own place, a big TV, and ‘on demand’ cable (I didn’t know what that was, not really being a TV person) so we could watch whatever we liked. I figured he was hoping I’d be down for porn, which I’m really not in to, but he offered to pay for my cab to his place in some neighborhood I’d never been to called Hayes Valley . What the hell. He sent his pic, said he’d been to college, he could put a sentence together and had a nice smile in the picture he sent, from the top of a snowy mountain in what looked like New England .

What he didn’t say is that he was short. Like, really short. Like about 5’2”. Yikes. I’m not sure what it is that makes this or any woman like a man taller than she is. Maybe some kind of primal baby-making urge that tells us to mate with an evolutionarily strong specimen so our progeny will make the cut. Maybe these tiny guys just make us feel big and gawky. Whatever it is, I was kind of freaked out. I got to his place around 9, and he came down to the street and paid the cabbie before I could say, “Whoa, sorry, no midgets tonight.” But I figured I wouldn’t care how small he was if we were just going to watch Susan and Geena, what the heck. Besides, the cab was gone.

Given my relative enormity, I could have felt like a bull in the proverbial china shop in his place. But I had plenty of room in the very spacious apartment, with the promised massive flat screen TV, and enormous L-shaped plush couch that ten people could have comfortably made out on, a huge, heavy oak coffee table, a chair and a half arrangement that could have held three of this guy, an oversized print hanging over the giant entertainment center… you get the idea. High ceilings, picture windows, oversize fridge, everything in the place was huge except Scott himself. I usually shake hands with a man, to show him I’m not a kissy kind of girly-girl, but I didn’t want to take this guy’s hand yet, knowing it would be the size of an eleven-year-old’s. I did notice his feet, which were tiny, not a promising sign.

He offered a beer, and I accepted. It was a regular sized beer, thank goodness, because I’m not really much of a drinker. He drank water – that always makes me uncomfortable, but I’d watched him open my bottle, so I figured he wasn’t slipping me a mickey, whatever that is.

He didn’t have Thelma and Louise and couldn’t get it on his fancy-ass cable TV. What’s with that? Why do people answer posts if they don’t have the goods? Do they think everything is a metaphor for something else? Is direct communication that unusual? Where are the guys who listen to what I say? Fuck. I was hot for Geena.

We sat chastely on his huge couch and watched some movie - I forget what it was, but it wasn’t T&L, nothing else is. Whatever it was, it was somewhat funny, because I do remember laughing. At the end he kinda reached for me, rather tentatively, with those teeny tiny hands. I lunged at him, figuring I might as well find out what a little guy was packing. I was hoping to be surprised.

“I wasn’t sure if this was that kind of post,” he said, obviously surprised by my willingness.

“This is very much that kind of post,” I countered, pushing him back on the couch and straddling him. I had to kind of scrunch my neck down a bit to find his mouth and keep our crotches connected, but I was surprised and pleased to be able to feel his hardness there – it seemed big enough under his jeans anyway. I considered briefly whether he’d stuffed his pants with something, but found his mouth pretty tasty, so was busying myself there. His tiny hands were exploring, and he efficiently opened my bra with one hand, a skill I’ve always admired. I can’t do it myself, and should really get someone to teach me. I do know how to pull my bra off through my sleeve, which was very impressive in high school but maybe not such a big deal now.

I was well into my third beer when he led me to his bedroom, with a massive king sized bed. I kid you not, there was a small step stool next to it. I hope I didn’t laugh out loud as he climbed up on to his bed. It reminded me of some fairy tale, I don’t remember which one, something about elves and a beautiful woman on a pedestal or something.

I think we groped around some more on the bed before our clothes came off. Jesus, this guy was really hung. Not exactly Foster’s can big, but big enough, maybe 9 inches, thick and hard as a rock. Before I knew it I was on my hands and knees and he was pounding me deep and hard. He was a big man in my mind and in my body, until he told me to look into the mirrors on his closet doors. There I saw a silhouette of a long, lean woman on her knees, back arched, elbows down, being fucked by a tiny little man. Granted one with a big penis, but the tableau looked preposterous to me. Another fairly tale reference came to mind: Rumplestiltskin.

He did get me off, and I him. As long as I kept my eyes closed and away from that gargantuan mirror, I was able to surrender to the sensations and get there. Lying there after we were both spent, he pressed his little palm against mine, and I bent the last joint of my fingers over his shorter ones, again fighting the giggles.

He offered to pay for my cab home, but I just asked for directions to the nearest big street. I figured he’d been generous enough, what with picking up the first cab, and sharing his beers and all. I’m a shake hands and pay my own way kind of woman, most of the time anyway.

What I learned from Scott: I’m looking for a guy who’s taller than me as well as nicely hung, Geena and Susan got real lucky with Brad and Mike, and that whole small feet thing is a myth.

Liz Doherty has made her living at various times writing and editing human resource communications in Philadelphia and New York, teaching writing skills to analysts and consultants, and writing grant proposals, newsletters and fundraising appeals for non-profits in Vermont . An excerpt from one of her Craigslist stories appeared in the May 2008 issue of the online BARE BACK MAGAZINE, and another is planned for inclusion in FLATMAN CROOKED. She holds a BA in Journalism from Temple University .