Monday, June 21, 2010

Keriophobia's a Bitch



Keriophobia - The Fear of Candles.

Yup, no joke, it is my phobia.  Don’t get me wrong, I love candle light, I dig the smell, and I still think a bedroom lit by them is sexy, in an old fashioned kind of way.  But the candles in my apartment are under my control – I choose when to light them, when to put them out.

But when I am in someone else’s place, their domicile, and under the control of their odd habits and peccadilloes, I fear candles and candle wax, and their ability to do me physical harm.  I am not crazy, there is a very good reason for my deep-rooted fear.  For those of you who are freaked out by 'TMI' - might as well take this opportunity to go and visit one of those blogs that tell you what their Yorkie does on a daily basis.  For everyone else, read on.

Her name was….let’s call her Meredith.  Why Meredith, you ask?  Cause her name was fucking Meredith, and I don’t care if she ever sees this.  She was an odd, vengeful little trollop.  I would love to throw her last name up here too, but I can’t, cause I don’t remember it (don’t you judge me, I can feel your eyes).  And despite the fact that her name made me think of Grey’s Anatomy, a show that I truly believe was secretly invented to set the Women’s Rights Movement back 35 years or so, I went out with her after a friend from work introduced us.

Meredith….shit, I don’t want to keep typing that, let’s call her ‘T’ (for Trollop), was extremely hot.  She was short, about 5’ 2”.  She was a former college gymnast.  She was one of those girls that had a tiny ass (I am definitely an ass man), but it still worked for me, cause you could cup it in both hands and imagine that you were testing the ‘ripeness’ of two grapefruit at the grocery store.  I met her at a bar, which of course, for any of you single guys out there, is just the perfect place to meet normal, well-adjusted women.  Oh wait, you can't actually hear my voice while reading this.  That was said in my head with an overtly sarcastic tone. 

Here’s the rub – good ole 'T'?  She was not particularly interesting.  Not a great conversationalist, and certainly didn’t stimulate my mind or my soul.  But she was hot, and interested, and at that particular time, I had recently lost my fuck buddy to a relationship.  So obviously, I was being guided not by my mind or my heart, but by another organ altogether.  One who I have a love/hate relationship with, depending on his judgment.  I am often, because of whiskey, at his mercy.  And he, to this point in my life, has gotten me through 32 years without disease or procreation – so I take my hat off to him.  (I love ya buddy, so don’t get mad at me for this story, ok?)

‘T’ and I began to have a ‘relationship'.  And by relationship, I mean I would go over to her house after work, get my pickle tickled, and leave before dinner.  I will completely admit, I was a acting like a complete and utter douche during this two month-long period.  I love and respect all women (except Katherine Heigl, that ungrateful harpie), and my father raised me to treat each and every one of you like a princess.  That you are a gift to us, and we don’t really deserve you, deep down.  But this woman, she brought out the worst in me.  She convinced me that she was cool with our situation – and I have learned over the years that it takes a very particular type of women to completely accept this type of arrangement.  ‘T’ did not fall into that category, and I was well aware – but I played the part of the ostrich, burying my head in the sand.

One night, I made the short drive from work to her apartment after receiving a very eloquent text – “COME OVER.  I’M NAKED.”  I should have known that something was wrong the minute I walked in the door.  There were candles everywhere.  On the coffee table, on the TV, on the end tables, on the kitchen counter.  In my diseased mind, I heard that creepy Latin chant that you hear in every movie where the villain is about to sacrifice a virgin. 

She opened the door in a negligee (BITCH!) and took me by the hand to the bedroom.  While I used my peripheral vision for signs of chicken blood or human hair, I realized that I was experiencing a very new emotion.  I was simultaneously turned on and creeped out.  To be honest, it was a rather powerful combination.

So while trying my damnedest to not freak you all out with details, the ‘act’ began, and I was on bottom.  I ain’t gonna lie, I was digging it, and at some point closed my eyes and turned my head to the side.  ‘T’ chose that exact moment to grab the nearest candle - next to the bed – and without permission or hesitation, turned it over and allowed burning hot candle wax to drip ever so abruptly onto my bare chest.  Now once again, don’t get me wrong – I’ll try anything twice.  But give me a friggin’ heads up.  Tease me with it, let me steel myself for the oncoming pain, and decide whether or not the current sensations are worth a little risk, or whether I am going to scream and run like a little girl who just saw a large spider.

So what, pray tell, happened in that instant that the wax touched my chest?  I did what any red-blooded American man would do.  I squealed like a little bitch and bucked my hips in shock.  Not a good thing, mind you, as she was kind of launched into the air.  Which, her being a gymnast, I have to admit to being disappointed.  That was the most awkward dismount I had ever seen.  Keri Strug did that shit on one foot and won an Olympic medal, for Christ's sake.

She managed, in her surprise, to drop the candle, wick facing down.  Three guesses where that candle landed - and the first two don’t count.  I remember sitting in the emergency room a short while later, my fly completely open because the feel of denim on my wounded member made my eyes water.  I filled out the paperwork, 'T' sitting beside me with her chin so deeply buried in her own chest that she probably bruised, trying desperately to figure out how to describe my current state of being without the doctor looking at me like some ball gag-in-the-mouth sexual deviant (BRING OUT THE GIMP!).

So what's the moral of the story?  There are only three instances when using a candle outside of your own place is acceptable:

1.)  When the power is out.
2.)  When you are christening a child.
3.)  When you are holding a candlelight vigil because a meteor is about to strike the earth while a band of deep sea oil drillers try to blow it up with a nuclear bomb in the 11th hour (thank you Michael Bay)

Everything else?  Don't risk it.  I still have a scar.


6 comments:

*uncorked said...

Oh I've waited so patiently for this story. Did not disappoint. A picture or two would have been visually stimulating but you would probably need another disclaimer.

Love the Keri Strug line. Well played. Also, just to add to your 3rd point up there, I think it's only appropriate if Steven Tyler is singing at the time. Just sayin.

So the real question...you didn't even get to finish?

Laurnie said...

I'll bet its an ugly fucking scar, too.

Anonymous said...

not the type I have mine is loathing the thing lit or not but not as much as the waxed and oozed ooooowwwwwggg drool shiver

Joseph Leo Ison said...

Same here bro. But im not afraid of candle. I just dont like to see candle melts or melted. I just dont like it. Id rather eat with a poop on my side than a melted candle.

Joseph Leo Ison said...

Same here bro. But im not afraid of candle. I just dont like to see candle melts or melted. I just dont like it. Id rather eat with a poop on my side than a melted candle.

Joseph Leo Ison said...

Same here bro. But im not afraid of candle. I just dont like to see candle melts or melted. I just dont like it. Id rather eat with a poop on my side than a melted candle.

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