The Artist and His Afflictions

Recently in my Kingdom of Singledom, I set my sights on a sexy, tattooed artist.  We'd started out like all healthy relationships start out - initial flirtation on Facebook, a few video chats, some phone calls (like, who even talks on the phone anymore, seriously?) and the inevitable comfortable settling into text communication.  We hadn't progressed to actual *dating* outside of my foray to one of his art exhibitions, which ended up being a one-beer kind of event and while Artist is hot, he isn't enough of a draw to keep me entertained
at a one-beer event for longer than two hours.

Throughout this period of time, Artist become The Man Who Said Fucking Stupid Shit.  Somewhere, at some point in time, we apparently turned the corner of Mutual Attraction and entered into the place where everything that fell out of his mouth made him look like a loser. Things like:

"By the way, I still live with my mom.  No, I haven't thought of looking for my own place.  Why do you ask?"

"Well, to supplement my artist income, I sell bongs."

"College?  No.  I never finished high school, so I don't think you can go to college without your GED."

"I don't drive because my car was impounded after a DUI.  Yeah, I'm still on probation."

Now, every woman has a great potential to overlook the faults of men in lieu of how badly she wants to give him a pair of thigh earmuffs. Artist was hot.  Stupid, yes, but hot.  I'm not interested in any kind of a relationship, so why not have a little fun?  That is, until the day that he uttered words that not even the most smashed and unabashed and horny lady can overlook.

He ended up on the guest list for a random red carpet event for a pornography production company and, knowing my penchant for good ol' nekkid, fleshy entertainment, invited me to be his +1.  Our first date, and at a porno party, no less!  Things were looking up! Regrettably, though, I was unable to attend.  I KNOW.  Prior commitments and all that.  Charmingly, I texted dear, sexy, sweet Artist and told him since he would be flying solo that night to feel free and try to get some from one of the porn stars in attendance.  It's not every day that you have that kind of opportunity, you know.  He laughed and tossed a comment at me about that potentially ruining the career of a porn star.

Huh.

Ruin a porn star's career?  How does that happen? 

"Why?"  I'd texted back.  "Because you're that good in bed that they'd never want anyone else?"

"No," he replied.  "Because of my afflictions."

"Afflictions?"  Oh shit.  This is turning down the wrong road real fast.

"Yeah, my STDs."

"Ha ha ha, lol, lmfao.  Good one.  Your 'afflictions!'  Okay, SlutBucket, what STDs do you have?"

"It's not that funny, actually.  I have herpes and genital warts."

"Heh heh... wait, seriously?"

"Yeah, I thought I'd told you."

"NO we conveniently did not have that conversation.  Fuck.  Sorry. I didn't mean to be a dick about it."

"It's cool.  So, if you're not interested in this party, when are we gonna go out?"

"Oh.  Actually, I'm looking at my schedule and I'm just booked solid. Sorry.  Good luck with your art."

What?!  Don't look at me like that!  The skinny is this:  neither one of us wanted a relationship, which means our heavily flirtatious and short-lived non-relationship was meant to be exclusively sexual, and I'm not about to fuck around with STD shit.  However, we are currently platonic friends, and I will forever be grateful that he sacrificed his orgasms for the sake of the health of my snatch.  There are just some things that a girl should never overlook when it comes to our precious, beloved bad boys, and itchy, nasty, infectious bumps are pretty fucking high on that list.

- Smashy