I was seventeen and working at a local health food store. My job consisted of working the register and organizing shelves of organic nuts. And scoping out healthy boys. By my first week I targeted a young wannabe rockstar who worked with me. I told all my friends I worked with “the hottest guy ever,” and that I knew one day he would fall head over heels in love with me.
He spiked his hair, had tattoos and piercings, was in a loud band and smoked Camel Lights.
I started to lay my flirt game down on him hard. I’m talking sideways glances by the soy milk, batting my lashes over the healing crystals and of course displaying my pack of cigs when he walked by so he knew I was cool.
It took about 3 days of this before he asked me to go on a smoke break with him. I remember the day he gave me a copy of his band’s CD. I put it in my discman and listened to him scream over banging drums. He was not talented but I was convinced he was.
A few months of swooning goes by and one day, as I was counting my drawer, he came into the room.
He said, “Hey, when you’re done could you meet me in the back hallway?”
“Uh, yeah,” I replied, “I guess I could do that.” WE’RE GOING TO MAKE OUT IN THE BATHROOM! is what I assumed. I hurried downstairs to meet him. And this happened:
He said, “Yeah so uh… you were at a bonfire last summer. Some kid’s who went to your high school.”
I said, “Oh yeah I was definitely there…I was so drunk! Why do you ask?”
He said, “Because we hooked up.”
I said, “Oh.”
He said, “Yeah. I knew you looked familiar.”
Sidenote: We eventually did it and he told everyone I farted during. I swear I didn’t.
— 21 y/o female from Philly, PA