Swedish Monkey

I sat in my car the other day thinking about what Bone had said in a comment “the (to me) unattainable OC girl”. It’s funny because I would like to live hard and true to that rule… I often do… until cocktails become involved. (So I guess that might change the ‘often’ portion I just mentioned.)

Cocktails change everything, I may have very strict, pre-planned rules as to what (and whom) I will do prior to the evening commencing. I will express these rules to my friends so I have some sort of accountability… as the evening progresses these rules fade into guidelines… fade into “I don’t know what his name is, but he’s a great kisser!”… fade into “Good morning (insert random name here), could you take me back to my car?”

Actually, in this OC reality I don’t really ever hook up with randoms. I do have some brought-upsies that my mama should be proud of. Frequently the guys that I find interest in will intrigue me in someway beyond what you might notice immediately. Sometimes not necessarily the most attractive (I don’t care for pompous assholes… If I want to have sex with someone totally into themselves… I’ll masturbate… hee, hee) I will date someone whom I respect in certain aspects of their life.

Thus bringing us to the Swedish Monkey. The Swedish Monkey was a peer at my last job, he had been there a couple years longer than I, and trained me when I first began there. He had respect and was well known by everyone in the company. As my star began to rise, I began to refer to him more and more for advice on how to handle random customer situations, employee problems, etc.

He had a good sense of humor (a prerequisite for me) so when he asked after a rather hectic day if I wanted to meet up for drinks with him after work, I accepted. We had a nice evening and merely a hug good-bye was exchanged.

A week later I asked him if he wanted to meet a co-worker and me out for cocktails. He arrived before she did, and the sparks began to fly (again this would be after a couple double jack and cokes were consumed by each of us… oh true love). A bit later, after we were joined my co-worker and her fiancé, he and I began to maul each other at the bar (and again I say true love – wherefore art thou brought-upsies???). The first sign that this was not going to work out should have been when he lost his balance and began to fall backwards. Instead of attempting to regain his balance he merely grabbed onto me, pulling me to the floor with him, not letting go, I was stuck there with him.

We began dating, seeing each other a couple times a week. We hid this from everyone at work (other than the one that had initially witness the drunken love being developed).

The biggest thing, besides work, that the Swedish Monkey and I had in common were cocktails. We loved to party together, which led to passionate evenings of drunken love.

One evening returning to my place I stood wobbly in the kitchen attempting to open a bottle of (not needed) wine. In the process he came into the kitchen and the bottle was forgotten. The counter, and then the floor, of my kitchen were christened with… us.

In the middle of my leg resting upon his shoulder while he was on top of me he began telling me how wet I was. Oh. My. God. I have to go to the bathroom now. I quickly and discretely excused myself to the bathroom… He had just fucked the piss out of me. I, however, wasn’t going to tell him this. Moving into my bedroom he repeatedly commented, “Remember how wet you were in the kitchen?” Yes. Yes indeed I did.

The Swedish Monkey was a bit of a drama papa, and liked to create scenes wherever we went. It soon became too much, and was obviously not working out. The last night that we were together he through a fit because he said I was a bitch when I got around my friends. No one has ever told me this in my life. (Everyone else has always loved watching my friends and I interact with each other.) I realized then the real problem was that I wasn’t devoting all of my time and attention to him.

Deciding this night that I would rather have him take me home than deal with this shit for the rest of the evening, I began to leave in a huff out of the bar… running smack-dab into the floor to ceiling window that stood next to the entrance. This didn’t help my point at all – as Le, her sister, the Swedish Monkey and I all doubled over in laughter at my near broken nose and the outline of my face on the window – in front of everyone.... Smooth...

The following week I called the Swedish Monkey on his mobile while we were at work. I must explain at this point that the Swedish Monkey’s phone was broken, and the only way he could speak on it was to use his ear piece, which he would leave dangling from his collar when not in use.

The phone rang and was answered with, “Oh you smell good.”

“Ha ha, Swedish Monkey, what’s going on?”

“We don’t have much time, I have to be back to the office soon.”

“Swedish Monkey, what are you talking about?” Then I heard her accented voice. “Swedish Monkey? Swedish Monkey? Can you hear me?”

He could not.

I sat on the phone for nearly nine minutes, my jaw in my lap as I listened to him have a conversation with one of his Hispanic employees, who hardly knew any English. He discussed how he was going to adjust her schedule to ensure that they could be together the Tuesday night of the following week. And how much fun he had with her just that previous Tuesday (the night I told him I couldn’t go out with him).

She sat beside him in his car, as they headed to Starbucks talking about the upcoming weekend. “Sat-ur-day, Sun-day, I do not know difference. I have hard time.” She said to him… as he continued to blather on and on… until the phone disappeared into his pocket as they walked into the coffee shop, and I hung up.

I, of course, called my closest 10 friends telling them what had just happened. I was dying, this was great! Really what are the chances that I would be the one to call him, at that particular moment, and he would accidentally answer the phone??? God smiled upon me that day.

He called me back shortly, “Hey sweetie, I saw you called. What’s up?”

“Oh… I don’t know Swedish Monkey… Saturday, Sunday I just can’t tell the difference…”

“What are you talking about?”

“Dude, I just heard your entire conversation with your employee. Nice.”

He proceeded to fumble over excuses, and I assured him it was fine, it had been over anyway.

The biggest thing was that he had (basically) been pulling one over on me. (I didn’t need to tell him about the guy I had met and started hanging out with). This Swedish Monkey, whom I would never double take, I would probably politely let him buy me a drink (duh) but cease speaking with him as soon as I had completed it. (My rule: if you let a guy buy you a drink you should at least speak to him as long as the drink lasts). This guy who my friends thought I was nuts for talking to, let alone date.

So this OC girl is indeed apparently not that unattainable.

At least I peed on him. (hee, hee)