Horrible Valentines


                                                            ...image courtesy of Google Images
Chad W. Lutz
​G-strings are cool…in Europe. They're also cool if your name is Peter North or Ron Jeremy. Being neither of those individuals and having never stepped a single foot on the European continent, I can rightfully assert, out of both personal preference and happenstance, G-strings do not belong on my body. However, one of my previous girlfriends insisted that I not only own one, but wear one, and not just in the sack. I'm a firm believer that we all are capable of making good life choices and bad life choices. The following tale is a prime example of a cluster of bad life choices resulting in some rather undesirable underwear.

It was Valentine's Day 2011. I was in a committed relationship with a former stripper, high-school dropout I met online that had begun the previous March. This particular ex-stripper also used to work as a manager of a sex novelty store. She was a sweet girl (when she wanted to be) and was faithful (when she wanted to be) but had a serious penchant for kinky stuff. I've never been much for novelty items in the bedroom. Call me a traditionalist, but they've just never appealed to me. And when I met this particular woman, let's call her Krista, I had never experimented with anything other than my body and protection. All of that changed within the first week when I met a giant, red-and-white-striped rubber phallus that dwarfs the girth of most tree limbs in comparison.

While it probably doesn't sound like it, this particular partner and I agreed on a lot of things, and we also put up with a lot of other things, throughout the course of our ill-fated relationship. We liked coffee, loose-leaf teas, driving around, sunsets, tents, bonfires, COPS, and not giving a fuck. She wasn't fond of my running (understatement of the year) or the fact that I still lived (and live) at home with my parents, and I didn't really appreciate her smoking, public drunkenness, and overall lack of empathy for pretty much everyone and everything around her. The fact that she intentionally tried to hit me with her car the summer before was also a pretty touch-and-go topic for obvious reasons. It might amaze you to learn I later forgave her for the transgression, but I digress. More about underwear.

Our Valentine's Day plans for that particular year included meeting up with some friends of ours (yes, people actually wanted to hang out with us) for sushi at a favorite restaurant of ours in Fairlawn. But, before I could meet up with her and the rest of the gang, I, of course, had to get a run in.
I couldn't have planned it any worse and game myself about an hour to change, run six miles, stretch, shower, change again, and drive twenty minutes to the restaurant after I got home from work. Luckily I was running a tempo set that evening, and was able to churn out the six miles in about thirty-seven minutes or so. Top notch, even in the bitter cold. I flew through my stretches, shower, and prep before hopping into the car with only ten minutes to get to the restaurant. Damn. No, Ringo, it does not come easy.

I arrived about a half hour late to the gracious acceptance of everyone in our company but Krista. I would have been there sooner, but Krista insisted that everyone dress. We were the only two that dressed up. The only other person to come close to dressing up was a guy who own his own cafe and wore his food-stained work shirt, which to his defense was a button-down, to the dinner. We drank, we ate, we told jokes; it was actually kind of nice to spend Valentine's Day with not only a close lover, but close loved ones, as well. And as the going theme of this yarn is "There's a first time for everything," so shall we continue the story.

As it turns out, Krista was mad that it wasn't just the two of us one-on-one. I honestly can't remember at the moment whether or not it was her idea to invite everyone else along or mine, but, either way, she wasn't a happy camper about it. The only redeeming quality to the evening was the fact that around 9:00pm, when we all finally went our separate ways, I was headed over to her place for a little Valentine gift exchange at her dad's place (she lived at home, too…let that sink in for a moment). Now I suppose is as good a time as any other to reveal another quirk Krista had. While given the right outfit and time of year, I always thought she could pull the look off, but there were a lot of times, especially when she wore her blue one, when all I could do was sit back and scratch my head in wonder at the many wigs she used to love to wear.

When I got back to her father's place, Krista was wearing a black number (think Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction) and black dress with a black choker. She had completely changed from dinner, where she wore a white dress and had put her large, brunette curls, which I devotedly adored at the time, up in a bun-like do. I enter her bedroom to find her lying on her couch provocatively and wearing white gloves. In that moment it was kind of easy to see her early stripper origins shining through and what made her so appealing to drunk 40-year olds (…or Lisa Sanchez) waving singles in musty bars after hours. There was a pink Victoria's Secret bag in the corner that she revealed was mine. Inside was a massage-oil candle, a mink glove, and there, at the bottom of the bag wrapped in purple tissue paper, was a black G-string.

"Put it on," she giggled, waving her drunken hands at me in encouragement.

For whatever reason, perhaps because I proclaim myself to be a pretty good sport, I obliged and put on the undergarment…and immediately felt how I thought I might: ridiculous. But she really seemed to enjoy it. I started taking them off when her playful expression wiped in exchange for something that looked like it just found out the sun was a giant vat of cheddar fondue.

"You're taking them off?" she pleaded, apparently wounded.

"Well, yeah," I said, "I'm not going to just wear them home to bed." As it turns out, that's exactly what she wanted me to do, along with a few other choice, unmentionable acts. Long story short, I didn't wear them home. I replaced the G-string with the SpongeBob boxers I wore over there and bid the young woman goodnight after some minor Valentine's frivolity.

The evening was weird; about as weird as they come, but that's life. As Thompson once said, "Buy the ticket, take the ride." True that. Sometimes you find yourself late for Valentine's Day dinners and then meet your girlfriend over at her dad's place to open gifts looking like a pin-up Quentin Tarantino character, drunk, and handing out European underwear as if it's perfectly natural. Thinking back, that was probably the worst Valentine's Day I've ever had with a partner. But I always tell myself at least I had a partner then, and even though we never saw eye-to-eye and were on different paths in life, she was there for me, perhaps eyeing my underpants, but there for me nonetheless. And I suppose, at the end of the day, made up or intended to drive sales or just plain bullshit, I feel like that's what Valentine's Day meant at some point or another. And I still have the G-string to prove it.