Meeting Women Online Used to Be Suicide: Part 2

(Note: Part 1 of this series is located here.)

The Baltiwhore

The next episode in the “Meeting Women Online Used to Be Suicide” saga takes place in Baltimore, which is why I went with a picture of Omar Little of The Wire fame. (The only thing that’d better represent Baltimore than a scary-looking, shotgun-wielding black man would be a video of Cal Ripken drinking a Natty Boh and calling into 98 Rock demanding they “Play some Metallica, hon!” Man I love to hate that city.) The woman I dubbed “Baltiwhore” was a cute, blue-eyed blonde who was intelligent, charming and a few years older than me. She was even in the middle of a messy divorce, which you’d think would make her the ideal girlfriend (there is no woman more afraid of things getting serious than a fresh divorcee), but things never went in that direction. Instead, I’d drive up to Baltimore every few months, drink for free at the dive where she’d bartend, take her to a nearby motel (which she sprung for. Man, I must have a diamond dick), banged her for a few hours and then drove home the instant she fell asleep. In retrospect, it was the most perfect relationship I have ever known. But, alas, all good things must come to an end. Here is the story of my final trip to visit the Baltiwhore.


(Before we continue, I’d like to clarify that the term “Baltiwhore” is in no way pejorative: I just like substituting “whore” and its derivatives in wherever I can. I’ve also dated a lovely girl I nicknamed the Ohi-ho, would one day like to visit Whoreonto and root for the Baltimore Whorioles. Got it? Good.)

The night began like any of my other trips to Charm City: A shower, some cologne, laughing at the unopened box of condoms left idling in my drawer as I slid it shut. Although I typically abhorred driving an hour-and-a-half up I-95, America’s cocaine and herpes corridor, I had scored a copy of the Robert Evans book The Kid Stays in the Picture on tape (solely because Patton Oswalt did this amazing bit about it. Please continue reading only after clicking that link) and was blissfully listening along as I tore up the highway in my mom’s 2000 Ford Taurus. (Ladies, try not to get too moist imagining me picking you up in a late model fleet car as the whiskey-ravaged voice of a ’70s movie producer reading his memoirs poured out of its tinny, baseline package sound system. I know it’s impossible, but try.) 90 minutes of tales of debauched cocaine orgies later, I was at m’lady’s cantina and ready to get my drink on.


Given I was about 22 when this took place, the fact I was good friends with a hot bartender who would let me run up $75 tabs and then pay her back by the inch later that night blew my mind. Actually, as I type this, I’m still pretty baffled I ever managed such an arrangement. Just goes to show that Amazon isn’t the only source of bargains on the Internet. (Badabing!) I entered the establishment and immediately greeted the Baltiwhore with a hug and a kiss, which drew a raised eyebrow from every other guy in the place who had been eying her up the entire night. The next few hours were spent pounding Natty Bohs and pouring down whatever shots were shoved in front of me and sneaking a kiss across the bar whenever I could. Before I knew it (because liquor makes you time travel), BW’s shift was over and it was time for us to hit the motel for premarital intercourse, as the kids call it.

Words cannot convey how seedy the motel that BW and I used for our games of mommy-daddy wrestling was, but I’m certain on at least one occasion I heard Hector the Toad put a chainsaw through Angel Fernández’s head as Tony Montana spat curses en espanol at him from the next room. I couldn’t care less, though: I was drunk, happy and about to undress a girl I’d been staring for hours at harder than Gabourey Sidibe would a Red Lobster commercial. We ran up to the room, I ripped off her clothes, threw her down on the bed, tossed her legs over my shoulders and, right as I was about to plunge in…she farted on it.


We’re not talking a brief fart, either: It was like my dick was hot soup and she was blowing on it to cool it down. My first reaction was to scream like Jack Nicholson in that bathtub scene from The Shining, which scared the holy hell out of BW. As soon as she figured out I was panicking about the fart, however, she immediately grew angry and told me to shrug it off and stop being a baby. At that point I knew my choices were to either grab my clothes and leave with my pride and a shred of my urge to ever have sex again, or, like so many before me, take my lumps and put out because it was “the right thing to do.” Not wanting word to get around school that I was a cocktease, lest none of the boys ask me to prom, I gritted my teeth gave it up with all the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old Thai girl mounted by a German octogenarian on a sex tour of her homeland.


I say without hyperbole that my innocence died that day. Before The Fart, nothing really gross had ever happened to me during sex. It had all been so porno film sterile and nice. Afterward, though, my entire belief system lay shattered. It took countless readings of The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank to slowly restore my faith in humanity, countless viewings of the earnest work churned out by those good, Christian boys over at Bang Bros. to resuscitate my crushed libido. People say they’ll never forget where they were when JFK was shot, where they were on 9/11. Well, I’ll never forget where I was the day the Baltiwhore farted on me.

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