The Morning After

"You know what you are?" is never a very clever thing to ask me, since
it always starts a fight, but Derrick, leaning back in my chair on my
balcony, goes ahead and says it anyway.
"You know what you are?"
he asks me again, just to make sure I'm listening, and I, already
irritated at his presence and the way he chews his food, swallow my
anger and decide to humor him.
"No," I lean back into my chair and fold my arms,
"tell me. What am I?"
"You like to think you're tough, but you're not,"
he announces and gives me a triumphant smile, as if he'd just
discovered the speed of light.
"You think you're a slut,"
he goes on, his white fingers tapping the table in an irritating
tadum-tadum rhythm, "but you're not. You're just a sweet girl who
really wants to fall in love and be happy. You need a man to take care
of you, so why pretend to be tough when you're not?"

Derrick is starting to piss me off.
First of all, he called me "girl".
Secondly, he called me a "sweet girl".
And worst of all, Derrick had decided, after two drinks and a quick
fumble in the taxi last night, that he knew me better than I knew
myself.

I don't like Derrick.
Sure, he'd had a certain appeal when I'd met him last night, but the
club was dark and smoky, and let's face it, even a rat would look
appealing in that lighting.
But then again, that's exactly the type of guy I end up with; a rat who
looks good in bad lighting, who walks with a swagger in way-too-tight
trousers, and a cocky smile that says "I'm fun. Just try me."
And you do, thinking, what's the worst that could happen?

The worst does happen, when you find he's a clumsy kisser, throws up in
the cab over your fake designer bag (it may be fake but still very
precious!) passes out on your doorstep, so you drag his heavy weight
over to your bed and you sleep on the couch.

And then next morning, he swaggers into your living room, doing the
whole cocky walk (you wonder if he walks like that 'cause his jeans are
too tight and he's getting a rash) and gives you a suave smile, as if
he knows he gave you some really good sex last night.
He then drinks your coffee, finishes the last of your favorite cereal,
and then, sitting back on your balcony in his tight leather pants, he
decides to do you a favor by telling you what you really are, since he
knows you so well.

So here he is, psychoanalyzing me in his cheap polyester shirt, telling
me "I know your type," as if I'm meat, and I wonder if that's supposed
to make me feel better.
And poor Derrick thinks he's got me all worked out; because I have a
pink dressing gown, he happily thinks he's discovered my sensitive
side, "I was hoping there's more to you than what you show," he
explains.
He feels better knowing that underneath my smoky eyeliner, I am just a
poor little girl that needs to be taken care of.

Right now all I can think is, Thank God I didn't sleep with him.

So I say,
"Derrick, what is it exactly you want?"
and Derrick says with full sincerity,
"I don't want you to feel like you have to sell yourself to every man
for love!"
"Sell myself?!"
I sit up in my chair and try so hard not to tear his head off, "you
think I'm selling myself?"

Derrick, like many other members of his species, is a complete
hypocrite: he believes that a woman who has one-night stands is a slut,
but if this slut asks him for sex, he'll say "Okay!" and give her the
lecture afterwards.
So because he thinks I'm a slut, it's his duty to reform me, after
getting a piece of me, of course.

I'd like to shut Derrick up, wipe that stupid grin off his face, tell
him that last night pretty much sucked, we never had sex anyway, and
the only reason why I let him come on to me last night was because he
was there at the right place and the right time, nothing more.

I'd like to tell Derrick to lose the whole cocky, Big-Man-On-Town act,
because I'm not buying it: deep inside, he's really just a little boy
looking for a mother, albeit in a sick Oedipus way.

But then I laugh at myself and decide to let it pass. There is no point
in trying to change Derrick, because that's just what he's trying to do
to me.
Oh, and I know his "type": Derrick is the kind of guy who'll tell you
all about your faults and your problems, to try and draw attention away
from his own very obvious issues.

So he layers the last of my jam on the last of my toast and says: "I
just want you to be happy."

I shake my head, lean forwards and say,
"Derrick, I'd happy if you'd leave me some breakfast."