The Kinkiest $16 I Ever Made

With the possible exception of the people who marry their high school sweethearts, most of us have at least a few bizarre stories that come out of our failed relationships.

In Remus' case, there was a woman he dated briefly who—for reasons unknown—decided to make a solo trip to the adult toy store where she purchased a vibrator. Specifically, a neon pink rabbit vibrator, which, if Sex and the City is to be believed, is a top of the line option. (And really, when was that show ever not 100% based in reality?)

When their short-lived relationship ended soon after, she left the vibrator behind at his place—unused and still in its factory-sealed packaging—and he tossed it in his filing cabinet and forgot about it. (So...would that be filed under "V" for "vibrator," "R" for "rabbit," or "D" for...well, I guess it doesn't really matter.)

When Remus told me this story, we had the following exchange (paraphrased):

Wolfie: So do you still have it?

Remus: Yeah. Do you want it?

Wolfie: No, I do not want the vibrator that your crazy-pants ex left here.

(Side note: I realized after the fact that the proper response was probably something along the lines of, "Why would I need that when I've got you, stud," but I'm often bad at picking up cues.)

Remus: Well, I certainly don't want it, so what am I supposed to do with it? Apparently it's a good one, so it seems a shame to throw it out.

Wolfie: Do you know anyone going to a tacky bachelorette party who will need to bring a sexy gift?

Remus: No.

Wolfie: You could sell it on eBay since it's brand-new.

Remus: I am not selling a vibrator on eBay. I don't need that in my transaction history. Plus do you know what sort of targeted ads I'll get on every website I go to?

Wolfie: Well, I'll sell it, I don't care. But I get to keep the profits.

Remus: Deal.

Less than a week later, the rabbit was on its way in discreet packaging to some unknown buyer, and I was $16 richer. Now, hopefully one of his other exes left behind a sex swing still in the box, complete with installation hardware, so I can make some serious cash.

Nice to Meet You. Have Some Baggage.

Nearly every ladies' magazine, chick lit novel, or romantic movie I've come across over the years preaches the same message to single women: If you like a guy, don't trouble him with any of your heavy issues too early, because men are big scaredy-cats who will bolt at the first inkling that their relationship with you will be anything other than boobs, beers, and blow jobs.

I guess this isn't necessarily bad advice if all you're looking for is a series of short-lived flings with men who are still emotionally children, but if you're an adult looking to cultivate a lasting relationship with another adult, why wouldn't you delve into the heavy stuff early on? That way you would know if you're both on the same page and ready to help take on the burden that someone you care for is carrying.

Unfortunately, I didn't really get a choice as to when Remus and I would drag each other into our respective life messes, as within the first six months of our relationship we had to deal with:

• A major death in my family.
• A work situation that had him largely unavailable most days and nights for the first month.
• Him contracting that death flu that was going around that winter.
• Me passing out the first weekend I stayed at his apartment.
• His sister having a baby prematurely and all the resulting health issues that came with that.
• Getting into a car accident that resulted in the total loss of my car.
• A major death in his family.
• His mother needing emergency back surgery.
• Me losing my job.

And while all these situations largely sucked and I would have gladly had them happen later on in the relationship (or, you know, not at all...), I'm not entirely upset that they occurred when they did. Because instead of either of us freaking out and pulling the plug due to "too much drama," we were able to solidify early on that we both wanted to and were capable of having each other's backs when times got rough. And given how life has a tendency to be randomly shitty when you least expect it, I'm glad to have finally found someone I'm able to face it all with. In between all the boobs, beers, and blow jobs, of course.

I Never Knew Me a Valentine

Ugh…screw Valentine’s Day, am I right? No matter what your relationship status is, that holiday can just suck it. All it does is pressure couples into performing some pre-determined ritual (with possible variables) that someone once decided was “romantic,” and it makes single people feel like unloved human garbage.

As someone who never had someone special for Valentine’s Day for 34 years, I long ago made my tepid peace with the day (yes, my past “on-again, off-again” relationships were always conveniently “off-again” whenever V-Day would roll around). Yeah, it would kind of sting a bit watching other people get flowers, balloons, candy, and jewelry delivered to them by someone who loved them, but I was perfectly capable of buying my own candy and jewelry, cut flowers die too soon, and balloons are really only fun for infants and morons (of which I am neither).

So when the big day was encroaching my first year with Remus and I realized that for the first time I would actually have a valentine in my life for Valentine’s Day, I wasn’t completely sure how to proceed. Did I really want to celebrate what I know for a fact is a ridiculous holiday? Did I even care about a holiday that I never celebrated for 30+ years? It would be as if I was suddenly asked to know how to observe Arbor Day or the summer solstice (uh…plant a tree and sacrifice a goat, I guess?). And if I did want to celebrate V-Day with Remus, was that OK, or did that make me a bad feminist and a traitor to my former bachelor self?

In the end I decided that I did want to do something to mark the ridiculous occasion, because being in love is—in its simplest terms—nice, and therefore worthy of some celebration from time to time, and what better time than a day that the world has specifically bookmarked as the day to celebrate love? I quickly put the kibosh on any of the Valentine’s Day clichés—no flowers, no chocolates, no lavish gifts, no public displays of anything, and absolutely no balloons—but requested to simply spend the day together and go out for a good meal somewhere nicer than the places we usually go to.

So we both took the day off work, made restaurant reservations, and looked forward to lazily sleeping in together. And as far as first Valentine’s Days go, it was pretty much perfect. But I swear to god if I ever see one flower or balloon arrive at my desk, heads will roll.

*Title taken from a commonly misheard lyric from Elton John’s “Crocodile Rock.” I know this is not the correct lyric. I also don’t care.

My Date with Typhoid Mary

Over the years I've been on countless first dates, the vast majority of which were with guys I met through the nightmare that is online dating. It's often assumed that because of this I must have lots of good "awkward first date" stories to share, but honestly, I really don't...unless you consider, "we met, had a perfectly benign evening out, but didn't really hit it off that much, so we never got together again," to be riveting material, in which case you would find my dating history to be positively spellbinding.

But there are a few "good" stories that stand out from the rest, like my date with Typhoid Mary.

Typhoid and I exchanged a series of online communications that made me feel reasonably sure that he wasn't a psychopath, so we agreed to meet up for dinner. The day before the date he texted me that he was sick and would need to reschedule. It being winter in New York, this didn't seem out of the realm of possibility, but he kept apologizing and describing his symptoms to me, as if to assure me he really was ill and not just blowing me off. I was perfectly happy to reschedule for the following week without having to know the color of his mucus, but props for being honest, I guess.

When date night finally rolled around the next week, I met Typhoid at the restaurant where he was waiting with a single red rose and an obvious fever, both of which made me want to pull the plug on the date right then and there. The rose because who brings a single red rose to a first date with a person they've never actually met before? It's too familiar and romantic to do to a stranger, and after just one hour spent with me would have made it clear I'm not the type of woman who is wooed with flowers. The fever because ew gross, you're still sick, so why are you out in public infecting the rest of us?

But not being a completely insensitive person, I accepted the rose politely and prepared myself to get the dinner over with as quickly as possible, preferably in an open setting where we wouldn't be forced to share the same air. As luck would have it, the restaurant (which he chose) was one of those tiny, intimate, dimly-lit joints where elbow room is a foreign concept.

As soon as we sat down I could see that he was pale, congested, and clammier than my sports bra after a kickboxing class. He also had a hacking cough that he was at least directing into his fist. (A fist that he then utilized utensils with that handled food, so it was a small comfort.)

"Sorry. I'm still getting over whatever I had last week."

If this was the "getting over" stage, I didn't want to know what the "having it" stage looked like.

"If you're still not feeling well, this can totally wait until you're better," I said.

"No, no I'm OK. My throat's just a bit scratchy, still," he insisted, as he mopped his fever sweat from his brow with a napkin in a way you usually only see fat Italian men do in the movies.

We ordered dinner and had a pleasant enough conversation during the meal, in between his sniffling and coughing fits. When the waitress came by at the end to check on us, I was eagerly ready to get the check, call it a night, and go back outside to take the first deep breaths I've had in an hour. But Typhoid had other plans.

"Do you want to split something for dessert? The pumpkin cheesecake here is really good."

Did I want to split dessert? Did I want to put cheesecake that he would be double-dipping into with his disease-ridden fork into my mouth? No, no I did not. Not anymore than I wanted to lick the pole on the subway I was so desperate to get on and ride home.

"Uh, no, thanks. I'm pretty full from dinner."

"Oh, OK. Then do you mind if I get a slice?"

I guess I could have said that yes, I minded, but if this man died that night from whatever he was carrying, I wasn't going to be the horrible witch that denied him his final wish of pumpkin cheesecake. So I sat through his coffee and dessert, while he coughed, sniffled, and sweated through the whole thing.

Once outside and breathing in the "fresh" New York City air, I had to keep myself from literally sprinting to the subway. I tried for the fast sidewalk good-bye outside of the restaurant, but then he asked what train I needed to get home.

"Oh great! I'm on the same line, but heading downtown. I can walk with you to the stop."

FANTASTIC!

Midway to the subway stop—me hustling along, him taking his time—Typhoid suddenly stopped walking and began scanning the ground.

"Did you lose something?"

"Yeah. My contact lens fell out."

Now, I do not now, nor have I ever, worn contact lenses, but I can say with a fair amount of certainty that if your contact lens falls onto a NYC sidewalk, you do not want it back. Count it as one of your many losses in life and keep walking, trying to focus out of your one good eye.

"Will you help me look for it?"

Will I help you, person who brought the plague to dinner, look for your fallen contact lens so that you can do what with it exactly? Pick it up off the sidewalk and put it back in your eye? Put it in your pocket? Clean it off in your mouth? Why won't you just let me go home so I can take a Silkwood shower and burn these clothes?!

After a half-hearted search for the rogue lens, Typhoid finally accepted that it was gone and we continued on to the subway.

Luckily, the downtown and uptown trains were running on different tracks at this station, so once through the turnstile I was about to end my evening with an infectious disease.

"Well, it was nice to finally meet you. Oh, and thanks for...this..." I said, waving the rose that I had been awkwardly carrying the entire time (and would toss in the trash on my way home; go ahead and think I'm mean). "I hope you feel better soon." And don't schedule anymore dates until you do, fool...

I turned my head to the side and leaned only my upper body in for that uncomfortable one-armed good-bye hug you give to people you either don't really know, don't really like, or who could infect you with something. Typhoid, still not realizing the full gravity of his Patient Zero status, went in for the full hug, with the "come from underneath" head swoop in an attempt for a kiss. Luckily, I am a "don't kiss me" ninja, and counterattacked with the "twist the head" move that inevitably results with a peck on the cheek. Then I booked it down the stairs to my train platform, never having felt so excited to get on the subway in my life.

And to answer your question, no, we did not go out a second time. In fact, I'm not even 100% sure if he survived that winter.