Beenie-Weenie

I was “on-again” with my on-again/off-again boyfriend of nearly a decade, {RedneckRomeo}. Because we lived about 3 hours apart in this round of our relationship, impromptu date nights were quite rare. Taking into consideration the fact that I was a full-time student and a part-time-with-full-time-hours workaholic, long weekends were definitely few and far in between. His 21^st birthday was coming up and, being the uber-cute girlfriend that I am, I wanted to make his birthday reasonably memorable (I say “reasonably” because it was his 21^st birthday, after all… How much of yours do YOU remember??). I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to get the weekend off from work, and I could hear the disappointment in his voice when I told him his Sugar Dumplin’ might not be there for the drunken debauchery.

A few days later, my work schedule was posted… I got the whole weekend off! But instead of telling {RedneckRomeo} the good news, I decided to be a sneaky snake and surprise him by showing up for the weekend. With that, a plan was devised:

Phase One: Recruit accomplice to ensure a clean execution

The first rule of planning a surprise is to find an accomplice; you need someone on the other end to make sure that everything is going according to plan and that the surprise-ee is in the right place at the right time. For this mission, I recruited {RedneckRomeo}’s mom, {MissK}. After she was on-board and willing to assist with the affectionate ambush, I fabricated my excuse…

Phase Two: Deflate expectations with plausible alibi(s)

After hearing all the details for his birthday party and (obviously) getting an invite, {RedneckRomeo} was somber when I broke the “bad news” to him and told him that “I was scheduled to work allllllll weekend.” Sometimes, {RedneckRomeo} would call me at work, so I had my coworker positioned to cover for me in the event that he decided to call me while I was en route to his house. I had all the bases covered but, just to throw {RedneckRomeo} off my trail even more, I had his present FedExed to him instead of waiting to deliver it in person. (I bought him these really nice and expensive-as-fuck camouflage seat covers that he wanted for his truck… So deliciously redneck, I know!)

Phase Three: Go Time.

Everything was set; he didn’t suspect a thing. Late Friday evening, I packed up and started out on the 3 hour trek. The plan was that I would get to his house while he was still at work, hide my car down the street, and sit in his room until he got home, at which point his mother would tell him that his present was on his bed… *ME*

That plan was all fine and dandy, except I didn’t account for any lost time. 30 miles from his place, I ran over something while I was driving (nothing furry, for the record) and pulled off the highway to check my car. Unfortunately, the nearest exit only had one gas station that happened to be super sketch. After being approached by a janky-ass hobo and begrudgingly giving him all the pennies from my car’s ashtray, I decided I had wasted enough time and temporarily concluded that all was well with my car.

Back on the highway and 20 minutes behind schedule, I called {MissK} to get an update on {RedneckRomeo}’s whereabouts. She told me he was just leaving work and if I hurried I could beat him home. So there I was, racing my could-be-severely-damaged car down a dilapidated back road when I get to the traffic light that leads down the two-lane road to his house. The light’s red. My stomach’s fluttering with excitement. A car approaches the light from the other direction. I’m irrationally pissed when they get a green light before I do. I watch the car turn in front of me. “That pickup sure looks familiar. Oh look, camo seat covers, just like the ones I bought for...” Shit. So much for beating him to his house.

I quickly called {MissK} and let her know the change in plans: I was going to wait it out for 15 minutes at the gas station down the street (one that was NOT infested with hobos) and then I would make my move. Ten minutes pass and I’m too anxious to wait any longer. I drive to his house and park behind his truck. I give {MissK} a final call to let her know I am outside and ask her to make up some reason to have {RedneckRomeo} go outside. I get out of my car and lean on the front bumper of his truck. A few seconds later, the screen door opens.

“Hi,” I chirp.

“Who is that?” he asks into the darkness.

“Who do you want it to be?” I say, trying to sound coy.

He stepped into the light just in time for me to see a smile creep across his face. The surprise went off without a hitch (minus the whole car damage/hobo incident, of course).

Fast forward: {RedneckRomeo} is happily surprised I’m there. We do it. We do it some more. We do it into the wee hours of the morning until we pass out from sheer endorphin overdose. It’s morning. I wake up and look around. I guess I hadn’t noticed it while we were boinking all over the place, but his room is a FUCKING MESS.

Now, I’m not a total clean freak; I can handle a few days of dirty dishes in the sink or some unfolded laundry, but when there is a heaping compost pile of your belongings mangled with YEARS of garbage and dirt, I get seriously perturbed. The image of his disheveled pig sty haunts me for the rest of the day. In the shower, I think… “HIS CLOSET MUST SUFFER FROM COMPULSIVE VOMITING.” Driving to the store… “THE FILM OF DUST ON HIS SHELVES IS THICKER THAN A BBW.” Helping {MissK} make food for the party… “HIS ROOM LOOKS LIKE NAWLINS AFTER KATRINA!” That’s it. I cannot spend another night sleeping in that clusterfuck of clothes, trash, and grime! Time for a deep clean, baby.

After playing sous chef to {MissK} and helping her create such country dinner fixin’s like fried chicken, baked beans, and some absofuckinglutely DELISH potato salad, I kicked {RedneckRomeo} out of his own room and armed myself with all sorts of cleaning supplies. I set to work repairing this no-longer-acceptable medley of junk. One hour later, I had rummaged through the debris and disposed of the agglomeration of dead batteries, old food wrappers, and crumpled work schedules. Two hours in, I had cleared out all of the dishes and successfully separated all the clean clothes from the contaminated. By hour three, I had managed to sort through years of receipts and paystubs and chronologically filed them away in an old shoebox. By the fourth (and, thankfully, final) hour, I had dusted every shelf and knickknack, swept behind every dresser and bookshelf, and even tipped his bed to displace the unyielding army of dust bunnies hiding in its shadows. Finally, the room was clean. Spotless, to be more precise. I went to the bathroom to wash away the layers of sweat and sediment plastered to my skin.

I heard the first of {RedneckRomeo}’s family and friends arrive as I was about to get nakey in the bathroom. I thought of all the hard work I put into cleaning his room and silently cursed anyone that dared to enter the now-pristine sanctuary in an anything-less-than-antiseptic state. Simultaneously, {RedneckRomeo}’s hand slid through the still-open door and I was handed a few SoCo-and-lime jello shots, which I gulped down while stepping into the shower. When I got out of the shower, I slipped into his room where there was a plate of food and a rum-and-Coke waiting for me. After I had inhaled my plate of home-cooked grub and finished painting on some eyeliner, it was time for a round of shots. By the time I had dried and straightened my hair, I had consumed as much alcohol as the loser of a beerpong tourney. Only problem was, I wasn’t feeling it. Any of it. Nothing. My mind was too consumed with the possibility of someone polluting {RedneckRomeo}’s (a.k.a. MY) sanitary oasis.

For the next few hours, went head-to-head with anyone that wanted a shot, chugged many a rum-and-Coke, and attempted to forget my obsession over guarding his room from intruders and, instead, focus my attention on drinking away my motor skills. But much to my shagrin, while {RedneckRomeo} and all of his guests were romping around in a state of drunken euphoria, I was stuck in Frown Town, desperately trying to get a buzz. Eventually, the party died down around the time my once-noble prince had transformed into the drunky court jester. I realized it was time for bed. Before we could head to the now-immaculate bedroom, however, we first had to get cleansed of the dirt, ash, and beer splatters our bodies had accumulated during the backyard hoedown around the bonfire. I helped my shloshed boyfee undress and we stepped into the shower, where we scrub-a-dub-dubbed until we were both sweet-and-pink-and-kissin’ clean. Now that the rest of the party guests had left and the two of us were all cleaned up, it was time to stop worrying about the room getting soiled and concentrate on having some birthday sex.

Back in his room, I FINALLY feel the rush of the alcohol as I pull one of his tees over my head and {RedneckRomeo} pulls me onto the bed. I drunkenly lay down next to him, reaching my hand down into his boxers. He was already hard, so I slid my body down his until I was face-to-face with Junior. I start to give him a birthday beejay, expertly performing all the tongue tricks I know that make his toes curl. Enough licks and flicks later, he stands up to go for the finish. Using one hand to hold myself up and the other to direct his dick into my mouth, I guide his St. Nick down my chimney, gagging on it for added sound effect. As he’s face-fucking away, I can still taste the liquor from earlier…the SoCo jello shots, the rum, the random beer…the thought of all those different alcohols is revolting! I feel nauseous. I think I’m going to throw up at the mere thought of it. No wait, it’s not the thought of the alcohol that’s gonna make me vomit; it’s…(!)

But it was too late. {RedneckRomeo}’s repetitive thrusting had finally triggered my gag reflex. I lurched backwards as I watched a flood of {MissK}’s yummy baked beans and some partially-digested jello pour out of my mouth. Due to my semi-mastered ninja-like reflexes, I caught the majority of the spill in the shirt I was wearing. Unfortunately for {RedneckRomeo}, however, not all of the baked bean cocktail escaped the path of his hot dog. And there it was, just as disgusting as the lunch lady would serve up: A lukewarm pile of beenie-weenie.