How To Save A Life...

Two months ago I met a girl at Happy Ending's, a bar/club within stumbling distance of my apartment. This was the maiden voyage of my white, long-sleeved shirt -- back when it still clung to my pectorals and hugged my arms. Sadly it has since stretched and I don't look as massive in it anymore. But it's still a good shirt and I wear it often.

Anyway, we hit it off. I had lit her Parliament Light on the smoking deck and mentioned it's the number one cigarette in Hollywood because everyone can do cocaine bumps out of the recessed filter. She giggled a cute, coquettish, overly-girly giggle and we ended up making out all night and singing the lyrics to Chattahoochee in each other's ears, trading off after every line.

"Way down yonder on the Chattahoochee..."
"... it gets hotter than a hoochie coochie."
"We laid rubber on the Georgie asphalt..."
"... we got a little crazy but we never got caught."

I drove down to Hermosa Beach a couple weekends later to see her. I have never received so many penile compliments in my life. Pretend a dickhole is a mouth and imagine it smiling. That's what my penis was doing.

There was a problem though.

"Baby, you're bleeding."
"What?"
"You're bleeding."
"I just had my period last week."
"Well it's back."

She fell asleep with her head on my chest. I woke her up with doggystyle.

"Yes, yes! Harder, HARDER!"
"You like that cock?"
"I love it."
"Big enough for you?"
"Soooooo big."
"Ohhh yeah!"
"OW!"

I had gone too deep. When the pain didn't subside after two days, she went to see her gyno, who gave her painkillers and suggested lube. I went to Hustler's of Hollywood the next day and picked up a tiny bottle. I made sure to specify that I was looking for vaginal lube so the slutty-looking rocker clerk wouldn't think I was gay.

"Do you want water or silicon-based?"
"I don't know. Whatever's good and not expensive."

She picked up a tiny bottle of something that cost ten dollars.

Expensive.

"This feels great on my pussy."
"Cool. Can we gift wrap it?"

Blank stare.

"Holly, do we gift wrap?"
"I'm kidding, I'm kidding."

The girl came up to see me a week later. We had drinks with her friends at their house on a hill in Echo Park and then hit up Happy Ending's again. I stayed soberish because I had french-kissed my toilet the night before. She got sloshed. I ushered her back to my apartment at 12:30, after I bought her a chicken sandwich at Burger King and watched her high-five the backpacked-brontosaurus in the middle of the restaurant.

She french-kissed my toilet. I held her hair. She sobered up. We had sex again.

"Oh my God, baby. You're so fucking wet."
"Oh, yeah..."
"Shit. You're bleeding."

Like an asshole, I made a remark about how expensive it is to dry clean a down comforter. She started to cry. I held her and hushed her and apologized. We fell asleep tangled like a retard's shoelaces.

Sex in the morning. Blood again.

"I don't know what's wrong with me."
"It's okay."
"I'm scared."
"Don't be."

We kind of cut things off after that. Not because of la sangre, but because of my unwillingness to commit to anything more than silent promises of under-the-influence fucking.

DVD chapter-skip to last night.

We reconcile, reunite, and go to a bar in Los Feliz for her friend's moving-to-New York party. Vodka flows, good times are had.

"I have something to tell you."
"What?"
"Not right now."
"Come on. You can't just say that and not tell me."
"I'll tell you later."
"Tell me now."
"Fine... I'm getting surgery next week."
"Surgery? For what?"
"You know how I was bleeding?"
"Yeah..."
"... I had a tumor on my uterus."

She had a tumor on her uterus that she didn't know about. That she wouldn't have known about had it not been for the courageous efforts of my dick. Now I don't know much about the schematics of the vagina, but I don't think this is possible for two reasons.

A: From what I remember of 10th grade Health, the uterus is way up there.
B: I pack heat, but I am not John Holmes.

But I take her word for it. She's drunk, so maybe she means her cervix or her vulva or some other vaginal part that would be on a test, multiple choice or write-in. Either way, I feel like a fucking hero. Like a lone firefigher who prevented a vaginal 9/11.

And then I fuck it up:

"God... I hope I can still get a hard-on later."
"... I don't think you were supposed to say that."
"Yeah. I probably shouldn't have."