Bad For You

It is, apparently, some cruel law of the universe that the most psychotic women who wander into my life must also be the most god-almighty fantastic in bed.

The first night I met Danni, she made the hair on the back of my neck stand up; that whine of a voice, the violent temper, the spitting, and the insistence on speaking like a female rap star. But she also came equipped with that body, god damn her. And ten beers later, when she was talking with her mouth dangerously close to my face and noting matter-of-factly that she wasn't wearing underwear, I was instantly reduced to a box of Feldman's Modeling Clay.

Later that night, when she delivered unto me a fucking that almost stopped my heart cold, I knew I was in trouble. Because the male mind cares not if a woman starts fights with bartenders or throws chairs in restaurants or tells you that your mother is a "twatburger" [all things she did within the first week I knew her, mind you]. Because we know that the screwing which will be levied after all of this anger has subsided will be an otherwordly experience. And that's its own reward.

I remember the nights I'd sit up, pacing around around her small apartment while she slept off the fuckathon, thinking I could change her. "Niceness begets niceness," I thought. So I tried. And it failed. Miserably. The night she spit beer in my best friend's face [after an argument over, of all things, calling plans], I realized that if I wanted to keep my sanity -- not to mention my friends and family -- I'd have to leave this sex behind.

So I did. And after the death threats subsided, I started seeing some fairly "normal" women again. Women who didn't scream at my relatives, or carry knives in their purses, or try to burn the back of my neck with a lit cigarette.

Also: Women who didn't fuck near as good as Danni.

Unfortunately.