Oatmeal Cookies, by Rosicky Jones

Honesty is the key to love’s boudoir.  That I have only been honest with one girl, the only girl I ever loved, validates this theory.

But what about casual hook-ups?  What about those girls that are a step above a booty call and a step below a relationship?  The oatmeal cookie girls.  Oatmeal cookies are never as good as chocolate chip or Christmas cookies (relationship girls), but they are at least better than stale cookies (one-night stand girls).  I recently met an oatmeal cookie girl and tried to take the high road, the honest approach.  I even gave her my real name.

I was chillin’ out, maxin’, relaxin’, when I heard a rappin’ at my chamber door.  The effeminate knocking was produced by the freshly manicured fingers of one Pinky.  I gave my Canadian friend a hug and noticed a human being stuck between our masculine embrace.  It was a 5’5 succubus that had somehow attached itself to Pinky.

My abhorrence of love and relationships is not only matched, but surpassed by Pinky’s.  In my life I dropped those three little words to only one special lady, Heather be thy name.  Pinky had only dropped an L-bomb on one person – himself, and repeatedly, if I may add.

I didn’t know how to react to The Growth until she did two things that changed my pre-conceived notions:

1-      She said my writing was next-level.  Now I don’t speak Canadian, but I took that as a compliment.

2-      She shed her nickname, The Growth, and earned a new one, Loosey, for the adorable little joint she rolled on my coffee table.  I think one of the reasons Pinky loves her is the intricate little loosey she is able to roll with her small fingers.

I was shocked that Pinky had found love, for another two reasons:

1-      I couldn’t believe that he was able to feel anything but haughty antipathy for women.

2-      I couldn’t believe I lost one of my best writing motivational tools.  What was I supposed to do with all my amazing Pinky stories?  Would he get in trouble if I finally found a clever way to weave his threesome with two immigrant cleaning ladies who spoke no English into one of my columns?  I have been trying to get this story into a column for a couple of months, but couldn’t find the hook.  The story is 100% true, and blew my mind.  The motel he was philandering in caught fire, yet he soldiered on.  He told me that dying in a fire while involved in a foreign language threesome, while wearing a torn up Sidney Crosby jersey would have been the greatest way to die known to man.  I even had an amazing Arizona anti-immigration reform column written that used his sexcapade as an argument against legislation.  But I didn’t want to demean Pinky by tying his amazing story to the racist Arizona law. But how could I ever gift you that story with Loosey in the picture?

And then he laid it on me.  He said that she knew about everything and he knew about everything and shit was copacetic.  I tilted my head in an inquisitive manner and he responded:

“Yeah, yo, she knows about the time I was paid for sex in the Dominican Republic.”

I was perplexed.  I handed Loosey the joint and she scoffed – “I don’t do drugs.”

I tried to discreetly text Pinky a question, and she intervened.  She told me that they were completely open with one another.  She knew about his open-mouthed kiss with the lead singer of Our Lady Peace.  He knew about her sharing a hot-air balloon ride with Drake.  She knew that he had an imaginary friend named Pinky when he was younger because he wanted a twin brother.  He knows that she gave Ice-T help with his financial portfolio.

Maybe this complete openness is the key to successful relationships regardless of their magnitude.  If I was honest with my mailman, my boss, oatmeal cookies – maybe I could enrich all my relationships.

Loosey got up, finished her drink and Pinky’s and told me to get ready – I was third-wheelin’ it tonight.

So I put on a pair of white shoes, a sick plain white V-neck, some acid-washed jeans, sprinkled some glitter on my penis, drank two raw eggs, and snorted some Aderol.  New leaves were turning over and whatnot.  I was going to be open, and I love white shoes and acid-washed jeans.

Five minutes into the bar and it happened.  I was in full George Clooney mode with a lovely young ingénue.  As we passed one another our eyes met, and she reached out for me.  I grabbed her hand and pulled her close so she could hear me over the Celtic cover of Ice Cube’s “It Was a Good Day.” I whispered something in her ear so amazing that the needle on the record came to a screeching stop and the bar patrons broke out into applause.  She lit my cigarette and followed me back to my apartment where we proceeded to make love while Ave Maria played in the background.

Ahem.

What actually happened was that Pinky and I were too stoned to stand so we pasted in a booth.  Our hot waitress began making fun of my white shoes.  She then made fun of my acid-washed jeans.  Pinky was laughing in Canadian, and I was too stoned to be coherent, let alone charming.  Then Loosey got up and spoke with the waitress in confidence.  She came back with the girl’s number.  I asked her what happened.

Loosey: “I let her know who you were?”

Pinky:  “He’s a nobody.”

Me: “He’s right, I am”

Loosey: “We know that, but I told her you were a famous writer on FlipCollective.  I know you’re as reliable as a gymnast’s period, but I told her you’d call tomorrow – don’t disappoint me.”

This is the part that I thank one Paul Shirley for getting me to fellatio’s doorstep.  Thanks.

The next day came and I called the new bird.

We hung out.

We made out.

Rinse and repeat.

She was an oatmeal cookie if I ever ate one… That actually came off kinda grosss… I didn’t eat her; I meant that as part of the metaphor, stop looking at me like that.

So went for the Pinky-Loosey approach.  If honesty was the key to meaningful relationships then I was going to be honest with this new one.

We were in my bed and the “getting to know you” process geared up a bit.  And I held nothing back.  I let her have everything.  All trust, right?

She asked about my childhood and we spoke at length about the asylum.

She asked about college and I told her about my cheating.

She asked about my likes and dislikes and I told her about writing and Paris Hilton.

She asked about my favorite food, and I told her about a joint wrapped in a smore.

She asked about my sexual history and I told her about the few, but meaningful liaisons I had had.  Then I kept talking, and talking.  It was therapeutic.  I explained to her that I was a pathological liar and why it was important for me to be honest.  I told her that I didn’t want to date her, but that I wanted meaningful human interaction and my lies would have prevented that.  I kept talking and laying truths onto her is such an uninterrupted manner, that I didn’t notice her grab her keys and saunter towards my door.  She walked out of my apartment, claiming I was way too weird.  She had the same look in her eyes that people have when they see UFOs.  Probably because I was an unidentified foreign object – an open and honest person.

All I could do was laugh.  Maybe the superfluous, meaningless relationships are supposed to stay that way.  Maybe honesty is a gift, not a requirement.  Maybe people want to hear the bullshit, because the truth “ups the ante” too much.  Maybe honesty only works when two people are clearly in love or clinically insane, a la Pinky and Loosey.  Maybe honesty is just as difficult to receive as it is to give.  I’m going to keep my crap relationships crap and full of crap, and tuck the honesty away until I meet someone who seems as weird as me.

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