"Spermy" by Julie Allyn Johnson

He was a decent dancer and I guess I was too.  We Fevered and YMCA’d until last call so when he inquired, I eagerly scribbled my phone number on a Cover Girl-smudged cocktail napkin.  

An ostentatious-orange Corvette drove up to the curb which, to be blunt, was the first mark against him.  Not my favorite color or set of wheels.  Attired in a loud, polyester dress shirt and cream-colored, wide-wale corduroy pants, his sartorial flare gave me pause.  When he turned to escort me to his vehicle, I was aghast to note a trio of black streaks on the butt of his trousers.  

Dinner was a disaster, no surprise.  The guy drank like the proverbial fish and never once did he think to ask about me, about my life, about my interests, passions or dreams which was a good thing (for him) because all I wanted for my immediate future was to get as far away from this loser as I could.  My mind scrambled to come up with an exit, an off-ramp, an escape from the insane situation in which I found myself ensnared.  I was clueless as to how I might get untangled from this sorry, pathetic date from the very depths of hell.

Why is it nice girls find it so difficult to assert themselves?  We left the restaurant (did I mention it was an all-you-can-eat buffet?) with plans to head to a new night spot he’d raved about all night.  But first, he wondered aloud, would I care to see his house?  That, too, was something he’d talked about non-stop while we ate.  It was apparent he was quite proud of having become a homeowner at such a young age.   I just didn’t have it in me to decline the earnest enthusiasm of his heartfelt invitation.

He gave me the grand tour which took all of five minutes.  It was a small, older, non-descript home.  Nice enough; neat and clean, nothing fancy.  Good, I thought, time to leave.  Walking through the living room, on our way to the front door, I saw it.  A huge portrait of himself hanging above the sofa, ornate brass candle sconces on either side.  OMG.  Who does that?  The creep factor with this guy just ratcheted up more than a few notches.

Securely tucked back inside the claustrophobic space of the Corvette’s front seat, I watched as he started the ignition. The guy was nearly giddy in his anticipation of the night’s main event: the two of us tripping ye olde light fantastic.  At this point, I was still along for the ride and this chick was miserable.  It’s worth pointing out that my date, apparently, possessed not a shred of awareness as to my discomfort.  Girlfriend, what did you get yourself into?

Come on, Julie.  Think.  How to put an end to this nightmare?

Talk soon turned to his job.  He worked on the shop floor of a local manufacturer of recreational vehicles.  Clearly, he enjoyed how he made his living.  Good for him, I generously thought to myself but it wasn’t enough.  Not even close.  He was nice — kinda, sorta — but that was as much grace as I was prepared to yield.

When I mentioned my sister, who also worked there, his excitement was palpable.  That’s your sister?  No way! He then proceeded to regale me with his strong infatuation with my younger sibling.  Dude, I thought, that is NOT the way toimpress a gal.  Even if I had no interest whatsoever in pursuing any kind of relationship with this zero.

Ah, but the best was yet to come.

By this time, I’d zoned out while he droned on and on about his work.

Spermy, he said.  

What?  What did he just say?  Yeah, my friends all call me Spermy.

I can’t believe you just told me that, I said, incredulous as I turned away, the blur of Iowa corn fields whizzing past the passenger-side window. 

Don’t you want to know why they call me that?

NO, I replied.  It was impossible for me to be emphatic enough on that point.

A brief but awkward silence followed.  I was done playing this game.  

I’m not feeling very good.  My sinuses are bothering me.  Please, if you would, drive me home.

At least he was a gentleman as he promptly, and without a word, did just that.  

Now, some forty years later, a teeny-tiny part of me wonders, yeah.  I wonder why they did call him Spermy.  But then again, not really.

Julie Allyn Johnson is a sawyer's daughter from the American Midwest whose current obsession is tackling the rough and tumble sport of quilting and the accumulation of fabric.  She enjoys the company, camaraderie and accumulated wisdom of various poets and writers she's met since her publishing journey began in 2018.  A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, her work can be found in Star*Line, Coffin Bell, Haikuniverse, Lowestoft Chronicle, Chestnut Review and other journals.  Julie enjoys photography and writing the occasional haiku, some of which can be found on her blog, A Sawyer’s Daughter.