Green Fucking Acres

Moving in with Jesse: holy shit

with Lorinda Birdwhistle

Yeah, shut the fuck up already. I know that you knew that I should have known better than to have made this dumbass move up to Jesse Hayloader’s ranch. What the hell was I thinking?

Blah, blah, blah — Nadine, maybe quit trying to psychoanalyze my reasons for moving in with this studmuffin. Here we are twenty conversations later, and that Complete Idiot’s Guide to Psychology hasn’t gotten you any closer to helping me sort this out. Even if you do eventually connect all the dots, I am not returning to the granny unit behind your house. Never. Ever. I love you, but living back there was making my tits sag and causing vaginal dryness.

And I have to say, I find it rather humorous that you, the high school salutatorian, cannot figure out how I, the person who was never ever ever going to date a man again ever, ended up moving in with a dude after knowing him for less than a month. How did you, Nadine, of all peeps, imagine you were going to be able to solve this conundrum of mine? Hello. You’re a lesbian, and you think like a lesbian.

I’ll give you three hints as to what I was thinking when I made that hasty decision to U-Haul my ass up to Green Acres: it starts with a “P,” it goes “pee,” and you don’t have one.

Remember Green Acres with Oliver and Lisa Douglas? There could only be one reason a woman with Lisa’s good looks, who never lifted a finger in her whole life and whose only sustenance was carryout from the Chinese restaurant in the lobby of her high-rise apartment building, would follow a man to this nasty hovel in the middle of fucking nowhere to sleep on a horsehair bed with sheets made from gunnysacks. Can you say well hung?

Hey readers, for those of you new to my scene, know this: Nadine has been my best friend since grade school, and until last week, I was living in the granny unit behind her house. She was making me espresso drinks every morning and stoking up the hot tub in the evenings after daily setting out a cheese and charcuterie board with a bottle of Pinot Noir on the back deck. And truffles, always those damn Jean-Charles Boisset truffles. Nadine belongs to some truffle club out of Napa Valley, and she doesn’t even like chocolate. Jesus Nadine. Message received.

The sign next to Nadine’s hot tub. Pretty sure she stole this from a beach in Big Sur after she met up with a women’s fly fishing group — some ladies she sat next to in the stands at the 1988 Virginia Slims tournament in Oakland. Guess who won the tournament? Yep, Martina Navratilova.

Although Nadine’s a woman, she’s like Spock, i.e. fucking logical to a fault, while I am like McCoy, perfect in every way except for the emotionally unhinged part. I tend to be reactionary and judgmental, and I make rash decisions that often endanger the entire Star Fleet crew. And I look fetching in plaid.

I also get lust drunk when Captain Kirk shouts: “Engage!” Nadine gets her rocks off when there is a conflict with the Romulans, and the Starship Enterprise has to take evasive action.

Me = McCoy. Nadine = Spock.

So this is how it all went down. One night, as I lay in Jesse’s bed with the flannel Spiderman sheets after three hours of Viagra-fueled lovemaking, I thought “How am I going to drive my car down the hill through six hairpin turns when I can’t even walk to the bathroom?” Yes, I got a sex injury of sorts in my left hip after letting Jesse go at it doggy-style until his Viagra wore off. I’m not sure exactly how long that was, but I do know we listened to Tom Petty’s Full Moon Fever twice before collapsing from exhaustion.

Now I understand why so many older women need hip replacement surgery and a lifetime membership to StretchLab. Holy mother of god. The funny thing is that while Jesse was pile driving me and all those endorphins were coursing through my body, I didn’t feel one iota of pain. Not one. But damn, when the bliss wore off an hour later, the pain was so intense I was limping to the bathroom. WTAF. There was no way I was driving home. And there was Jesse, sprawled out on the bed in a postcoital coma. He was in no condition to drive me home, literally or figuratively. So, I stayed the night.

The next morning, I woke to the smell of vegan bacon frying in avocado oil and gluten-free sprouted grain bread toasting. Please note that I left off the word “pleasant” before “smell.” Then there was the sound of a juicer reducing a pile of unpeeled organic carrots to 16 ounces of bitter orange liquid. None of this was my sort of food, but I had to give Jesse an A+ for effort. Apparently, his doctor suggested a plant-based diet would improve his performance in bed. And that it did, from what I could tell. Jesse must have been hella motivated to switch over from truck stop diner pastries to this, so who was I to complain? If given a choice between food and sex, I think we all know which box I’d be checking off. So, I happily deep-throated Jesse’s homemade breakfast and swallowed it with a smile.

From truck stop pastries to organic concrete aggregate bread to bacon made from free-range, no antibiotics tofu.

I ended up staying for the rest of the day, helping Jesse shovel horseshit, round up six rattlesnakes, scrub out 23 birdbaths, give his cat a deep tissue massage, and reset the toilet in the bathroom (yes, singular). And you know what? I liked it. We rounded the day off with a steamy shower and a recap of the previous evening’s entertainment, though we left Viagra off the menu this go-around and no one got hurt. Turns out Jesse doesn’t need that shit.

Point is this: we’re pretty fucking compatible and we figured that out right away. And hey, life is short. You never know when you might get hit by the cigarette truck.