I Fucking Faked it for Anchorman

I don't fake anything.
I'm as real a Resa as you can get.
I think I did fake an orgasm once but that was only because I wanted the sex to end.
So that doesn't count.

It is rare that anyone or anything has the power to bring the feigned out of me but there is a minority breed of bastards with the alluring charm to compel me to enjoy their un Resafied interests.

Once I fell victim to the showmance seduction of one very bi curious actor who owned pet rats.
R-A-T-S.
Blech to the double eeeww.

I can't think of a critter more un Resafied than a filthy rat.
Except perhaps a filthy dog. I fucking hate dogs. Yeah. I said it. What?
In his hippie abode, he had TWO filthy rats.
And he loved them the way those crazy dog lovers cart their mutts around in a baby carriage.
Excuse me, a bitch carriage.

And what did I feign for this freaky rodent lover?
HE WANTED ME TO KISS HIS RATS.
God, I wish that was a euphemism.

I don't know what in my crush crammed mind made me think the homo would like me more if I liked his stupid rats but I totally felt, as he held one of them two inches from my face, that I had a choice.
I could decline and lose his affections.
Or I could relent and cleanse my mouth with vodka for the next 72 hours.

I kissed his fucking rats.
I fucking faked it for fucking rats.
Fuck me.

Well, I also faked it for another charming seducer.
This Romeo invited me over for a night of cinema and wine.
How sweet. How romantic.

But then I learned what film we were to be watching.
Anchorman.
Cough. Cough cough. Clears throat. Cough.

**Can you come a little closer.....I'm gonna have to whisper this because it's very hush hush, very top secret.....are you listening? I HATE ANCHORMAN!**

Good God in heaven, it feels good to say that.

I HATE those kinds of comedies.
I know, I know, I'm a "freak."
Everyone loves those stupid movies just like they love stupid Harry Potter and stupid Twilight and the color orange and dogs.
I, contrastly, detest these things.

But this dreamy guy, this moody, melancholic sweetheart of a fellow was so excited to watch his favorite movie with me because I'd never seen it.
The dear.

I knew the only way I would make it through was by intoxication.
Thankfully, the wine served my purpose and he had to switch to beer.
Drinking my first two glasses quickly on an empty stomach made my acting all the easier.
It really WAS hillarious!  And YES I was smashed!
I have never worked so hard in my life to appear to be enjoying something.
But I'm certain it was right up there with Meg Ryan's orgasm performance in "When Harry Met Sally."

I was so proud of my performance, of my genuine laughter and my obscene amount of smiles that I knew there was no shadow of a doubt in his mind but that I loved what HE loved and therefore, I ROCKED.

The movie ended and he looked at me skeptically. "You didn't like it, did you?"
I was so furious that it took everything in me not to smash the wine bottle on his head.
"What?? I LOVED it!  SO funny!"

He was nonplussed. And unmoved. And I did the only thing I was good at.
Well, not the ONLY thing.
I read him something I'd written to try and cheer him up.
And THAT, that did the trick.

So I guess I should stick to what I do best.
Which is to be genuine, be present, be open and honest.
And not have to fucking fake it for any man.
No matter how dreamy he appears to be.