Mean Pete

by Ellen Smith

MEAN PETE by Ellen Louise Smith and Mean Pete

You have a big, fat butt.

It was true. I knew I had gained weight and the remark stung all the more. He had no filters. I was comforted by the fact that he routinely made similarly contemptuous observations about other friends that I know for a fact he respected, that I was not singled out for mean-spirited criticisms. As for the people he did not like, which according to him, was most people, he was sneeringly misanthropic.

The first time I met Pete, he greeted me by flipping the bird. Like, "Hey, nice to meet you. Fuck you!" I countered his gesture by obscenely tonguing the v between my index and middle fingers. He laughed and somehow we became friends.

We texted often:

April 3:

Me: Hey loser, I got some gnocchi for dinner, yum.

No idea what the fuck that is.

Potato pasta. Kinda like dumplings. Bring beer.

What time?


April 5:

Him: Hate is growth.

April 14:

Him: Extended middle finger.

When bored or restless, I desired spending time with him. I would go to great lengths to get him to hang out with me.

April 23:

Me: WTF?


Where are you?

Home. Where am I supposed to be?

May 1:

Me: I called the zipline place. The $25 zip takes about 45 minutes which sounds perfect to me. Need to make reservations. You cool for Sunday at 2:00pm?I can use my credit card to make reservations.


Making reservations for tomorrow

OK, we're on for 2:30 tomorrow. Meet around 1 or earlier if we want to get food.

Not surprisingly, he blew me off for ziplining. I was glad that he called instead of texted. He called me, "babe". I saved the message.

May 3:

Me: Hey, I'm making spaghetti. Want some?

Mowing the yard. Black with dirt. Ordered a pizza.

Good. I ate all the pasta:

May 24:

Me: Where are you, loser?

Home. Loser.


Profound. Oh and fuck you.

On several occasions, I took him to a strip club. In fact, we went often enough that I was known by the proprietor as a regular. The girls all talked to me about their lives and gave me their phone numbers in order to text one another supportive messages. I paid for everything, including the ones that Pete uncomfortably placed in the strippers' garters.

June 2:

Me: I should have bought you a lap dance! Shit!

Whatever. I've been haunted by dancing pussies ever since. Folks who never get laid shouldn't witness such things

I wondered why he didn't he ever get laid. Any number of twenty-something girls had crushes on him, despite his meanness. Probably because of it.

June 6:

I texted him a picture of myself in a pair of bike shorts from Italy which superimposed an image of Michael Angelo's David's penis on the groin area of the shorts.

Him: Dude, worse shorts ever.

You know you want to suck my cock.

June 9:

Me: "Abraham Lincoln was a faggot. He was in love with General Grant. That's what the civil war was about. Lincoln just freed the slaves on a bet." (Hemingway, E., 1926)

Prove it with algebra

i + u = xxx!

June 23:

Me: I love you.


One Saturday afternoon, after brunch, we returned to his house and we watched porn. Crazy, dirty, extreme porn. Just to see what people do. Not for prurient reasons. We laughed at humanity's certain low points. People eating shit, for god's sake. But after, and not because of the porn, I wanted to have sex with him and told him so. He balked a little, not completely, and decided to take a shower. He told me to go jerk off. I went upstairs, tried to read, but couldn't so I went downstairs into the bathroom where I was promptly shooed out.

Get out of here! Get!

He just about hissed at me. I went back upstairs and lay in his bed waiting. His roommate returned home and I figured this was officially a missed opportunity. I heard them talking outside of the window. I could hear Pete's clumsy, drooling dog making grunting noises and the jingle of the chain of his collar. I took a valium. I drifted. Pete walked in.

What are you doing?



Do you want me to stop?


I put my hands inside of my jeans and started to pleasure myself.

Lose the pants.

I took off my jeans and revealed my favorite sailor striped underwear. I remembered that he had left his boxers at my house and I was glad. I came twice, writhing and giggling with my arm tight around his neck.

Later we drove to the city to attend the art district monthly Gallery Hop. I was utterly surprised that Pete wanted to go. With me. I had called some friends but they flaked out. Pete still wanted to go so we went.

We parked in front of the Hyatt Regency. I took him to the Big Bar in the hotel and we had drinks.

I hate the city. It makes me uncomfortable.


I don't know.

We met up with my ex boyfriend at the bar and left and checked out a disappointing two galleries, both with mediocre work. Then, on a whim, I got my runes read. The fortune teller described me as very hospitable but with two many conflicts. How true. We met up with one of my colleagues and her fiance for drinks and I became quite drunk. I'd only had two glasses of wine but the earlier valium affected me. My ex decided that we needed to find a hotel room because I couldn't drive home. Pete didn't offer to drive home. We found a cheap hotel by the airport and entered the grubby room with beer and McDonalds. First thing that my ex did was to strip me naked. I liked being naked because I look OK. Pete laughed because he was used to seeing me au natural. Like the time he dared me at 3:30am to drive to the gas station nude to which I happily obliged. He spoke to my ex:

You just want to make an Eiffel Tower, dude.


What's that?

That's when a girl gets fucked from behind while giving another dude head and the dudes high five each other.


Clothed or unclothed, all I wanted was to get into bed and sleep next to Pete but I shared a bed with my ex who snorted and grunted and kicked me all night due to sleep apnea.

August 6:

Pete loved to call me a whore.

Me: Where are you?

Home. Just woke up. Fuck you.

You wish.

Maybe 10 years and 40 dudes ago.

You wanted my virginity??

Did I say 40 years and 4000 dudes?

However, it was Pete that started the physical stuff. I was way more into than he was. Prior to him crawling into my bed one night and saying give me a tit, the only time I touched him was when he had his legs up on a stool blocking right of passage. I climbed over him, lingering a little during the straddle and went on my way. It was terribly sexy to me. I thought about it later.

Not having sex with Pete was way hotter than what I figured having sex with Pete would be like. His resistance was both enchanting and infuriating.

September 7:

Me: Fuck you asshole. Thanks for appreciating my now ended friendship. Keep on feeling sorry for yourself.

What the hell are you even talking about?

You are hurtful, really.

You are insane. I've done nothing but learn GRE math and smoke myself into emphysema for several days. Haven't taken any calls or listened to any messages.

You're not talking to me and you're telling people I'm in love with you. Happy trails, asshole.

I didn't tell anybody anything. You did. In any case, fucking relax.

We were sexual and it meant something to me. It was weird. I don't know who started itme coming over or you suggesting just the tip. I suppose its me. Sorry for giving a shit.

What are you, twelve? Three to four days of being incommunicado is meaningless. I'm studying for a test. Take a deep breath and unlax.

What does unlax mean?

Buggs Bunny for relax.

He possessed a calming effect on me when I was upset and I became a little insecure about liking him as people started to notice. Once I was driving in my car singing loudly to the radio. I happened to glance at the screen of my phone and somehow Pete had been contacted and his voicemail was recording the entire song.

Him: Nice singing, dorkus. You totally did that on purpose.

Honest to Jesus I didn't do that on purpose. I'm mortified

Happily he erased the message, claiming to have erased it by mistake before he could take it public. Pete told me that I was the only person he couldn't embarrass. I was proud.

September 11:

Him: Smooth move.

Are you talking about the shit you took last night?

Nah, your retardo skating skills. You able to wipe your own ass? That is NOT an offer.

Despite broken wrist, my ass is clean and wiped independently, thank you. But imagine the possibilities J!

September 28:

Him: Drunk bike-ridingBadly separated shoulder. Nothing you can do about it.

Did the doctor relocate your shoulder for you?

Wasn't dislocated. Gotta get x-rays and see and orthopedic surgeon. Apparently it's fucked. They told me to come to the doctors an hour early and they were all out to lunch. I was smoking with a pregnant girl at Foodland and there was a lady in the doctor's office with a full beard.

September 29:

Me: Watching my soap. Hope you're not in too much pain.

This is possibly the dumbest fucking thing I've ever done.

October 2:

Out on the stairs at the Smiling Skull Saloon we bitched about medical costs.

You love me.

Do not.

Do too.

Do not!!!

You told me so when you hurt your shoulder.

I only meant that I appreciate you helping me.

You were hurt and vulnerable and you said, I love you. Three times.


October 12:

Me: I love you.


Stockholm Syndrome.

You're fucked in the head in so many ways.

You don't really like me very much, do you?


The End

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