Chocoholics: Love And Lists Part 1

Chocoholics.

Love and Lists.

Tara Sivec.

For Tyler: thanks for letting me steal your name.

Kick some a.s.s in the Air Force and make sure everyone knows how cool you are now.

Can someone die from a severe case of blue b.a.l.l.s?

Yep, that just happened. I just typed that exact phrase into the Google search engine.

My mother always warned me to stay away from Google. She told me it was the devil. I'm twenty-five years old and I still don't listen to my mother.

According to Wiki, the answer is NO. Just, no. Period. The end. No explanation whatsoever. You would think the person answering these questions could have elaborated just a little bit. Like, "No. You cannot die from blue b.a.l.l.s, you f.u.c.king moron. Why the h.e.l.l are you even asking this question? You do realize your internet history can and will be seen by everyone you know at some point in your life, right?"

Note to self: delete internet history. I need to consult my mom on this. I believe I came across a contract between her and my Aunt Liz a few years ago ...

You're probably wondering why I'm curious if someone can die from blue b.a.l.l.s. You're probably also wondering how in the h.e.l.l I can possibly be twenty-five years old when just yesterday I was four. I know, it's a tough pill to swallow. I'm not a foul-mouthed, cute little kid anymore. I'm now a foul-mouthed, cute adult. I take after my parents, so obviously I'm good looking. That might sound conceited to you, but oh well. I'm not one of those guys who are all "Awwwww, shucks. You really think I'm good looking? Naaaaah, I'm just me."

f.u.c.k that.

I walked around for most of my childhood talking about my p.e.n.i.s to anyone who would listen. Owning it when people say I'm hot isn't conceited. It's me being comfortable with who I am.

So anyway, where were we? Oh, right. p.e.n.i.s. Blue b.a.l.l.s. Death by blue b.a.l.l.s. There's only one reason for my earlier Google question: Charlotte Gilmore. The most beautiful woman I've ever met and my best friend. She's the oldest daughter of my parents' best friends, Liz and Jim Gilmore. She has long, dark brown hair, big gorgeous brown eyes, and a body that takes my breath away. Since we're only three years apart in age, we grew up together. I've been told that we used to take baths together when we were little. Obviously the times we were naked in the tub never left a lasting impression on her since no matter how hard I try, I can't get her to see me as anything other than a friend. The kiss of death. The "friend" curse.

It's all her fault that I even have blue b.a.l.l.s, although to be honest, I really shouldn't blame her. It's not like she knows she's causing me extreme pain. She has no idea that every time I'm within three feet of her my p.e.n.i.s perks up like a meerkat when it hears a noise. It's f.u.c.king Meerkat Manor in my pants. My p.e.n.i.s is like a magnet and she's a hot piece of steel. As soon as she walks into a room, the magnetic pull begins and I feel like I have to hold on tight to something. Otherwise, my p.e.n.i.s will drag my body over to her and slam itself up against her, like a dog grunting and humping some poor, unsuspecting person's leg. I'm like a f.u.c.king dog in heat when it comes to her. My poor p.e.n.i.s wants to hump her leg and she just wants to be friends. I feel bad for my p.e.n.i.s. He's had a rough life. I love my p.e.n.i.s and he's totally getting the shaft. Ha! See what I did there?

Anyway, I know what you're thinking. Who doesn't love their p.e.n.i.s? But this is serious, yo. My mom still tells me stories about when I was a little boy and how much I talked about my p.e.n.i.s. I'm an adult and I have to worry about inviting my mother to public events for fear she'll tell everyone the story about how I got my first b.o.n.e.r to Barney the Dinosaur. Do you have any idea how mortifying that is? A f.u.c.king purple dinosaur. Why couldn't I be normal and get excited about the Victoria's Secret catalog like all my friends? To this day, when I see a dinosaur, no matter what I'm doing, my p.e.n.i.s instantly retracts itself up inside my body in fear. Even my p.e.n.i.s is ashamed.

So, anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, my p.e.n.i.s. I get it. I'm a guy and guys think about their p.e.n.i.ses a lot. Maybe I'd feel better about this obsession if I had someone touching it other than myself. I grew up surrounded by girls. All of my friends are girls. Everywhere I look there are girls. And yet, I still go home alone every night and touch my own p.e.n.i.s.

Okay, I don't touch it every night. That's overkill. Maybe once a week.

Okay FINE! Every other night. I think the problem is my job. I love my job, I really do. It's not something I grew up dreaming about doing, but I'm good at it, and I make a pretty decent living doing it considering I've only been out of college for a few years.

As some of you know, my mom is a pretty famous person. She owns a huge chain of bakeries around the world. She taught me everything I know about cooking and covering things in chocolate. I always knew I would go into the family business when I got older, and I did. No, not that family business. The other one. Are you sitting down for this? Maybe you should be sitting down. I, Gavin Ellis, am the Creative Director for one of the largest s.e.x toy stores in the world. I may have forgot to mention that the chain of bakeries my mom owns is connected to a chain of adult toy stores called Seduction and Snacks. Charlotte's mom, Liz, owns that side of the business.

So, while I don't actually work in a store selling d.i.l.d.os, I'm in charge of the entire product development process for every single item Seduction and Snacks sells. Considering the fact that my job has made me a genius when it comes to pleasuring a woman, and I know the inner workings of every single toy ever made, you would think that women would be throwing themselves at me. Yeah, so not the case. You try being in a bar flirting with a chick and see the look on her face when you tell her you touch rubber p.e.n.i.ses all day. They all think I'm gay. Or a creeper. Like I'm going to just whip a d.i.l.d.o out of my back pocket and chase her around the room with it. That only happened once, and I was really drunk. I swear.

And that's me in a nutsh.e.l.l, since the last time you heard about me. Tonight, I spent three hours with Charlotte and let her cry on my shoulder because she got into a fight with Rocco, her boyfriend.

"So did you guys break up or something?"

Please say yes, please say yes.

Charlotte cried harder and pressed her face into the side of my neck while I wrapped my arms around her and held her close.

Is it wrong that I'm thinking about pushing her back onto the couch and making out with her instead of consoling her? I suck.

"He just doesn't understand me, you know?" Charlotte whimpered and burrowed closer to me.

You're right. He doesn't understand you. I'm the only one who understands you. ME!

"Did you just say me?" Charlotte questioned, pulling her face away from my neck and staring up at me.

"Uh, yes. Me totally understand that he doesn't understand you. Me understand."

I patted her back lamely and tried to think of something un-caveman-like to say next.

"What did you guys fight about?"

I couldn't care less but I'm a good guy and good guys ask these sorts of questions.

Charlotte sighed and scooted away from me on the couch, brushing her long brown hair out of her face. "I don't know. I don't even remember. It was something stupid. I shouldn't have come over here and unloaded all of this on you. He really does love me and he's a great guy."

She looked up at me with wide, expectant eyes, waiting for me to agree with her that he's a super human being. Yeah, not gonna happen.

He's a troll who gets to touch her whenever he wants. He can burn in the fiery pits of h.e.l.l for all I care.

Charlotte kept looking at me with those gorgeous eyes, and I caved under the pressure.

"You're right. He's awesome. I'm sure you guys will be fine."

Someone get me a bucket to barf in.

I'm jealous, irritated, and h.o.r.n.y after holding her so close to me all night and smelling her skin. She always smells like cherry almond. And since I'm slightly obsessed with her, I know that's because of the lotion she uses: Jergens Original Scent. No, that's not weird at all. Shut up. It's probably weird, though, that I stroke the snake using Jergens Original Scent. How about we just pretend I never shared that little tidbit, okay?

My best friend, Tyler Branson, called me when I was on my way home from consoling Charlotte, and he could tell by the sound of my voice that I needed help, so he made an emergency trip to my apartment.

"I think what we need to do here is make a list," Tyler tells me after he swallows a mouthful of beer.

Tyler was my college roommate. I met him on my first day when I moved into the dorms. I walked into our room with my mom and dad carrying boxes of my c.r.a.p behind me, only to find him standing naked in the middle of his bed, hanging a poster of Megan Fox on his ceiling.

Tyler likes being naked. Tyler thinks everyone likes seeing him naked because he's under the impression he has the body of a Greek G.o.d. Tyler learned within seven seconds of meeting my mother that women will point and laugh at him when he's naked. Tyler has been in love with my mother ever since.

"Seriously, bro. We need to make a list. I'm tired of seeing you moping around on your period every single day. You have the most epic job in the history of the world, and that alone should make you happy, but I get it. You need the girl. We'll get you the girl," Tyler rea.s.sures me as he rummages through the junk drawer in my kitchen for a piece of paper and a pen.

"How's a list going to help Charlotte fall in love with me?" I question him as he finds what he's looking for. He smoothes out a crumpled piece of paper on my countertop and writes in big, bold letters across the top: How to Make Charlotte Bang Me.

"That is so not the purpose of this. I don't want her to bang me," I complain.

Tyler stares at me with one eyebrow raised.

"Okay, fine!" I relent after a few seconds of his stare-down. "That's not the ONLY purpose. I can't just come right out and tell her I love her; she'll have a heart attack. We've known each other since birth and this is going to come out of left field. I need to figure out a way to ease her into it."

Tyler sighs in annoyance and crosses out the last part of the t.i.tle and scribbles on the paper again. He turns it around to show me.

How to Make Charlotte Bang Me Love Me. And Turn into a Giant p.u.s.s.y.

"You're such a d.i.c.k."

Tyler shrugs. "Whatev. You're still a p.u.s.s.y. Okay, item number one ..."

He pauses, tapping the end of the pen against his chin while he thinks.

"Ooooh, I've got it! Show her your p.e.n.i.s," he says aloud as he writes on the paper.

"What?! No! That is not going on the list," I argue as I try to take the page from him.

He jerks away, rolling his eyes at me.

"This is absolutely going on the list. Chicks need to test out the merchandise before they can make a decision. Do you honestly think she's going to love you if she thinks you might be harboring a pinky-peen in your pants?"

There's really no use in arguing with him at this point. Tyler is going to do whatever the f.u.c.k he wants. It's best to just humor him. It's not like I'm ever going to really use the list so who cares?

"Fine. But it's not going as number one."

Tyler smiles in victory and crosses out what he wrote, moving further down the page and rewriting it with a number five in front of it.

"There. Not at the top, not at the bottom. It will give you plenty of time to work up to the showing of the p.e.n.i.s and then plenty of time to recover after you show it to her and she starts rocking back and forth in the corner, weeping silently."

Reaching across the counter, I punch him as hard as I can in the arm.

"f.u.c.ker! I bruise easily! What would Claire say if I told her you were abusing me?" Tyler questions as he rubs the spot on his arm where my fist connected.

"Shut up about my mother."

"No can do. She's going to be mine one day. You should just start calling me dad now," he says nonchalantly.

Ever since the day he met my mother-naked-he's been in love with her. For seven years I've had to endure him leering at her, making inappropriate comments, and imagining all the different ways my dad could die so he could console the grieving widow.

"I'm going to punch you right in the ball sack if you don't shut up," I warn him.

"Don't take that tone with me, young man."

I decide against beating the s.h.i.t out of Tyler at this time. The faster he makes this stupid list, the faster he'll go home-to his parents' bas.e.m.e.nt where he currently lives. No, I'm not kidding. He's a walking, talking epitome of a guy that refuses to grow up. He has a bachelor's degree in j.a.panese studies (a surefire way that he will never get a real job), works part-time at The Gap, and has never had a serious relationship.

Remind me again why I'm even thinking of taking advice from him?

"Okay, I've got a better idea for number one. Go shopping with her."

He writes out his new number one while I stare at him questioningly. When he looks up after writing it down, he stares at me like I'm an idiot.

"Bro, chicks love shopping. If you go and ooh and ahh over every pair of shoes she picks up, you'll be in her pants by the time you get to Auntie Anne's Pretzels," he informs me.

I don't even bother explaining to him, yet again, that my main purpose in life isn't to get in Charlotte's pants. Sure, it's something I dream about. Well, wet dream about. And the reason for my earlier Google search, but it's not the ultimate goal. I want her to love me. I want her to see me as something other than a friend. I want her to realize that we're soul mates.

f.u.c.k. Maybe I am getting my period.

"Alright, item number two. Take her to The Cheesecake Factory," he states as he continues to write.

"Why The Cheesecake Factory?"

Tyler shrugs as he taps the pen against the counter. "Chicks dig The Cheesecake Factory. It will show her that you can be all fancy and s.h.i.t. Oooooh, oooooh, oooooh! Tell her she can order whatever she wants. That's a total cool-guy move," he tells me excitedly.

Alright, so this isn't too bad. I can handle a day of shopping as long as I'm with Charlotte. And The Cheesecake Factory is delicious.

"What else?" I ask as I go around the counter and stand next to him as he writes furiously.

"Dude, this is going to be epic. I am such a f.u.c.king genius. You better name your first born after me or something," he tells me as he continues making the list, quickly coming up with ten things that he swears will have Charlotte in love with me by the time I finish all of them. We work together, crossing things out and moving them around until we have a pretty good list of things for me to do to win Charlotte over.

I know I'm going to regret this. Somehow, some way, this is all going to come back and bite me in the a.s.s, but I'm desperate. I know I'm a chickens.h.i.t and should just come right out and tell her, but that's not happening. This needs to be handled delicately. Tyler is the only person who knows how I feel about Charlotte. If anyone finds out about this before I'm ready ... Well, let's just say having my mom tell my eighth grade English teacher at conferences that when I was little I used to walk around telling strangers my dad had a huge wiener will seem like the best day of my life.

Yep, totally going to regret this.

Charlotte graduated from college a few weeks ago. She had a few make-up cla.s.ses to do during the summer session, but she's finally finished. She majored in Communications at Ohio State University, my alma mater. Today, her parents are throwing her a small graduation party at their home, and I can't deny the fact that I'm a little bit excited to get started on The List. After several six-packs of beer last night, this idea became more and more awesome. I mean seriously, what woman wouldn't love it if a guy started doing a s.h.i.t ton of awesome things to prove to her how much he cares? And these aren't just everyday, common sense things like buying her flowers. These are the things women want men to do, but never come right out and ask for. I'm going to be a G.o.d among men when this is all said and done.

"Alright, bro. Are you ready for phase one? I mean, it will probably take a little while since it's early in the day, but you got this," Tyler rea.s.sures me as we get out of my car. I c.o.c.k my head from side to side to crack my neck and shake out my hands.

"I can do this. I can TOTALLY do this. Phase one to commence by 9 pm," I reply.

Tyler gives me a high five and we make our way around to the backyard of Aunt Liz and Uncle Jim's house. My ears are immediately a.s.saulted with the sounds of very bad, very off-pitch singing. Glancing under the tent they have set up, I see my Uncle Drew and Aunt Jenny doing karaoke. They're singing Sonny and Cher's "I Got You Babe," but they've changed up the lyrics just a bit.

"I'VE GOT YOU, b.i.t.c.h!"

"I'VE GOT YOU, a.s.s!"

In case you've never met my Uncle Drew and Aunt Jenny, let me just tell you that this is pretty typical behavior. To put it nicely, they are bat s.h.i.t crazy. Not crazy like One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, crazy like ... I don't know, picture the most insane p.o.r.no you've ever seen and then add in an episode from the Cooking Network with a couple of Oompa Loompas watching and you have a day in the life of Drew and Jenny Parritt. Uncle Drew is completely inappropriate one hundred percent of the time, and Aunt Jenny is a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

There's an awful, screeching feedback from the speakers as they stand facing one another, screaming into the microphones, and I wince as my mom greets me with a kiss on the cheek.

"Save me. Please, with all that is holy, save me. Get up there and sing something in tune." Her face is contorted in pain as Aunt Jenny continues to screech.

I used to sing in a band in high school. I'm not going to brag or anything, but I was pretty good. The band, not so much. I only joined the band to impress Charlotte because she made a comment once about how guys in a band are "so hot." Our one and only gig, was at Keystone Point Senior Center's annual Christmas party-I know, contain your excitement-and after we finished our set that consisted of a death metal version of "Silent Night" and a moving rendition of "Head Like a Hole" from Nine Inch Nails, I realized quickly that the whole band thing worked. Just not for me. Charlotte came running up on stage, flew right past me, and into the arms of the base player. It turns out guys that are in a band who play the guitar are "so hot." And that was our only gig because we were asked not so nicely to never play in public ever again.

Standing in the middle of the stage clutching my microphone, I tried not to throw it right at DJ's head as he lifted Charlotte up in the air and she wrapped her legs around his waist.

"You looked so hot playing that guitar!" Charlotte gushed as she peppered DJ's cheeks with kisses.

DJ looks over Charlotte's shoulder and smirks at me. Before I knew what was happening, the microphone sailed through the air, slamming against the back wall and barely missing DJ's face.

"Dude, what the f.u.c.k?" DJ shouted as he set Charlotte down on her feet and looked behind him at the dent that was now in the wall and the microphone rolling to a stop on the ground.