Captain Dickface

I wanna punch this tour guide in the face. 

I really wanna punch this tour guide in the face. 

This smug, sarcastic, douche bag, toolbox asshole needs to stop touching her.

I’m trying to be calm. I really don’t want to be that American, but he’s had his eyes on her since day one and it’s really starting to get old. And look, she fucking loves it! Smiling, batting her eyes. She’s encouraging him! She just absolutely needs that little extra bit of attention. It’s disgusting. 

I don’t even see how she could find him attractive. He’s skinny, arrogant, condescending and he’s fucking French. I mean he’s probably gay. His name is Tristin for God’s sake. Fucking Tristin! 

“Babe, can you take my bag up to the room? I’m going to help Tristin grab some groceries. He knows the owners of the hotel so they’re going to let him use the kitchen to cook dinner for the whole group.”

Oh I’m gonna puke. She can’t be fucking serious. “Um… you want some help with that?” 

“I think we should be able to handle it all.”

Oh he isn’t actually talking to me. Who does this asshole think he is? My girlfriend was asking me a question, I am responding to said question. The two of us are having a conversation. There is no reason for this guy to open his fucking mouth. 

“He’s right babe. We’ll be fine. You can head up to the room and grab a shower. We’ll be right back.” 

I mean what can I possibly say? Does this actually warrant making a scene? Grabbing her by the arm or saying ‘can I talk to you dear’ in that awful, stern, foreboding way? Everyone knows what that means. Shit, they’re waiting for a response. 

I shrug. “Fine.” I turn around and start heading for the hotel. I guess that wasn’t terrible. The shrug was key. She knows I’m not happy. She knows we’ll have a little dialogue when she gets back. I mean come on; this is completely inappropriate girlfriend behavior. We didn’t come to Italy to flirt with and fuck other people. We came here to flirt with and fuck each other.

And how do we manage to get stuck with a French tour guide in Italy anyway? It boggles the mind. I should really complain to this travel company. I’m pretty sure I’d be less upset if he was actually Italian. At least we’d be in his country. He’d probably feel a sense of entitlement or free reign. But Tristin’s as much a foreigner in this country as we are. He gets no claim to my girlfriend. We don’t owe him anything for visiting his land cause we’re not in his fucking land!

I hope his dinner sucks. I hope everyone hates it. Ole Tristin would sure look like a big-time failure asshole. Nice gesture, poor follow-through; now go eat a bag of dicks while I fuck my girlfriend you pretentious, boy-touching prick. 

Oh who am I kidding? I’m sure it will be delicious. The pairing of the wine to the dish will be perfect. Everyone will swoon over it and devour until there’s nothing left. She’ll be utterly impressed and tell me I need to learn how to cook like that. And I’ll smile and chew his awesome food and feel totally inferior in every possible way. Tristin: 1; Lazy Boyfriend: 0. Fuck. 

I walk through the perfectly air conditioned hotel lobby, my sandals lightly clicking against the marble floor. Things are pretty quiet, with most of the hotel guests undoubtedly out enjoying the picturesque weather. Both the elevator and the hallway to my room are completely empty. Opening the door to my room, I realize the maid must have turned the air conditioning up, because it’s even cooler in here. It feels sort of calming. To me, few things are more pacifying than a cool hotel room on a warm day. 

I pull my bag out of the sizeable closet located by the door. I take the small box from the outer compartment and open it. It’s a little more beautiful every time I sneak a peak. It almost seems like it’s becoming more difficult to part with.

This was going to be the night. I would have found an absolutely beautiful restaurant—sparing no expense. We would eat an exceptional meal and during desert I would take out the box and open it right under her eyes. She would start to cry as she nods with flattering enthusiasm and we would toast a glass of fine champagne to our future. 

Instead she’s off pining over Captain Dickface, laughing at his jokes, marveling over his stories, complaining about her ever-so pedestrian, run-of-the-mill boyfriend. They share a laugh at my expense as they rummage to find the perfect seasonings for his brilliant sauce. Unreal. 

Clearly this is not an appropriate evening for such an important proposition. Oh well… I suppose there’s always tomorrow night.