By Brianne Sloan
FRIENDS! ROMANS!! COUNTRYMEN!!! (and all you crazy, madcap cyberspace sports fans!) Lend me your ears! I’ve got some serious bitching to do . . .
About a week and a half ago, I started dating this abnormally beautiful man. I mean, this kid was a straight-up hunk, the kind of guy you never meet in real life, only in soap operas and in some very early James Bond flicks. When I met him at a neighborhood bar a few weeks ago, he was sitting alone and holding a beer with a hand that had no ring, quite naturally I assumed there had to be something terribly, terribly wrong with him. Like maybe he was an escaped convict from Denver, wanted on three DUIs and seven counts of political assault or maybe he was a known rapist with a vast collection of S and M novelties and a massive Ted Bundy complex . . . or worse, maybe he was UNEMPLOYED!!! But no. As we sat talking in that dimly lit bar against the glowing backdrop of all the giggling, beer~goggled karaoke freaks, I soon realized he was none of these things. Throughout that conversation, just one word kept ringing through my ears, loud and clear:
WRONG!!! We had only two or three dates, then he invited me to a party at his place. I was having a great time, drinking and dancing with him and his friends, but about halfway through the night he disappeared and of course, I went looking for him and eventually I found him . . . boy oh boy, did I find him!
While wandering around the upstairs, I heard his voice echoing from the master bedroom and he was very clearly plastered. He was giggling and cooing to someone in a sickeningly lovey dovey sort of way and I assumed he was with another girl, so of course I got ready to bust in there and knee his balls straight through the roof of his mouth. But first, just to be sure before I killed him, I peered slowly around the doorframe. Was he alone?
Oh, no . . . he was not alone.
I walked in on him talking dirty to a plant. A PLANT, I tell you, a little freaking potted mini cactus. I walked in the door and he must not have heard me because I saw him laying there on the bed with the silly thing sitting on his chest, lovingly stroking the orange ceramic pot and telling this poor little cactus (in no uncertain terms) all the things he wanted to do to it . . . what in hell?
Needless to say, I didn’t feel much like his date anymore after that I thought it was in my best interest to sneak out of the party, so I climbed out a window and made a mental note to later Google whatever it was that I had just witnessed. I could not wait to research this further.
Thanks to the internet, I now know that it is called phytophilia, it is usually limited to happy home makers whispering soothingly to their flowers to encourage growth and possibly to relax themselves. This is common behavior, but there are people out there who take it one step further~ talking to plants is very erotic for them, Wikipedia says it’s normal. I disagree~ I’ve not encountered many guys that look at a mini-cactus and think, “I wanna tap that.” This plant hooey is nuts, I can’t decide whether it is scary or funny, it is one weird, weird paraphilia.
And it is not okay.