“Pussy smelling like cool ranch Doritos” isn’t a phrase that one hears very often, if ever. It’s a line from a Danny Brown song called “Monopoly,” but it also applies to the nether regions of one very nice young lady who had the displeasure of coming home with me last night. “Cool Ranch,” as she’ll be referred to from here on out, told me that she was a student at a nearby university when we met at a coffee shop just two blocks from my apartment sometime after 5:30 p.m.
We had both swiped right on Bumble late Sunday, and since Cool Ranch is only 20 years old and had just recently gotten her fake ID taken from a bar in the loop, I had no choice but to meet her for coffee. I made a joke about meeting up with her to eat a bunch of caramels because it’s just as arbitrary as meeting someone for coffee, but the Good Will Hunting reference flew right over her 20-year-old head faster than you or I could say “YAS QUEEN.” That I decided it would be a good idea to begin drinking coffee at 5:30 p.m. on a work night was not the greatest decision I’ve ever made, but I liked this girl’s Bumble pictures a lot so I decided to throw caution to the wind.
The conversation centered mostly around our mutual hatred of dudes who wear JUST THE VEST with no jacket from a three piece suit to a bar or social gathering. We touched on reasons behind why The Chainsmokers are so popular at the moment, how many total bricks there are in the city of Chicago, and whether or not the rise of cold brew will start to render a regular cup of black coffee obsolete.
All in all, a solid first date. I didn’t ask what she was majoring in or how much she was dreading midterms because I find that particular line of questioning to be unoriginal and a surefire way to signal that you’re not particularly good at talking to women. I avoided any questions about what she was getting into this weekend because I didn’t want to write any checks my ass couldn’t cash. Before I knew it, the time on my phone read 7:30 p.m. I had been in a coffee shop with Cool Ranch just shooting the shit for well over an hour and a half.
The coffee shop we were sitting in had definitely been a dive bar at some point in the last half century. The tables had more than likely been bought in bulk from an estate sale, they had a liquor license, and most importantly, each table in the shop had a small bowl of mixed nuts in the center. Cool Ranch and I had made quick work of the assorted nuts at our table. They were salty and sweet and I enjoyed every handful that I took. And as Cool Ranch took the last few peanuts from the bowl and set it back down gently in the center, I swigged the last of my coffee and asked a totally non-threatening question.
“Hey, one of my roommates sent me a streaming link for Nocturnal Animals. I’ve already seen it once, but would you want to come back and watch it with me?”
Cool Ranch looked surprised by the offer, but acquiesced to my request after a painfully long silence that seemed like ten minutes. We walked back to my apartment together in a caffeine induced state, discussing the gentrification in my neighborhood while also making sure to briefly mention that morally, it’s probably not all that great. Thirty-five minutes into the absolute shitshow that is Nocturnal Animals, I had my hands down Cool Ranch’s pants. We were sprawled out on my chaise lounge, making out like a couple of high school kids when I suggested that we move the party to my room in the basement. She declined, on the grounds of it being “too soon” and a sad, but undeniable truth that it was getting late. The making out, the hand stuff, it was all fine. I walked her out the front door and returned to the movie.
I’m not sure if this is the case for every male on Earth, but I have a tendency to smell my fingers after a jaunt inside a woman’s vagina. It’s not really something I want to do, it just sort of happens. Upon raising my fingers to my nose, I smelled something that was neither offensive nor pleasant. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. And then I remembered the mixed nuts I had been snacking on in the coffee shop and it all just clicked. It was just like Danny Brown said. The pussy was indeed, smelling like cool ranch Doritos. Now I know that it doesn’t make sense for my hands to smell like Doritos after eating a bowl of mixed nuts. And it’s definitely not fair of me to nickname this girl “Cool Ranch” because it’s my fingers that smelled, not her vagina. But giving a girl a nickname like “Cool Ranch” is objectively funny, and it could be a nice story for the grandchildren if this ends up going anywhere.
It certainly doesn’t make sense for a vagina to smell like that. But I swear to you, on everything I hold dear in this life, that this is what I smelled when I brought fingers to nose. I turned the movie off about halfway through and went down to my bedroom. I listened to “Monopoly” by Danny Brown and then laughed myself to sleep. I’m going to give Cool Ranch a call this weekend to hang out when I haven’t been snacking on salty peanuts for the better part of two hours. I’m hoping I don’t get a whiff of cool ranch or, god forbid, nacho cheese this time. .