Bonnie Jo…

Bonnie Jo was easily the most attractive girl I had ever dated. Way out of my league. Holy shit this woman was sex on a stick. Too bad she was literally insane.

I first met her in Washington making my film with Chad and Dalton. I walked to the bar nearest to my temporary residence and she was there, tattoo on her chest, lips puckered, perky perfect breasts bouncing. She was with her aunt and we chatted up a storm. She said they were going to go out to a karaoke bar in the town over. I said I would join, but couldn’t find anyone else who wanted to go with me, let alone be able to find the bar she was talking about. After that night she was all I could think about. Never had I sparked a conversation with a woman so far above me on the scales.

Chad and I began searching for hair and makeup accessories at various stores, one being Sally’s. We walked in and Chad asked the woman behind the counter for some help in finding hair extensions. As they talked I meandered about, seeing another worker returning some items to their rightful shelves. This woman had a tattoo on her chest. I approached her. “Excuse me?” She turned and those beautiful lips parted to show a sea of pearly whites. “Have we met before?”

“Yeah! You were the guy from a couple weeks ago!”

“That’s right!” We talked about the crazy coincidence and yadda yadda yadda. She gave me her number and we began texting, finding a time to work in another hangout session. Throughout these events there was one red flag. I received a text from her stating “I just got in a fist fight with a pregnant girl in the parking lot!!! Hood rats be at sallys!!”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just said “Who what?! Like physically?”

“I was just kidding I just wanted to see how you’d react to me punching a woman with child haha”

I didn’t get it. Chad said that I should stop talking to her after that, but no fuckin’ way man. Not this girl. Only once in a lifetime does someone get a chance with a girl like this, so I invited her to the weekly comedy night, where we wrangled most of our cast for the movie. She showed up and we sat and talked about this, that and the other, when she laid the real bomb on me. She had been in an insane asylum.

She didn’t work there.

It wasn’t a tour.

She legitimately thought that she was possessed by not just demons but the Anti-christ itself. She spoke in tongues, tried to attack people and did all sorts of Exorcist shit. Two years she spent locked up, being fixed. I was out with a psycho.


That body, though. It was just too much. I went with her to a friend’s place where we played beer pong until five in the morning, even though I had to be up in time for a 10 AM shoot. Our goodbye was an awkward hug in which I tried to force myself into making a move. I couldn’t do it. She had me frozen with intimidation. After that night I became too busy with the film and we saw each other merely in passing at the local bars. Goddamn movies.

I still wonder how it would have worked if I had just gone for it. I was sure she would have reciprocated, and before I’d know it I’d be having the greatest sex of my entire life, which would soon end with her stabbing me in the middle of the night. Every time a chest tattoo rears its ugly head, I think of Bonnie Jo, and if I die of a heart attack at the age of 50 due to a virtual reality sex simulation of my ideal woman, I’ll die a sad man, full of regret that I didn’t pursue the recovering psychotic.


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