My name is Justin Holland. I've always thought of myself as an average guy -- at least for the first twenty six years of my life. As an adult I'm 5'11" tall, 180 pounds, brown hair, green eyes, average looks and sexual equipment (at least that's my impression from sports locker rooms, though I've never "studied" it, or felt the need to), and slightly above average muscle tone.
Like everyone else I have some strengths and some weaknesses. Perhaps my two best strengths are that I'm significantly smarter than average, and much nicer than average. I've always had lots of friends because I treat everyone with respect and don't say bad things about other people either to their face or behind their back. I am kind and helpful to others 99.9% of the time. I rarely lose my temper, and when I do it is only with extreme provocation.
Two weaknesses I've always known about are a lack of self-confidence, and my condition if I do lose my temper -- I go ballistic. Fortunately, losing my temper has only happened three times in my life, one time landing me in the hospital, and two other times landing others in the hospital..
I had another major weakness that I didn't know until my wife, Ginger Holland, played "The Rating Game."
Ginger is also basically average, although to me -- and I guess to most guys, although I don't go around asking them -- she is significantly better looking and sexier than average. Like me she is normally pleasant to everyone, although not to the same extent that I am.
I hadn't had a great deal of sexual experience when Ginger and I got married at age twenty one, although I certainly wasn't a virgin -- and neither was she. We had been married for five years when we were both twenty six. We were simpatico, and enjoyed each other's company, and I was sure that each of us was happy with the other. Then Ginger went to her friend Ashley's bachlorette party, hosted by another friend, Sybil.
Ashley was a little more adventurous than either Ginger or me; Sybil was more than adventurous -- she was audacious, headstrong, and sometimes foolhardy. She was the only one of our close acquaintances who, with her husband Trent, owned a house. Since no one attending the bachlorette party was wealthy it wasn't a high roll affair, like a weekend in Vegas; but was an all day event, starting at 10 a.m. on a Saturday at Sybil's house. Trent was banished during the party.
Trent, me, and two other husbands of the party attendees, played tennis and went bowling during the day, then saw a killer chick action movie in the early evening. Trent then went to one of the other husband's apartments, about 10:00 p.m. to wait for a call from Sybil saying that it was OK to return; I went home to our apartment.
I was almost asleep on the couch with the TV merely providing background noise when the phone rang at about 11:30. It was Sybil. In a slurred voice she said "Hey, Justin, dude, you're little lady has passed out. Come pick her up." Then she just hung up.
I quickly splashed some water on my face, grabbed the car keys and went and picked Ginger up. Ginger rarely gets wasted -- actually I had only seen her that way twice before that night. Indeed she was passed out so I carried her, and her party goody bag and purse, to the car, seat belted her in, and drove home. She rallied a little by the time that we got to our apartment so thankfully I didn't have to carry her up a steep flight of stairs to our 2nd floor garden apartment unit, although I did have to help her.
She was in a bubbly, giggly, mood, the same as the other two times that I saw her inebriated. I had to help her get undressed; I showered with her because she was raunchy and I was no petunia either, and then put her to bed.
As expected, the next morning Ginger was hung over. I talked with her some, while she was still in bed but got little out of her about the party aside from groans. About the only intelligent thing that she did vocalize was "Justin, honey, please get me the pills I have in my purse, and some water."
I looked for her purse but remembered that it was in the car, along with her party bag. I brought both into the apartment and went through her purse removing items, including her cell phone, until I found the pills bottle. I took two pills from the bottle, got a cold glass of water, and returned to the bedroom.
"Oh, thank you darling," she gushed as she reached for both the pills and the glass.
After she downed the pills I took the glass from her and asked, "Are those going to make you return to the land of the living?"
"I sure hope so," she gurgled, "they're supposed to alleviate hangovers more quickly than anything else. But I need some more sleep too."
"Anything else that I can do to help?" I asked.
"Oh, would you be a dear and gently rub my head for awhile while I lay here?" she inquired, reaching toward me and stroking my cheek.
"Your wish is my command," I chuckled. I tenderly rubbed her head for about ten minutes until I heard her snoring; then I got up and went into the kitchen.
While I was reading the morning paper at the kitchen table, Ginger's cell phone buzzed. The sounds her phone made were different than mine so I didn't know if it was a text or a phone call. I picked her cell up and when I did must have inadvertently actuated a screen because a text came up -- from Sybil. Although Sybil used strange text lingo and abbreviations I was quite certain that the text said: "Important; don't forget that your Game Sheet is in your goody bag."
I put the phone down and continued reading the paper. Then I got to wondering why Sybil felt obligated to send that text. My curiosity got the best of me so I picked up the goody bag and looked through it. There were the common types of gross items I would expect from a bachlorette party, and at the bottom, folded up, two sheets of paper with printing and handwriting on both sides of each sheet. I felt like I was invading Ginger's privacy by removing it, but I though "What could it hurt?" If I hadn't removed those sheets I might have remained "fat, dumb, and happy."
The first side of the first sheet was entitled "The Rating Game." All sheets seemed to have printed questions, and a few statements, with Ginger's distinctive handwriting beneath each question. There were what appeared to be scores next to almost all of the answers, in someone else's handwriting, and several letter scores, "A/C/A-; B+", at the top of the first page. Ginger's name was not on it, but there was no doubt that she was the one who filled it out.
Despite my misgivings about violating Ginger's privacy, my inquisitiveness was in overdrive and I couldn't put it down. A large number of the first questions I read were about characteristics of, and happiness with, me ("your husband" in the questions). Now my curiosity was beyond overdrive. I was reading along with a smile on my face for most questions, such as "Is he affectionate," "Does he always remember significant dates," "What are his best personality traits," "Do you love him as much as when you first married" (her answer to that one was "MORE" with the "O" a happy face), and the like, and Ginger's answers. Most of her answers were flattering to me, interspersed with her good sense of humor and some inside jokes that we shared. I wish that I had stopped before I got to the top of the second sheet (the third page), because the questions and answers there -- now seared into my brain -- were different.
"Q. What is your husband's best intimate talent?
A. Snuggling like a big teddy bear!
Q. What are his biggest intimate drawbacks?
A. Unfortunately, everything else; LOL!"
Q. How do you rate your husband in bed, before you got married, on a scale of 1-10?
