When it's Convenient: A Series of Humorous Essays

By Jason Tamayo

After stumbling across a disturbing video online revealing his girlfriend’s shocking secret life, humor blogger Jason Tamayo found himself overwhelmed by the endless misery he’s been put through by the opposite sex. So, what is there for a man to do after he realizes he can't maintain a genuine relationship to save his life? To write a book about all of his failed and humiliating relationships of course!

When it’s Convenient is a series of humorous essays about meaningless sex, pathetically unhealthy relationships, and some hilariously unusual circumstances from the perspective of one of the Internet’s boldest writers. Laugh-out-loud as the author takes you on his hedonistic journey that includes a short stint at a mental institution, a candid interview with a seasoned prostitute, and a slew of other bizarre situations that only he could find his way into ... and out of!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jason Tamayo
• Release date: May 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9780989406918

Jason Tamayo

Jason Tamayo is an American author, humorist, and blogger. He grew up in Brooklyn, NY, and attended LaSalle Academy high school where in his own words: "They never taught me anything about evolution." Upon graduation, Jason joined the United States Navy Reserve, becoming both a medical corpsman and a veteran of the War in Afghanistan. After gaining discipline from his time in service, Jason returned to school and attained a BA in Business Management and a minor in English Literature from Baruch College. He also went to New York Film Academy and completed the Screenwriters workshop.

Book preview

WHEN IT’S CONVENIENT

JASON TAMAYO

www.jasontamayo.com

Copyright © 2017 by Jason Tamayo

ONE-EIGHTY PUBLISHING HOUSE LLC

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Author photograph by Melanie Gonzalez

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

For Mom and Dad—

I’m sorry

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

ONE

AN UN-MACULATE CONCEPTION

PFT! THAT’S PRETTY GAY, DAD

THE FART HEARD AROUND THE BARRACKS

THE NUT HOUSE

FORGIVE ME FATHER FOR I HAVE DREAMT

LET’S BE HONEST

ROOM SERVICE

IT’S A NUMBERS GAME

GRAND SEX LARCENY

THE ROOMMATE SWITCH

RESPONSIBILITY, JASON’S GREATEST FEAR

CAR RIDE TO THE AIRPORT

AFGHANISTAN

THE ISLAND OF MISFIT TOYS

ALWAYS BET BLACK

TWO

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

THE BEGINNING OF THE END: PART II

LAS VEGAS BOTTLE SERVICE

INTERVIEW WITH AN ESCORT

RIO

THE FREE CLINIC

AUTHOR

NOTES

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The following story is about as true as it gets. I prefer not to say it’s based on a true story as that would mean about 95% of it is bullshit. In this case, it’s the exact opposite. Any author that tells you they only changed dates, characteristics, and location in order to protect themselves from legal prosecution is either an outright liar or a fucking savant. Names have been changed, characters have been modified, and certain events have been condensed for ultimate comedic value.

P.S. I look forward to the resulting lawsuits from this book in advance.

Con-ven-ient /kuhn-veen-yuhnt/ > adj.

1. The ability to do what I want, when I want, and how I want to do it.

2. Vehicles, elevators, or any other forms of mechanical transportation that allow me to use the least amount of physical energy.

3. Prostitutes.

PROLOGUE

I used to believe that Facebook ruined relationships. That it was intentionally designed to make our significant others jealous. That it was just a den of sluts enticing us to click that Add Friend button. That our newsfeeds gave us too much insight into each others’ lives, and that it was only a matter of time until a daunting truth was revealed. Technology is to blame, I thought, not the people involved. We were simply innocent bystanders in a society moving far too fast in a web-centric world. Those were my beliefs about social media. That was, until my views were severely challenged and I realized that Facebook didn’t ruin relationships at all. It just exposed your girlfriend for the true whore that she really was.

One early Monday morning, I woke up with a sense of naïve optimism and rainbow glitter scattered all over my body. I had a fight with my girlfriend a few nights before and went to a strip club over the weekend to relieve some stress. It’s funny how in order to get away from a damaged situation, you end up surrounding yourself with damaged people. Anyway, I was ready to begin my morning routine of searching for amusing Vines and making witty Facebook posts when I noticed my girlfriend, Ashley, had been tagged in a photo. It was from a party she had attended the night before with her new friend, Ivanna—a thick-bodied, hook-nosed blonde who hailed from one of the trashier parts of Eastern Europe.

I don’t remember Ashley telling me about any parties she went to over the weekend, I thought as I clicked on Ivanna’s Facebook page to investigate. Woah, who the fuck are these guys in the picture? Two, to be exact. They were both ugly as dog shit and old enough to qualify for Medicare. The one who had his hairy arm around Ashley wore a custom-made Gucci suit and a Rolex. He was creepy and decrepit-looking, like the Crypt Keeper from Tales from the Crypt. To Ashley’s credit, she wasn’t nestled close to his chest and looked very uncomfortable.

I continued to search through Ivanna’s photos in hopes of finding out more information. I was pretty shocked. The girl was actually a model. I couldn’t tell what kind of model at the time, but her photo gallery contained an abundance of pictures. Really slutty ones too... There was this one picture I recalled where she wore black lingerie and had her legs spread wide open like a field goal post! I couldn’t figure out why Ashley would have been hanging out with a girl like that.

Before my rage got the best of me, I decided to shoot Ashley a call for some more details about her night. You know, before I started jumping to conclusions.

Hey, you didn’t tell me you were going out over the weekend, I mentioned, trying to sound calm.

Oh, that? It was nothing, she replied, brushing it off. "One of my friends from way back called last minute and asked if I wanted to go out. It’s not a big deal."

How ‘way back’ are we talking here Ashley? I was worried. This better not be one of the girls you used to roll with back in the day.

Jason, stop it! I’m not getting into this now. I’m about to start cooking.

That’s fine, but… Who the fuck is she?

I already told you, just an old friend. I met her when I modeled. She sounded sincere. "Why can’t you trust me?"

Do you really want to get into this right now?

Please, just stop. You’re giving me anxiety! All guilty people get anxiety.

See, I have a short fuse and bullshit’s pretty flammable. Normally I would have already exploded, but I was trying to do things differently. Ashley wanted me to become more trusting and forgiving of her past. A very fucked-up past, might I add. But my anger was one of the reasons why we had been fighting a lot for the past few weeks. I didn’t want to lose her, so I restrained my anger a bit.

Alright. Calm down, beautiful. That was the last time I ever referred to her as beautiful again. I trust you.

I hung up the phone and closed Ivanna’s Facebook page. Part of being in a healthy relationship is understanding your partner’s emotional boundaries. I knew Ashley drew the line at privacy and trust. If this relationship was going to work, I needed to respect those boundaries. But God dammit, I couldn’t get that picture out of my head. That fucking picture. I forced myself to step away from the computer and lay down on my bed before I broke the rules of our relationship any further. If Ashley wanted me to trust her, then I would. For our relationship’s sake. For our future family’s sake. For my sanity’s sake.

I stared at the ceiling with my fingers clasped around my head, buried in thought. I was just at a strip club yesterday. Who the fuck am I to judge? She went to a party. An innocent party with a friend. I had tits in my face and my crotch reeks of strawberry-scented lotion. Give her a break, won’t ya? Before she starts digging into your own weekend! Alright?

I tried loosening up a bit, distracting my mind with television, porn, and beer. BUT THAT GUY, WHO WAS THAT FUCKING GUY? I tried. I really did, but I just couldn’t let it go. I sprang from my bed and dashed for the computer. As soon as I sat down, I went back to Ivanna’s Facebook page to do some more investigating. I scrolled through all of her pictures from the previous night.

Click. A picture of Ivanna sitting on the lap of the Crypt Keeper.

Click. Ivanna kissing his slimy lips. Thank God, that must be her boyfriend.

Click. Ivanna still kissing the Crypt Keeper, but this time she had her hand over his crotch. Skanky. I like that.

Click. Ivanna and Ashley pretending to kiss. That’s cute.

Click. A video?

I watched it, and what a dreadful decision that was.

It started off normal enough. Music in the background. People dancing. A red light glowing over what appeared to look like a ballroom. Nothing out of the ordinary, just your typical party. Fuck, I couldn’t believe I was breaking Ashley’s trust for that. Then I squinted off at the corner of the screen and noticed something a bit unusual… When I moved my head closer, my mouth nearly dropped off its hinges.

Ten seconds in, the cameraman moved closer to where I was staring. My heart raced at a cocaine-induced pace.

Twenty seconds in, I was then staring at a close-up of something gut-wrenching. Tears welled up in my eyes. I was having trouble breathing and thinking rationally.

Thirty-seconds in, my face fell into my hands. I couldn’t look any longer... I randomly clicked the screen until I was able to hit the browser’s X button.

I was destroyed. I was emasculated. I was angered. I was beyond irrational. I called Ashley back. I yelled. I cursed. I hung up the phone. I threw my glass cup across the room. I flipped my coffee table upside down. I collapsed back onto my computer chair, and I was absolutely miserable. I did some more research and what I found made me go fucking psychotic. I began to lose touch with reality.

Solely virtual, was this all Facebook’s fault?

Then, moments later, something strange occurred…

I began to laugh. Hysterically and uncontrollably, I laughed, throwing up my arms in surrender and giving in. To my life’s circumstances. To all the embarrassing moments. To all the ex-girlfriends. To awful videos no one should see, especially me. To what became of my pathetic life…

I opened up my laptop and wrote. I wrote about it all. I wrote until it didn’t feel like I was drowning anymore. I wrote until I could breathe again. I wrote for me.

AN UN-MACULATE CONCEPTION

I coasted through the first three years of high school with low academic expectations. As long as I avoided being placed in Special Ed, I was ahead of the game. So, when I heard some of my classmates talking about higher education, I thought that meant taking a class on the tenth floor! Senior year was it, my last shot to get into a decent college, but I pushed it aside. There was another goal I had in mind before graduation. An objective I thought took precedence over my future: losing my virginity.

I spent most of senior year sitting in the back of classrooms, doodling pairs of tits on school textbooks. Big chests were non-existent at my all-boys high school, unless you counted the overweight kids who came to school with their packed lunches inside of Hefty garbage bags. God, how those fat kids boosted one’s self-esteem, especially for a kid who looked like me. I had an awkwardly shaped cone-head and brushy eyebrows (much like Bert from Sesame Street) and, although a lot of people thought I was Asian, or Caucasian, or some sort of hybrid mutant from Kazakhstan, I’m actually as Hispanic as they come. But it’s not like looks even mattered. My very Christian parents thought it was a good idea to send their son to a Catholic all-cock high school. They thought it would reduce any distractions.

You’ll focus more on schoolwork, Mom said to me in Spanish. There’ll be plenty of nice girls for you to meet outside of school.

No. Not really, Mom. It was 2005 and I was still a virgin. 2005! Even the characters in Harry Potter were starting to get some stank on their broomsticks! It was around then that I received confirmation that I was sexually behind, because, you know, every insecure boy needs to know exactly why he’s a fucking loser. I was sitting in health class, looking through one of those ridiculous sex education pamphlets, when I found a shocking truth. On the corner of one of the pages I noticed an illustration of a cartoon condom. Printed within the latex ring, like a cruel Snapple Fact read the following statistic: The average American male loses his virginity at age 16.9. Sixteen. Point. Fucking. Nine. I turned seventeen that summer. Hell, I thought scoring a 1248 on the SATs was defeating enough… Now I had another national statistic to fret over for the rest of the year. Thankfully, that was the year the SAT high score changed from 1600 to 2400. So, when I got home to my unaware and top-heavy mother to tell her my score, she almost performed one of the most awkward back-flips.

"Pero hijo, that’s so good! Mom said in Spanglish. She hugged me in the kitchen. We have to selebrate tonight."

No, no. That won’t be necessary, I replied.

"Oh yes, it is necessary! I’m calling tu papa right away."

Alright, but don’t call any of your friends who have teenage kids… We wouldn’t want anyone getting jealous. Remember, thou shall not show off … or some bullshit like that?

Jason! Don’t joke around about the Bible!

Sorry, sorry. Just keep it between us, alright?

"Okay, I won’t tell any of mis amigas… But we are still doing something especial later as a family."

Our family of four lived in a small two-bedroom apartment in New York City, and I shared a room with my older brother, Danny. He was a college junior and three years my elder. Since our apartment wasn’t very large, Danny heard the entire exchange I had with our mother. He laughed as soon as I walked into the bedroom.

"She has no fucking clue they changed the scoring for the SATs, does she?" Danny asked, smiling.

Nope, not a fucking clue! I replied. And you better not tell her anything, either!

When I turned sixteen years-old, I got a job at a women’s shoe store in Manhattan, Aerosoles. I was an assistant to the stock manager, and stored products in the stockroom. For the first year, I struck out with literally every coworker under the roof. Most of the women were older and viewed me like a younger brother. Out of the dozen employees I worked with over the year, there wasn’t a single one that would’ve dated me without serving time in federal prison.

I got my first break sometime during my senior year, midway through my virgin crisis. My manager Gary hired a sassy Puerto Rican girl named Selena. Gary looked like one of those carnival hucksters you might see in a 1920’s period drama about circus performers, only he was Haitian so his pencil thin mustache and goatee blended into his dark face. He had always been good to me but, as soon as we