Sexually Speaking, I Was Never a Fan of the Nickname ‘The Hempster’
When your nickname is cockblocking you
Do you want to know what’s sort of the worst?
Being 17 years old and nicknamed the Hempster. Like, not just a slapdash nickname, where people only call you that when they happen to remember or when you’re lung-deep in the biggest bong hit of your life.
Oh no, my actual name, according to my peers, was the Hempster — sometimes shortened to Hemy.
HEMY!
I once had a stranger ask me if I had trouble with hemorrhoids because why the heck was everyone calling me Hemy?
How does a self-loathing 17-year-old even answer a question like that? So I did what I always did when feeling insecure, and I started spelling out my real name in cheerleader fashion.
Gimme an L
Gimme a Y
Gimme an N
Gimme a D
Gimme a Z
Okay, that’s enough. You get the point. I couldn’t spell my name correctly, and I had severe insecurity issues that I dealt with in strange ways.
If Hempster wasn’t bad enough, I was also dealing with Hemy and coping with these friggen names daily. Early on in this nickname game, I learned that pleading with my friends not to call me Hempster did absolutely nothing. They were helpless to change their ways now that the name had stuck to my back.
We’d go to parties. They’d refer to me as The Hempster.
We’d be lazing on the beach, and someone would throw their Frisbee a little long, and it would whack me in the head.
“Oh, sorry, Hemy, toss it back!”
Then I’d be reading my very dark poetry aloud, lights dimmed and dramatic just the way I liked it, and as I deep-lunge-bowed my finale, my friends would give me a standing ovation, whooping and cheering my literary prowess — and singing my name proudly, “The Hempster! Long live the Hempster!”
I didn’t even smoke that much pot, man. My habit was nothing compared to the stoner kids, who never wanted to hang out with me because I kept killing their buzz with my hyperactivity. I just always had pot at the ready because I would steal joints from my dad’s underwear drawer.
To be clear, I am not proud of venturing into my dad’s underwear drawer.
However, sacrifices had to be made to secure the party joints. Unfortunately, my friends and I were woefully unconnected when it came to getting drugs.
So to recap. I was and will forever be The Hempster in my BFF’s eyes. Everyone knew me as the Hempster. Many people assumed I had a severe case of hemorrhoids at the age of 17.
I’ve always walked a little funny, so that was a legit guesstimate. I would be introduced at parties as Hemy or Hempster, depending on how much my friends felt like humiliating me that night.
This brings me to the next part.
As it so often happens at parties, I stumbled (literally) upon that night’s fancy. He was cute and red-haired, and we were going to do some hardcore making out.
Oh, how I loved to make out.
Still do.
But back then, when I was an awkward teen, who walked weirdly and had a nickname like Hempster, I’m sure you can imagine, I didn’t get the chance very often to tongue-kiss exotic red-hairs.
I didn’t get the opportunity to make out with much of anything back then, actually. If you don’t count the life-sized stuffy bear, I would dry hump on particularly lonely evenings.
The mood was perfect. RH and I sat in the unfinished basement, swaying gently to the sound of Eminem blasting from the stereo one floor up. Another unidentified couple was getting handsy with each other on a bean bag chair three feet away. Their groans of passion were really doing it for me.
So I leaned in close, and RH did the same. Our lips touched, and then, as if the gods of teen shenanigans and other sexy things came crashing down upon us, I was gifted with RH’s entire tongue attempting to cram its way into my mouth and seemingly down my throat.
Sure, I might asphyxiate, but I was also making out with a boy, and gosh darn it, that was what mattered!
Things were getting hot and heavy, and I was so excited about how this was going until the fatal moment that ruined it all.
RH pulled away gently to look into my eyes because that’s what boys that age were told to do by their older sisters, “Always look into her eyes — so romantic!”
As he gazed into my slightly cross-eyed peepers, he spoke the words that would forever haunt me, “So,” he paused, to gather his thoughts, “does the Hempster like to give BJs?”
What in the ever-living fuck kind of a question was that?!
To this day, I don’t know what disturbs me most about the words that came out of RH’s mouth that fateful night.
Was it his blatant assumption that I’d give him a blowy after having known him for, like, ten seconds? Or perhaps it was the fact that he hadn’t offered any reciprocal services to me.
Or, of course, there is a real possibility that I was taken aback because, somehow, this boy had thought that calling me Hempster while asking for sexual favours was a completely legitimate thing to do.
Needless to say, the entire experience was a verified turn-off.
Sadly I left the party that night with only a brief make-out sesh fresh in my memory and the innate understanding that if I were ever going to get any more action in this town, I would have to find a way to ditch the name.
The Hempster was hanging up her nametag (and party joints) in pursuit of the great glory of make-out sessions.
Lindsay Brown is a writer and humorist who would greatly appreciate it if you didn’t start calling her The Hempster now that she has revealed this story to the internet. She still enjoys the occasional make-out session.