Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Diana Does Nikki


During a night out, there is always a point at which you know you should just go home.  Everyone has consumed their fair share of alcohol and is feeling happy.  The logical thing to do would be to end the night on a positive note and go to bed.  This is usually the juncture at which my group of friends will decide to go to a strip club.  Nine times out of ten I'm the one leading the charge.
            So unnecessary!
            This particular night I, along with my coworkers Austin, Jessie, and Mary somehow manage to stumble into a gentlemen's club called Flashdancers.  As far as strip clubs go, Flashdancers is one of the nicer establishments.  No girls with C-section scars or heroin tracks on their arms; only the best T and A on display here.  We find seats directly next to the stage and order a round of beers and shots.  Our drinks arrive a few minutes later along with a tab for close to $160.
            Seriously?! This has better be the best damn Bud Light I have ever had in my life.
            It's not.  Oh well.
            Austin heads to the cashier to get us all singles to give to the dancers on stage.  He returns with a stack of one hundred singles which we split amongst our group.  Mary and Jessie, being the younger and less experienced members of the group, are hesitant to interact with the strippers.  Instead, they waste time admiring the various styles of six-inch high platform shoes the girls are wearing.
            Fucking amateurs.
            I'm drunk and I want to see boobies!  Immediately!
            One of the dancers makes her way over to our side of the stage.  As she moves closer to us, Mary and Jessie huddle close together like two children who have just seen the boogeyman.  I, on the other hand, happily stick a few dollars into the girl's G-string.  There is something magical about sticking money into the crack of another woman's ass.  I like to imagine that my dollar is the final dollar needed for this woman to pay her rent or medical school tuition and that I have truly helped another human being.  The hope that she doesn't have crabs or scabies does also cross my mind.
            At some point, more shots are ordered.  Everyone is starting to relax and enjoy themselves.  Even Mary and Jessie are looking happier and less frightened.
            "Anyone want a lap dance," Austin asks, suddenly.
            Everything in my mind screams "bad idea," but "I do" comes out of my mouth instead.  Austin pays the obligatory fee and I am lead off by a stunning blond.  The blond, whose name turns out to be Diana, leads me to a roped off section of the club.  I am nowhere near prepared for what is about to happen.
            The lap dance starts off innocently enough; however it soon takes an unexpected turn.  Diana suddenly starts massaging my crotch.
            WTF?!  I do not think this is what is supposed to happen.
            I glance over at one of the rather large, angry looking bouncers and he doesn't seem the least bit concerned about the fact that I am being molested by one of the strippers.  I shift in my seat in an attempt to get away from Diana's probing hand, which is by this point, trying to undo the zipper of my jeans.  Maybe she gets the hint because she does move her hand away from my pants.  Instead, she begins grabbing my boobs.  Unsure of what else to do, I try to make conversation.  "So, how long have you been working here?"
            Evidently, Diana is more of a grabber than a gabber.  She presses her finger to my lips, "Shhh."  Then, she starts to suck on my neck like she's an extra on True Blood.
            How is this even happening right now?  I am probably going to need a hepatitis shot.  And since I have no health insurance, I am going to have to pay for said hepatitis shot.  Dammit!
            This continues for two uncomfortably long songs with me hopping around to allow for minimal contact.  This must be what jail is like.  Finally, my "dance" is over.  Despite my traumatized state, I thank Diana for her services and return to my friends.  I imagine going home and taking the longest, hottest shower ever.  A very Crying Game-esque shower.
            We decide to call it a night much later than we had originally intended.  Somewhere during the evening's festivities I had volunteered to cover the opening shift at work for Austin.  After sleeping for what feels like twelve minutes, I awake to get ready for work.  I, of course, oversleep and do not have time to shower before I leave for work.  Gross, yes, I know.
            Night out on the town: $126
            Spending all day at work tired, hungover, and covered in stripper spit: PRICELESS!!

Monday, July 23, 2012

Cougar Time


The idea of dating or at least playing "grab ass" with a younger guy has been something I have been toying around with for some time.  Now, having recently entered my third decade of life and therefore my (pre) cougar years, the time seems right. 
            I find my target at the least likely of events: a Republican debate for the upcoming presidential election.  I'm a registered Democrat, but I volunteer to work the debate because I am curious as to what life is like on the red side of things.  Plus, they're paying me which is music to my impoverished student ears.  This turns out to be quite fortuitous, as I meet a pretty little young thing that I immediately decide I am going to corrupt...horribly.  After working with my PYT (yes, that is a Michael Jackson reference) and flirting shamelessly for three days, we exchange information.
            I am pleased to hear from PYT a couple of weeks later when he invites me to join him and his friends for drinks later in the week.  Being the multitasker that I am I also agree to attend a launch party for a new liquor company earlier that night.  I figure I will be brimming with all sorts of liquid confidence by the time I meet PYT and his buddies.  Besides, if I'm already drunk it will make me feel much less creepy and child molester-ish for pursuing someone seven years my junior.
            That night, I meet my friends Sandy and Mark for a little pre-gaming.  Even though there will be free booze at the launch party, somehow it still feels necessary to drink copious amounts of alcohol before we head over.  As soon as I hop into Sandy's car, Mark hands me a half-empty (or half-full, depending on your outlook) bottle of champagne.
            "Finish that," he orders. 
            I, of course, gladly oblige as we head to the club where the party is being held.  We arrive at the club and Mark reveals a second bottle of champagne, which we take turns chugging from as we wait on the line to get inside.  Now, I should mention that this is not Cristal or Dom Perrione we're drinking.  Oh no, no!  We are passing around a bottle of Andre that Sandy bought on sale at CVS for $3.50. 
            We're such classy broads!
            Sandy hiccups and continues gulping down champagne.
            The party is fun and we get some cool free stuff from the liquor company, but once the open bar is over, we decide there is no longer any need to hang around.  After a stop at the supermarket for more cheap champagne and forties (what night would be complete without a little Old-E), we head back to Sandy's apartment.  Somehow, we end up lying around Sandy's living room watching The Lion King, which is way more thought-provoking as an intoxicated adult. 
            Finally, I get a text from PYT informing me that he and his friends are on their way to a bar.  I say goodnight to my friends and head off, with fantasies of young penis dancing around in my head.  Unfortunately, shortly after I arrive, PYT's friend's girlfriend having overdone it on the pre-gaming has to be taken home.  They invite me to go out with them again two nights later and we head our separate ways.  I am disappointed, but I know with patience and due diligence I will get my "Mrs. Robinson" on.
            I meet up with PYT and his friends again two nights later at a trendy club where they somehow have a hookup for free admission.  Of course, before we actually go into the club, we have a few drinks in the parking lot in hopes we will be buzzed enough that our bar tab is not too ridiculous.  This is Vegas after all and drinks are not cheap.  Our group which is comprised of me, PYT, his roommate Doug, and their friend, Serena happily passes around magnums of Seagram's 7 and Jack Daniel's.  Being the only two females, Serena and I bond instantly; chatting about shoes and other inane female topics. 
            "So what's up with you and PYT," she whispers, smiling slyly.
            "We're friends," I reply, not really sure of a better explanation.  Plus, it sounds better than admitting I plan to ride his face like Seabuscuit.
            Serena takes a long swig of Jack Daniel's and leans in closer to me.  "He's hot.  So, you should go after that because if you don't, I will."
            This girl and I are definitely going to be friends!
            I take the bottle of whiskey from her hand and take a few sips.  "That's the plan.  And Mr. Daniels is going to be my wingman."
            After drinking ourselves to a "happy place," we go into the club.  Of course, per usual, the venue is unnecessarily loud and dangerously overcrowded.  The flagrant disregard to fire-code regulations displayed by these places in nothing short of remarkable.  But, since I have a nice Tennessee whiskey-induced buzz, this does not annoy me as much as it normally would.  Our group somehow manages to find space on the dance floor close to the deejay's stage and everyone begins happily dancing around.  And by dancing, I mean thrashing their arms wildly about with no rhyme, reason, or for that matter rhythm.
            Admittedly, I am not the best dancer.  I have zero sense of rhythm which is sad considering I am black and the ability to dance is one of my people's supposed talents.  Consider it a genetic defect.  Not that I care.  I still get out there and do my thing, which always looks like I'm having a seizure and a heart attack, while being electrocuted.  In this crowd, however, I do not think it matters.  I'd venture a guess that about eighty-five percent of those in attendance are either drunk or hopped up on any number of illicit substances.
            Ahh!  Gotta love Vegas.
            I spend the majority of the night dancing with PYT and Serena.  Once 3am rolls around though, we are all a bit tired and far more sober than any of us want to be.  Leaving the club, the group splits; Serena and Doug head home while PYT and I head back to my apartment.  Not quite ready to call it a night, PYT and I crack open a bottle of wine and settle in on my couch to watch some light-night/early morning television.
            After a few too many glasses of wine and infomercials, I decide the time has finally come to lure PYT into my cougar den.  Now, throughout the entire night, (probably in due to a combination of intoxication and extreme delusions of grandeur) I have envisioned myself as a sophisticated, sultry older woman seducing the younger man who is of course powerless to resist my charms.  It is odd how different perception and reality really are.
            "Hey, do you want to go to bed now" I ask, tracing his shirt collar with my finger and smiling.  PYT squirms awkwardly.  I must really be intimidating him with all of my sexiness; maybe I should dial it down a notch.  Sometimes I do not realize my own power.  "Or we can just watch some more television."
            "Let's just hang out for a little while longer," he replies.
            "No problem."  I pour myself another glass of wine and settle back into the couch.  We watch a reality show about some restaurant where all of the employees are either fighting with or sleeping with each other.  And really isn't that every restaurant?  Well, at least in my experience it is.  Finally, I try to move the action (or lack thereof) into the bedroom again.
            "I'm getting tried.  We should go to sleep."
            "Yeah.  That's a good idea," he replies.
            Yes! At last!  In my head, this is a done deal.  It will be as easy as taking candy from a baby; a very good-looking twenty-three year old baby.
            We enter my bedroom and I quickly slip out of my club gear and hop into bed.  PYT slides in next to me...fully clothed.  Hmm, okay, this is interesting.  Well, maybe he is just being polite and waiting for me to take the lead.  "Would you like to borrow a tee shirt to sleep in," I ask, knowing I have zero intention of giving him a stitch of clothing.
            "No, I'm fine like this."
            WTF?! 
            "Don't you think you would be much more comfortable in a tee shirt, or your boxers, or your birthday suit?"
            PYT shakes his head.  "No thanks.  Goodnight, Nikki." With that, he rolls over and settles in to sleep.
            Wait, what just happened?  Did I miss something?  At first, I am confused by this unforeseen turn of events.  Soon, however, I begin to get angry.  I bought him drinks!  I have to drive his barely legal ass home eventually!  That definitely warrants at least a little second-base action.
            After stewing for several minutes, I decide that I should stop pouting and be proactive.  I climb out of bed and head back into to living room, where I turn the thermostat up to ninety degrees.  He doesn't want to take off his clothes, that's fine.  I'll sweat him out of them.  I am so smart sometimes.  Returning to the bed, I slide in as if nothing happened and wait for the heat to kick in.  After about fifteen minutes, the apartment has become noticeably warmer.  I poke PYT, who is now asleep, to wake him up.  "Are you hot?"
            No response.
            So I do what any rational, mature (and sexually frustrated) person would do.  I shove him off the bed.  This wakes him up.  "What happened," he asks.
            "I thought you were dead," I lie.  "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."  For some reason he believes this and climbs back into bed.  "Are you hot," I ask again.
            "A little."
            "You should take your clothes off then.  You'll feel much better."  He pats me on the head, smiles and goes back to sleep. What the fuck?! Maybe he's afraid of me.  I did growl at him and ask him to refer to me as a "predatory creature" on the drive to my apartment, but that was just the booze talking.  I decide he must be intimidated by my age and extreme sophistication.  Giving up, I roll over onto my side and close my eyes.  The only person getting lucky tonight is whoever runs the gas company because my heating bill is going to be ridiculous!
            The next morning I drive PYT home.  He kisses me on the cheek and says he'll call me to hang out again.  I grunt at him and drive off.  A few nights later, I decide to give PYT another shot.  Or rather, the considerable amounts of Jameson I have been drinking make the decision.  I shoot him a text asking if he wants "to come over and watch a movie in my vagina."  I figure this way there can be no confusion of my intentions.
            PYT responds a few minutes later.  "Hey, I'm going to see Twilight so I can't hang out tonight."  Wait a minute.  Did I seriously just get turned down in favor of "Breaking Dawn?"  Vagina should always win out over vampires, especially sparkly ones.  Ugh! Team Edward-1 Team Nikki-0.
            A few days later, the unthinkable happens.  I finally manage to hook up with PYT.  Considering the effort it took to accomplish this goal, I was slightly disappointed by the experience.  It was like preparing to climb Mount Everest only to find out that Mount Everest is really just a molehill.  Either way, mission accomplished.
            I'm still patting myself on the back for my "cougar skills" two weeks later when I run into PYT at a local nightclub.  We chat briefly and go off with our respective groups.  As the night wears on and my blood alcohol level increases, I decide that PYT should come home with me.  I, of course, decide this without consulting him.  I locate him on the dance floor with his friends.  I strut up to him, grab him by the necktie he's wearing, and demand that he leave with me.  In my mind, I imagine that I am quite the femme fatale.  Ah, gotta love Ketel One-induced delusions.
            To his credit, PYT politely removes my hands from his clothing and explains that he is staying at a friend's house.  He gives me a friendly hug which in my inebriated state, I perceive as an egregious act of disrespect.  "Your loss," I sneer and storm away.  I am (unreasonably) furious with him.  How dare he turn me down!  The nerve!  Stupid little boy!
            As a reach the end of the dance floor, I turn around.  I am not sure why, but something inside told me to look behind me. When I do, I see PYT still dancing a few feet away, but then I notice something else.  Standing directly in front of him and grinding his ass into PYT's crotch is another dude.  The two of them are having a fabulous time groping and rubbing each other.  My jaw drops.
            Oh my god!  He's gay!
            A million thoughts swirl around in my head.  Why did he sleep with me if he likes guys?  Was he experimenting like drunken sorority girls do in college?  Was he pretending I was a man when he was with me? It is all way too much for my brain to process.  I slink back to the table where my friends are still hanging out and pour myself another drink.  Eventually, one of my friends drives me home.  As I pour myself into bed, I decide it's time for this cougar to go into hibernation for a while.

Sunday, July 1, 2012

Mr. (Over)Sensitive


          The last guy I dated seriously was really sensitive.  Normally this would be an admirable quality in a partner, but by "really sensitive" I mean that he usually wanted to hold hands, talk about his feelings, and cry.  Admittedly, I am a bit more hard-nosed than the average woman.  Some would even go so far as to call me insensitive which I think is a bit of an exaggeration, but his constant emoting did put quite a strain on the relationship.
            When describing their ideal man, women often list compassionate and sensitive as desired traits.  This makes perfect sense.  Life can hand out some pretty nasty blows and you want a partner that will be there for support, when needed.  Whether it's a bad haircut, a rotten day at work, or something more serious it's easier to deal when there is someone to be the proverbial shoulder to cry on.  In a good relationship, there should be freedom to openly share one's feelings without worry of judgment or ridicule.  While I want my significant other to feel comfortable expressing his emotions, when does it become too much? 
          Sure, I want a man that is sensitive to my feelings and secure enough in himself and our relationship to express his, but I also want him to be, well, a man.  I realize that traditional gender roles have changed and it is now socially acceptable for men to be more soft and gentle, but within reason.  I don't want him getting manicures and crying during The Notebook.  That's my job.  I don't want him to watch silly Lifetime movies with me in which someone's baby is stolen (Sidebar: Someone's baby is always being stolen in Lifetime movies.  That, or some woman is sleeping with their best friend's jailbait son).  That's what my girlfriends are for.
            As I stated earlier, I tend to fall slightly on the less sensitive side of the emotional spectrum.  I'm not insensitive, but I'm not really into emoting all over the place either.  My ex, we'll call him Mr. Sensitive (I figure that's nicer than Mr. Girly-pants), wanted to talk about feelings ad nauseum.  Somehow his heart-to-hearts always seemed to be initiated during the worst possible times, like during Jersey Shore or Sunday football.  When the Philadelphia Eagles are playing the New York Giants in Philly for the Sunday night game, do not ask me how I'm feeling.  My response: "I feel like you need to order me another beer and be quiet until halftime."  He proceeded to pout the remainder of the evening, but at least he kept (mostly) quiet.
            Please do not get me wrong, no one, male or female, should be ashamed of their feelings.  You cannot help how you feel.  You can, however, help the way in which you express said feelings.  Perfect example: Mr. Sensitive and I were having an intimate moment one night.  Things were just starting to get hot and heavy when he suddenly began to cry.  He literally stuck his penis in me and started crying.  You may be thinking, "Aww, that's so beautiful."  Which it may have been if it were one solitary "I'm so moved by this moment" tear.  No!  This was full-on hysterical sobbing.  Like "someone just died" sobbing.  Now, there are only two courses of action in a situation like this:
            (1)  Console him
            (2) Freak the fuck out, get dressed, and leave.
            You can guess what I did.  Hint: it wasn't #1.
            In the days that followed, I asked several of my guy friends what to make of this occurrence.  The general consensus was that it was very weird.  When I addressed the subject with Mr. Sensitive, he explained that he had been feeling unattractive that day which was why he cried.  In all fairness, Mr. Sensitive had a health issue at the time that caused him to lose some weight, but aside from a few lost pounds he looked exactly the same as he always had.  The incident made realize that our ways of dealing with our respective emotions were far too different for us to have a successful relationship.  Sure, I could have made an effort to be more open and he could have tried not to constantly speak to me in baby-talk ("I wuv you" is only acceptable when you're speaking to a pet), but ultimately we were just not right for each other.
            The relationship fizzled shortly after that night.  It actually ended pretty badly and we no longer speak.  I do regret that we were not able to maintain a friendship afterward because despite our differences, I did care very much for him.  Wherever he is I hope he is happy and doing well, but most of all I hope he's learned not to be such a whiny, little bitch.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

A Few FYIs For Men

As of late, I have taken to making lists as a method of venting. I have found this to be not only therapeutic, but also quite entertaining. Here's the latest:

A Few FYIs For Men

1) Men should not drive compact cars. Civics, Corollas, Tercels, and Beetles are girl cars. Unless it is tricked out and looks like something from a Fast & Furious movie, you will look like a big sissy.

2) Do not ask for my phone number if you have no intention of calling. You probably think that you are being polite, but reciting my number to you causes unnecessary strain on my vocal cords if you do not plan on actually using said number.

3) Do not brag about your sexual expertise and/or penis size. Usually, great expectations lead to great disappointment.

4) Do not drink to the point that you lose control of your basic motor functions. No one wants to babysit a drunk. Besides, if you're wasted, who the hell is going to carry me after that half bottle of Smirnoff Razz kicks in?

5) If you have some sort of below-the-belt abnormality, please let me know ahead of time. I do not want to be surprised by the fact that you have one testicle or that your penis is shaped like a horseshoe.

6) Do not fart in my presence. Unless we have exchanged vows, there is no reason I should have to put up with your gas. Your boys may think it's entertaining, I however, do not.

7) Do not wear tapered jeans. This one really is a no-brainer.

8) Do not boast about your salary, expensive car, multiple homes, or stock portfolio. Doing this means that you have a small penis.

9) Experimentation in the bedroom is fine, within reason. Anything involving family members, excrement, and/or animals is a no no.

10) Do not attempt to have sex with my friends. Again, no-brainer.

11) I understand that men like porn, in fact I enjoy it occasionally as well. However, I am not your personal porn star. Please do not spit on my during sex or smack my private parts. And NEVER EVER jizz in my face. It's not sexy, nor is it cute! I do not care if it's as you claim, "good for your skin." I have Oil of Olay for that, so please keep your bodily fluids away from my grill. Thanks!

12) Do not expect oral favors without having impeccable hygiene. Candles and air fresheners do not come in the scent "sweaty balls" for a reason.

13) Impotence is not just your problem, it's mine also. I do not appreciate getting all fired up just to have you go limp before the main event. It wastes my time and yours. Plus, it leads to an increase in my phone bill when I have to call all of my girlfriends and tel them about your issue. The little blue pill is your friend, guys.

AHH...venting done.

XOXO BN
bitchy_nikki03@yahoo.com

Monday, December 13, 2010

10 Ways to Not Piss Off Your Bartender

It is a fact of life in the service industry that you will have to deal with a certain amount of shit. However, it never ceases to amaze me the level of stupidity and inconsideration of which some people are capable. Therefore, I have made a list of some things not to do when in a bar. I hope that it is helpful for those who may have had the misfortune of being raised by wild dogs.

10 Ways To Not Piss Off Your Bartender

1) Do not ask "What beers do you have on tap?" Unless you are at an ale house that has tons of different beers on tap, there is no need. Taps are usually in plain sight, so stop being lazy and read them yourself.

2) Do not ask "What would you like to make me?" If you don't know what you want, don't bother me. And for the record, I'd like to make you a Corona.

3) If it's busy, I am not going to be happy to make you a mojito. It is one of the most annoying drinks on the face of the planet. Whoever invented the mojito should be dragged out into the street, covered in mint leaves, and shot!

4) Unless your name is Dane Cook, Dave Chapelle, or Chris Rock, please do not try to impress me with your "witty" lines. Chances are, you're not funny and I have probably heard whatever you have to say fifty times prior.

5) Do not expect me to be a marriage counselor, therapist, financial advisor, bookie, comedian, or acrobat. I'm here to make drinks. If you want a show, the circus will be here in March.

6) Do not frantically wave me down, as if you're going to die if you don't get a drink, then when I get to you say, "I don't know what I want." Again, if you don't know what you want don't bother me. (See #2)

7) If you see me helping another customer, do not butt in and start ordering things. It's RUDE, plain and simple.

8) Do not ask me, "Do you make a good____?" Even if I know a certain drink sucks when I make it, I'm certainly not going to tell you that. Unless it's a mojito, in which case I hope you will be dissuaded from ordering one.

9) Do not think that because you are a good tipper that you are God. While a generous tip is always appreciated, a holier than thou attitude is not.

10) Do not bang on the bar, whistle, yell, or act like you're hailing a taxi to get my attention. Trust me, I see you. It's my job to see you and I will get to you as soon as I can. These behaviors will only prolong your wait for a drink.

BONUS: TIP!!! If you don't, please believe that you will be the last person I serve the next time you try to order a drink.

Hope this helps. LOL

BN bitchy_nikki03@yahoo.com

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Nikki's Last Blind Date...EVER!

I so do not want to be at work today!

Don't get me wrong. I do generally enjoy my job, but today I'm just not in the mood. I've already had some old man ask me if I was a size zero, which would have been flattering had he not been referring to my bra size. Ouch!

Now, I have another guy, whom I like to refer to as the "Jukebox Jackass"throwing a tantrum because I turned the speakers in the bar down from deafening to normal volume. "Why did you turn the music down," J.J. yells.

I explain to him that several other customers complained that they could not carry on conversations with the music playing so loudly. Most of the other patrons currently at the bar have just gotten off work and stopped in for a drink on the way home. After working eight hours, they do not want to be subjected to the obscure, crappy music J.J. likes to play on the jukebox. I've only been at work half that time and I don't want to hear it. J.J., of course, does not understand my rationale and storms off to sulk in a corner with his beer.

Fine, be a fucking baby. You're cheap anyhow, so I couldn't care less if you're mad at me.

I chat with Chris, one of my regulars, as I finish my third Irish coffee of the day (I'd like to take this moment to thank the nation of Ireland for the wonderful gift that is Jameson). I genuinely like Chris. He is always talks about how much he loves his wife, which is a nice change from most of the married men I encounter who are either cheating on their wives or plotting their deaths.

I explain to him that I have a dinner date after work with a friend of a friend. Chris, who has heard many of my dating disaster stories, smiles and nods politely though his facial expression betrays the fact that he expects to hear another horror story tomorrow. With my track record, I cannot say that I blame him. I am really hoping things go well with this guy. I could certainly use some male companionship because things are starting to look good to me that really shouldn't. Like the bottle of Galliano currently sitting on one of the liquor shelves. It's just the perfect length and shape to fit...

AHHH!!

I so need to get laid.

******************************************************************

I am so not getting laid.

My date sucks ass!

It started out innocuously enough. My date, Chuck, picked me up at home and drove us to a nearby Italian restaurant for dinner. This would have been perfectly normal had he not blasted bad techno music the entire ride. I felt less like I was in a Nissan Maxima and more like I was in a nightclub in Lodi, New Jersey. I half expected him to hand me a couple of glowstcks and an Ecstasy pill.

For the record, no, I do not want to "pump it up" or "put my hands in the air."

Currently, we are having appetizers and struggling for conversation. "So where did you grow up," I ask, hoping to get more that the monosyllabic answers I've received thus far.

"All over," Chuck replies vaguely and continues devouring the bowl of mussels in front of him. Seriously, I have had better conversations with my cat. And, by the way, I'm pretty sure that it was my idea to order the mussels, so why the hell have I not gotten a single one?!

I am silently wishing all of the plagues of the Apocalypse on my idiot friend who set us up, when Chuck speaks again. "Actually, I used to live in the next town over from you."

Happy to finally have something to chat about, I explain that I know the neighboring town pretty well. "What street did you live on?"

"Near the high school."

"Yes, but where?"

"The prison behind the hospital," he replies, nonchalantly.

Check please!

Unsure of the proper etiquette for questioning someone about their time behind bars, I proceed with caution. "Why exactly were you in prison?"

"Drugs," he explains, calmly. "Then I went to rehab for awhile after."

For the record, we all make poor decisions in our lives from time to time. I average about 5-7 bad decisions a week, and probably twice that during the holidays (mmm...egg nog). I can respect someone who has paid their debt to society, cleaned up their act, and is now trying to live a better life.

However, jail time and stints in rehab are not appropriate first date topics of conversation! Discussing these matters serves no purpose other than to frighten your date before they have had a chance to get to know you as a person, rather than an ex-convict.

I excuse myself to go to the restroom, where I call my friend Amy. I leave her a not-so-nice voicemail about her complete lack of matchmaking skills. I also may or may not have threatened to pop her new breast implants with an ice pick.

I return to the table and make up an excuse about being ill. It really is amazing the effect the words 'pus,' blood,' and 'vomit' have on someone about to eat dinner. Especially when you use them all in one sentence.

Chuck the criminal pays the check and returns me to my house, no questions asked. I thank him for a nice (read: bizarre) evening and head inside. As I prepare to go to bed, I realize I do have one regret about this evening.

I never asked him if he'd ever dropped the soap.

Friday, September 25, 2009

Mr. Boston Does Himself

I have a problem!

I always want things that are bad for me. Doesn't matter if it is something that I've never thought about before, as soon as I know that it is detrimental to my well-being I have to have it. Perfect example: I have always hated milk, but now that I know I am lactose-intolerant, all I want to do is shove dairy products in my face.

It's a sickness!

I blame my parents.

This mental defect of mine especially comes into play when dealing with men. You've heard the expression "scrape the bottom of the barrel," well I prefer to search the crap underneath the barrel for my dates. If anyone knows, a guy who will stand me up on dates, not return phone calls, and/or steal my credit cards to pay for prostitutes please send him my way.

It's sad really, but like I said, it's a sickness.

My latest "prize" is currently sitting to my right having a very intense conversation with a wall. To be fair, we have been out drinking since 11am, but the fact that he is also holding up the wall's end of the conversation (in a different voice than his own) is slightly alarming.

We met a few months prior at a party and though he seemed quite normal at the time, it has since become apparent that I have discovered yet another Tool Academy reject. I know I should have stopped talking to him weeks ago, but he is soooo cute. Plus, I have a thing for Boston accents. It's like talking to an alien that does not realize the letter "R" is part of the alphabet.

I sip what is probably my fifteenth beer of the day and wonder how Mr. Boston could have gotten this drunk. I am starting to think that someone may have drugged him, when he suddenly bursts into hysterical fits of laughter. Apparently, the wall just said something hilarious.

Guess bricks have a sense of humor. Who knew?

"I think we should head back to your place soon," I tell him.

Mr. Boston turns to stare at me. "I'm having man time right now," he explains. "I don't want to leave yet." He then continues talking to the wall, apologizing to it for the interruption.

Man time, my ass! I want to go home...now!

I walk over to the bar and close out our tab. Figuring Mr. Boston will be okay for a few minutes, I quickly go to the restroom and splash cold water on my face. I need to sober up a bit since I will clearly be on babysitting duty tonight.

I return to find Mr. Boston dry heaving in a corner. I try to get him to stand up and go to the bathroom, but to no avail. Instead, he takes off his baseball cap and vomits into it.

Terrific.

Fighting the urge to now be sick myself, I try to take the hat from him and dispose of it. Mr. Boston, however, does not want to part with his favorite Red Sox hat. Instead he plops in back onto his head, vomit and all.

For a few moments, I am paralyzed. Did that really just happen?

He smiles happily at me, like a little boy who just won the school spelling bee. He is oblivious to the fact that he basically just threw up on his own head.

Realizing that I should get him home, I call my friend Mandy to pick us up. Somehow, I am able to get Mr. Boston out of the bar and into Mandy's car when she arrives. As we drive, I fill Mandy in on the events of the evening and explain to her why her car now smells slightly like vomit.

We are only a few blocks away from Mr. Boston's apartment building, when Mandy and I begin to hear grunting noises from the backseat. We both turn around to check on Mr. Boston and find him fondling himself (over his pants, thankfully) and moaning.

Really?! Why me?

Mandy explodes into laughter and I sink down into my seat, mortified. Thankfully, we have reached the apartment. I turn around to tell Mr. Boston to get out of the car. He responds by opening the door and tumbling out onto the pavement. I thank Mandy for the ride and exit the car, to find Mr. Boston on the sidewalk doing push-ups.

"Let's get upstairs," I tell him, hoping to put an end to his drunken workout. Instead, he hops up, crawls back into the car, and curls up into the fetal position. I briefly wonder what horrible things I did in my past life for God to punish me with such weirdos.

Mandy, to her credit, patiently coaxes him out of the car again. I tell her good night and guide Mr. Boston toward his building. We are almost to the front door, when Mr. Boston abruptly turns around and runs back to Mandy's car.

"Do you want to make out with me," he asks Mandy. Being the pal that she is, she politely declines, wishes him a good night, and drives away.

I finally succeed in getting him up to his apartment, but not before he passes out in the hallway for about ten minutes. Luckily, I have his keys and am able to let myself into the apartment while he bonds with the carpet.

Exhausted, I get ready for bed. I am almost asleep when I hear noise coming from the living room. I get up to investigate and find Mr. Boston dancing to Eminem's "Lose Yourself" ...completely naked aside from his vomit-filled Red Sox hat.

And guess what...I had sex with him that night anyhow.

Like I said, I have a sickness.