In the last Chronicle, I mentioned that I turned down a very provocative shack attack invite from the hottest guy I’ve seen in exactly eight years. And while I remain somewhat conflicted about this decision as I think I may love him a little, I still shut him down on account of my extremely bleak track record for successful indiscriminate hookups.
In my experience, The Random Hookup usually seems like a great idea because both parties are giddily drunk, but upon commencement, the hookups tend to take a laughable, eye rolling, oh-my-God-I’m-gonna-have-to-sit-on-a-hemmerhoid-doughnut-for-the-next-week turn for the worst.
After hearing the weakest imaginable attempts at dirty talk, receiving (without my permission) the most repulsive jewelry a girl can get, being walloped to a pulp by Thumper the Jack Hammer Bunny, and getting totally blown off immediately afterwards by each and every one of these D-bags (not that I would have ever gone back for seconds after the rancid first helping,) I am thoroughly done. Done, I say! Done!
Besides, the girl never has any real fun, and by fun, I do mean orgasms. Women are universally harder to get off than men. It takes time and effort to study the terrain, navigate the landscape, and comprehend the various conditions in order to seal the deal for a girl. During a spontaneous sexual encounter, the guy hasn’t been given any opportunities (or any real incentive) to figure out how to grease the engine, so to speak.
Thus, people bust out all their “best” moves to impress us. Back in the day, the partners with whom they cultivated such techniques were likely way into the weirdness. Unfortunately for us, we are don't have the luxury of being gradually introduced to their funktastic kink, and are thrown head first (sometimes literally) into a freak parade without any warning.
But instead of shrieking with laughter and rolling away from them like we had burst into flames, stopped, then dropped, we often times end up just squeezing our eyes shut and simply finishing what we’ve started.
I can’t really say why we permit exotic sexual behavior from strangers, but I know I’ve done it. Presumably, we’re having a lukewarm frolic in the sack so we’ll agree to do crazy shit we’d never normally consent to just to get it over with already. Not to mention that most of us are nice people and wouldn’t want our shacker to be embarrassed about his or her wacked out version of The Naughty, or worse…have them think that we’re the weird ones for not being into their spazoid nookie skills.
Most of us care a little bit about what other people think of us…even the ones we don’t know. It’s almost superficially worse with randomers because our loved ones already know we’re tools, but they dig us anyway. I guess what it really boils down to is this: nobody wants anyone to think they’re a bad lay. Under any circumstances. I mean, come on…are you kidding me? Meow!
But I’m over it. I wish I could have come to this conclusion post Trent Jr., but hey. All I know is that I’ve had entirely too many booty calls gone wrong to want to fuck with it (no pun intended) anymore. But mark my words, babies...if for some reason I should ever drunkenly decide to hook up with a random again, I plan to totally pull the same shit on them that they’ve done to me, i.e. ask for hella inappropriate things from a person I just met. I’m going to kick back, relax, and refuse to let them come up for a breather....then I’ll never call them again.
*Clearly, 'Lil John is one of those one night stands...
Travel Chronicles St. Louis
Posted in on by
Luggage Cart Madness
Good old STL. I can’t even remember the last time I was there, but it never was more fun than it was last weekend. I have two words for you: Mardi and Gras. Put them together and what do you get? Booze, beads, and boobs. What more could a girl ask for?
So we rolled in on Friday, checked into our mini-me hotel room, and commenced pre-partying with some of our neighbors and eventually at the hotel bar, "Margarita’s." We cruised to The Landing where we bent over Morgan St. and fucked it so hard that it won't be able to walk for weeks. Seriously, it was so fun and the ratio of men to women was grossly in my favor.
Cristi and I were cruising for more alcohol when suddenly, the clouds parted, sun shone down, and a shining angelic chorus filled the air. Time stopped and I stood leaning awkwardly, mouth open and drooling, eyes glazed over. There, in front of us, was a man so perfect that he could only be Trent Reznor’s illegitimate son. He was so f-ing beautiful that I nearly fell over and thrashed around on the floor like some forest creature in heat. I grabbed Cristi and pointed straight at him, making unsightly tongue gestures and grunting noises. I managed to pull it together long enough to give him a come hither smile without spontaneously combusting when he looked over.
After stalking him all over the bar, he finally came up to talk to me. His name was Travis. Trent...Travis...Trentavis? Coincidence? I think not! Of course, he was like, way too young for me, and studying to be a dentist, but how blistering hot is that? AND, dentist...Trentist? Huh? Huh? I’m saying give me some laughing gas, a dental recliner, and a spit sucker and I’ll be a happy camper! And of course, he was also the hottest dancer in the entire northern hemisphere. *sigh* So after lusting for hours and hours, the bar totally ruined my game and closed. He invited me back to his room, but you guys, I am seriously done with that shit. Despite all my drunken pleading with myself, I said no. God damn it! But it is better this way because the fantasy isn’t ruined, right? Blah! More on this subject next post…
Anywho, we got back to the hotel in a complete drunken stupor. Arti hitched a ride to the room via the luggage cart, which proved to be too tempting for me and Cec to ignore, so Cory proceeded to drive us around the hotel to the snack machines, where we ran into a very irate hotel employee who demanded that we return his cart. Oops.
After getting denied at the vending machines, we joined a couple of our new friends for a 3AM run to White Castle, or as I like to call it, White Gristle, as my burger clearly had a large, tooth chippingly nasty piece of hoof in it. We were greeted at the door by beast of a woman who was on some wicked hallucinogenic drugs and screaming at the restaurant patrons about how white man’s diseases ruined her life, and took her land, etc. She was completely scary, but we couldn’t help but laugh. Then, after standing in line for seventy three and a half hours, some guy got in Cecilee’s face and kept insisting that she was high because her eyes were irritated. Needless to say, we forced down our sick ass food real fast and busted it back to the hotel where we stayed up giggling all night.
Saturday, we partied at the parade, shared vulgar stories with the most awesome chicks in St. Louis, refused to expose our breasts, and drank beer from pitchers at Soulard. Three of us ate an entire 16” pizza at Imo’s and ended up tipping the guy $2 to let us use the bathroom. We had to sneak through the alley to get to it, but it was the best piss I’ve ever taken.
Then we rocked back to The Landing to dominate the Train Wreck, where we danced for three solid hours. No break. Just dancing like strippers all night long. We were doing synchronized moves, using the railing as a prop, and returning the considerable show that Smith and Katie, who were on the dance floor below, were giving us. It was so fun! I decided to bail out of our hotel room due to the fact that there were like fourteen people in it, and had an excellent slumber party at Cristi’s.
Before peacing out of STL, we forced down the sickest hotel breakfast ever the next day. I’m talking runny eggs, salmonella, and all. Novak even ate the piece of bread that soaks up the bacon grease. Ew. In the end, we were hung over, had blisters on our feet, and had the full on beer shits...It’s so on again for next year! Woo hoo!
Notable Quotes:
Novak: “There are many layers to my onion tit.”
Scary Wasted Native American Woman in White Castle: “Duz anybodddy have any ressspec for Nat’ve Amerricans? Damm white folksss, took er land ‘n…hey…you all have diseasseseses. Diseaseses. Diz…”
Cory: “That freak has like fifty diseases in her pleated skirt.”
Arti: “My people hate me ‘cause some Indian guy kissed her and not me.”
Smith: "We're not even the same ethnicity, GOD!"
Cory: “Shut up, you sick bitch! You’re gonna get daddy in trouble!”
Cec: “It’s not dentist approved to floss your teeth with a thong!”
Cristi: (singing) "If you wanna come to my grandma's, baby I will give you my house key...'cause we're havin' a slumber party, checking out 10 in the morning."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
