Monday, July 26, 2010

hot pants.

this is what i read at the sex show last night. if you missed it, you should consider suicide. good god, i'm so effing tired. i'm officially too old to be rolling in late then getting up at seven to do the laundry. which is still sitting in the dryer. three hours later. eff it, i'm going back to bed now. total fail.

sometimes, when i feel like i am at the height of my considerable desirability and attractiveness and at a stunningly high level of cocksure self-esteem, i like to put my fancy clothes on and go out to bars to find hot dudes to have sex with.

now, to keep up appearances and pretend not to be too much of a filthy, dirty, scandalous whore, i might dress it up and call it “going dancing” or “grabbing a drink after work” but if at the end of a workday i am shoved into structured pants that have an actual button and zipper in lieu of a gaping elastic waistband and raggedy hem, you better believe i’m trying to find somebody sexy to take those bitches off. i’m such a lazy dirtbag that i usually have my belt unbuckled in the elevator on the way up to my apartment, and the minute i walk through the door i disrobe completely and get my pajamas on. i don’t even stop to look through the mail. if i have shoes and a bra on for more than five minutes after 7 pm on a tuesday i consider it a complete and utter failure.

but i have absolutely no problem being bound and trussed like a pig on its way to a fashionable roast if it means i might get to stick my finger up to the knuckle in a handsome man’s asshole at the end of the night. i don’t mind putting decent shoes on to earn some money, but i’d much rather put them on to get some different digits. the kind i can use for drunk dialing. incessant text messaging at odd times of the night. calling and hanging up. thirteen times in a row. sending grainy, blurry, too-dark pictures of my shadowy private parts taken while hovering off-balance over the toilet in the bathroom at work. using the reverse lookup to figure out where he lives. and with whom. before showing up on his lawn at sunset. with flowers. while wearing pants.

i really love these newfangled “upscale” black nightclubs that are popping up everywhere lately so that assholes like me don’t have to get drunk while listening to sorority girls’ incessant giggling and spewing amaretto sour vomit onto her platform shoes in the bathroom stall next to mine. or watch dudes with popped collars dance awkwardly to snoop dogg songs that were popular eight fucking years ago. although in my experience it seems the only prerequisite for the upscale billing is the caveat that one must have appropriate footwear to gain entry. so all i have to do to class my shit up is not wear a shoe that has laces? AWESOME. so let’s say my hair is a tangled mess of dirt and bugs and twigs, my skin is dry and ashy and sloughs off at the slightest indication of a breeze, i smell like the asshole of satan, and i’m wearing a garbage bag soaked in dog shit, BUT i happen to have on a patent leather shoe with a four inch heel? you mean i could still gain entry and live out my low-budget rap video fantasies of getting overpriced bottle service in the vip and making it rain loose change (sorry, i’m not a baller) on hoodrat strippers with terrible weaves? EXCELLENT. sign me right up.

the dudes at these places are still your average run of the mill shitheads, but they, at the very least, tend to be fresh out of the barber’s chair, all cleaned up and smelling good and wearing shiny black size 15 kenneth cole oxfords with his business casual club attire. and it sort of makes the random hooking up feel a little less gross when your nightcap is served in a fancy glass, doesn’t it? nothing better than a dude who needs to drape his neatly tailored blazer over the back of your couch rather than balling up his dirty sweatpants and t-shirt in the corner of your bathroom next to the toilet. it’s like fucking christmas undoing all of that ostentatious gift wrap. and i don’t gently peel of the tape so as not to wrinkle or damage the paper, either. i tear that shit off with my goddamned teeth. i want to get to the candy cane santa left under my hannukah bush. and who the fuck cares? if he ever sees me again, and he’s really
so worried about a couple of harmless little bite marks on the lapel of his notch jacket, he can feel free to send me the dry cleaning bill.

there is a club in downtown chicago called ontourage. ontourage spelled with an O. a capital O. because it’s on ontario. or maybe because it’s O-mazing? sigh. or maybe whomever named the club had a really hard time learning how to spell when he was younger and no one had the heart to tell him that phonetically spelling the name of a nightclub might not be the brainiest of ideas. especially when he expects patrons to pay a twenty dollar cover. AND WEAR NICE SHOES.

my big O moment happened a few years ago when, after several glasses of wine consumed in the non strobe-lit confines of my own home, i decided to slap my fancy pants on and hit the town in search of debonair, impeccably-groomed lothario who wasn’t allowed to wear a ball cap or clothes with logos on them into whatever fine establishment i could convince to let me in. because, for me, “proper attire” means “flip flops i’ve only worn a handful of times.” and sometimes those bouncers are fucking hardasses.

you already know that all types of fuckery is about to ensue when you’re just leaving your house at midnight, and i stood on the corner of my block hailing invisible cabs for twenty minutes and drunk dialing almost every single bitch in my phone to see if anyone wanted to go on the prowl with me. most of my girlfriends are sensible fucking people who’d either A gone to bed HOURS BEFORE or B were already out somewhere fabulous drunk as shit and getting ready to be date-raped by a dude in a pink dress shirt and stiff hair gel. by the time i’d secured a chariot (stupid fucking cabs) i was down to the “i sort of hate this stupid slut but she’d probably bring her camel toe out to the club to wingman for me” section of my contacts list, and even then the only whore who answered her phone was one i reserved for my most desperate circumstances.

and i feel like an asshole saying that. especially when i’ve fielded enough lazy 3 am last call, end of the line, dregs of the coffee cup booty call propositions to know how fucking awful that really fucking feels. there’s nothing worse than knowing you are the LAST BITCH ON EARTH some dude wanted to fuck, but he’s such a miserable piece of shit scumbag that he PICKED UP THE PHONE TO CALL YOU ANYWAY. it’s usually at the point that he doesn’t even give enough of a shit to try to make it sound good. no pretending that you were just “running through his mind” or “hey, i haven’t heard from you in a while and i miss you!” it is the telephone equivalent of motioning to his groin and grunting “put mouth here.” how romantic.

anyway, this dumb bitch answered. for the purposes of our story we’ll call her sarah, because that’s her goddamned name and fuck that bitch because we aren’t friends anymore. and, as i’d suspected, she was perfectly willing to crawl out from under the dude she was about to get busy with and “meet me for just one drink.” ha.

once we slipped past the goon at the door in our questionably high end attire (i believe the words i used to get us in were “shabby chic”), we were enveloped by flashing lights, pulsing beats, and more cool water cologne than you could ever imagine. it was glorious. at the time i was a big fan of bombay and tonics, because i thought it sounded like i knew what i was talking about when i ordered one, so i immediately hit the bar and ordered two. because getting as much alcohol into your body as humanly possible as quickly as possible is of the utmost importance when you walk into a place an hour before last fucking call. i always think i’m so smart waiting until the last second to go out, when they’ve already run out of the beer i drink and the super hot dudes have already all been clubbed over the head and dragged off to some other bitch’s house. so all i’m left with is heineken light and the dude with razor bumps and a patchy beard.

i must have had “talk to me, i’m easy” stamped on my forehead, because before i could even turn away from the bar a dude i hazily remember to be halfway decent-looking sidled up next to me and offered to pay for my drinks. now let’s pause right here and say that, especially in this economy, i have no problem at all shamelessly whoring my ass out for some booze. especially in a place like that, where a splash of top shelf liquor will set you back nine goddamned dollars. i am 100% indiscriminate when it comes to letting someone put down his hard-fought money in support of my good time. so i put my fucking wallet away and marveled in awe as he uttered my most favorite words in the entire history of the universe, “LET ME OPEN UP A TAB.”

i’m sort of like a child in that way, instantly devoted to anyone who does anything for me. or buys me something special. maybe it’s because i’m a product of divorce, and totally loved more whichever of my parents let me put ice cream in my frosted flakes on any given day. i’m easily swayed. give me something shiny and i’ll let you do whatever the hell you want. until somebody comes along with something shinier.

anyway, he obviously thought it would be worth the investment and continued to ply me with weak drink after weak drink while rubbing his boner into the side of my thigh on the dance floor. now ordinarily i would junk punch a dude who couldn’t keep his erection to himself, but by that point i think i’d had sixty dollars’ worth of cocktails and decided to be generous and give him a break. it was the least i could do, right?

drinking dancing sweating dancing shouting drinking sweating screaming dancing drinking grinding drinking dancing and then i took my PANTS OFF. in the middle of a fucking DISCO. so, the details are a little fuzzy, because they are clouded by GIN, but my recollection is serving me in any kind of way, this is sort of how that went. i was doing my patented hip swivel move, which allows me to dance while drunk but not appearing to be so because i hold my upper body relatively still and keep my feet in one place while i move my ass and torso as close to on the beat as possible. he said something to the effect of “i like that ass” (or maybe it was “i wanna see that ass?”) and in my liquor-soaked brain i interpreted that as “bitch, you should totally take your fucking pants off.” so i did.

now here’s where it gets a little tricky. despite the fact that i often use one for transportation, i’m no fucking broomstick. and i was sweating my labia half to death. which turned my “pants” into “sausage casings.” since i imagine you are picturing this in your mind, erase that image of me gracefully stepping out of my pants in one smooth motion and replace it with the actual one: me YANKING and TUGGING and STRUGGLING to get my fucking pants down. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DANCE FLOOR. i was huffing and puffing like a marathon runner, sweating like a whore in church, all while trying to do something totally illegal in front of hundreds of fucking people. but i am
nothing if not determined and i got those girls down around my ankles in approximately three minutes and twenty-seven seconds.

i was so proud of myself, too. i remember when that triumphant “look at me, mommy, look at what i did!” feeling washed over me. my wingwoman, who had snatched my house keys (to prevent me from making a terrible mistake, of course) and vanished to the other end of the club to work her own magic, was nowhere in sight, and that somehow, the lack of someone who knew me and might have a scrap of common sense getting in my face and saying, “what do you think you’re doing?” seemed like a confirmation that i was, in fact, doing the right thing. so i kept the fucking party going.

the ripple of shock making its way through the crowd reached me dead fucking last, as i was completely oblivious to person after person turning to stare at me and my full-bottomed black briefs working it out to the music. sarah appeared from out of the ether and got to me a split second before security did, digging her nails into my ass and hissing “PUT YOUR FUCKING PANTS ON” at me through clenched teeth. my benefactor appeared to be blissfully ignorant as well, or maybe every bitch he pulls out his amex card for immediately undresses the minute the charge clears. i don’t know, some people have it like that.

but i’m stubborn as a mule, and even as a giant dude was fast approaching ready to drag me out of that place by my tampon string, i turned to sarah and said, “not until you give me my keys.” and i stood there, like an asshole, with NO PANTS ON, and held out my hand and waited for her to give them to me. when she didn’t move fast enough i stomped my foot and demanded again. “KEYS.” and she refused, again, to give them to me, leaving me with no other course of action than to spit at her and throw what was left of my eighth drink in her face. oh yes. it got UGLY.

what happened after that is mostly a blur, although i do know that after a lot of shouting and commotion and hullabaloo i ended up outside on the sidewalk with pants halfway on waiting for old moneybags to get his lexus from the valet. that cockblocking bitch still hadn’t given me my keys, but i had a roommate at the time so FUCK HER. what the hell does she know? it is PERFECTLY LOGICAL to go home with a man you’ve known for an hour and a half who did nothing the entire time but pump you full of poison and encourage you to engage in public nudity. it was nearly dawn by the time we found a parking space near my building, and crackheads and hookers laughed and pointed at me as i stumbled up to my door and almost collapsing before i could even get it open. it didn’t matter anyway, as my roommate at the time was a hard-partying gay man for whom “home by a reasonable hour” had absolutely no meaning.

so daddy warbucks and i sat on the dirty carpet outside of my door and waited for him to come home. now THIS is the point that it finally registered that this dude might not be what one would call an "upstanding citizen." the fact that he was so intent on cashing in his chips with a woman who could barely keep her eyes open or her head upright after having recently disrobed in a disco that he was willing to sit cross-legged in my dirty hallway kind of cemented his status as biggest creep in the history of ever. when joseph came home i was nearly comatose, snoring and drooling into cheap motel-style carpeting full of ground in dirt and feces, but they woke me up and i crawled inside (seriously, on all fours) to my room while i tried not to vomit.

i left him sitting on the edge of my bed and went to the bathroom to begin the always-futile face splashing sober up routine and take my fucking pants off. AGAIN. when i dragged myself  back in he was lying on his back with his dick standing on end, just as i’d always imagined my prince charming would in my cinderella fantasies as a child. and all that was missing was a glass slipper for me to vomit into, as five seconds after i’d opened my mouth to insert his penis in it i felt that hot acid that rolls off your tongue and over the inside of your cheeks that let’s you know that the entire contents of your stomach are about to be unleashed via your mouth. the head had gotten just past my front teeth when i felt that sickening lurch, and i was totally helpless and spewed hot vomit all over his dick. and his balls. his legs. and i think i might have even gotten a little on his fancy shoes.

he did exactly what you think he did, jumped up in a panicky rage, hopping from one bare foot to the other trying to avoid the puddles on the carpet. “i never should have bought you all those drinks,” he said as he found a kleenex to wipe the bile off his genitals. “you sloppy bitch.”

“well,” i said, pawing at the strings of vomitspit clinging to my mouth and chin, “consider this a refund.”