This weekend had, until last night, been quite boring. At one point, my friends and I were reduced to riding up and down the elevators while I wore a pink wig. Though it was quite funny how no one acknowledged it, up until Saturday night we were all bored to shit. Thus, my GBF Richard and I decided to go clubbing, in the hopes that we'd derive some excitement from it. We went to the Church, because he wanted to see the spot where I'd had sex with
Polo. Given the notoriety it has achieved, I'm hoping it will soon be a Denver landmark, gracing the pages of inane tourist magazines. Perhaps they will put up a plaque.
Anyway, as I was getting dressed, I had to make a decision. I'd left my flats at home, and keep forgetting to pick them up. So, my choices were Converse, and my patent-leather pumps. The most recent three times I have worn these shoes, I have gotten laid. I call them my Fuck Me Pumps. The decision was not really shoes, and more along the lines of "Do I want to have sex tonight?"
I went with the Fuck Me Pumps.
We had to walk through the 16th Street Mall to get to the Church. I realized I was quite hungry, and it is unwise to go clubbing on an empty stomach. We went to Taco Bell, because it was there and still open. It was at Taco Bell that Richard snapped this ever-classy photo of me eating a quesadilla:
On the way to the Church, which was several blocks away, I received a good 6 honks of approval. After pumping my fist in the air and yelling, "CONFIDENCE!" I realized that perhaps I was slightly more sluttily dressed than I'd realized. In retrospect, a front-zip tube top mini dress is about as slutty as it gets. But I got it for $15, so...worth it.
We finally got there, and were mildly horrified to discover that it was Latin night. And I don't mean Daddy Yankee, I mean salsa. In every room, there were roughly four couples dancing traditional salsa, very impressively, I might add; and about 40 people standing by the walls, waiting for them to play hip-hop or something
mildly danceable for the rest of us. Richard and I were probably among 10 white people in the whole club.
After a little while, they started playing a few hip-hop songs between salsa, and everyone, including us, flooded the dance floor. It was a lot of fun, as we'd decided to represent the Gringos as Gringos should be represented: dancing terribly compared to the other people. A couple hours later, I remembered why I usually wear my Converse to clubs - heels fucking hurt
. We left about 45 minutes before the club closed; as soon as we got outside, I took off the heels and walked barefoot to our next destination, Leela's. It's a 24-hour coffee shop, that has chai tea that will make you come in your pants. It is located about five blocks from everything downtown, so I go there every couple of weeks, usually when I'm stuck. Unfortunately, the light rail, my main form of transportation, doesn't run between 2 AM and 4:30 AM, so if I'm caught in the middle of these times, Leela's is the place to go.
Leela's, however, between these times is also a hotspot for drunks, homeless people, and all unholy manner of degenerates. Whether or not this is a good thing depends on your mood; I was in the mood for adventure. So, this was a very good thing.
We'd been there for a half hour when a group of about 8 punks rolled in, all obviously drunk and high. Being that I have a memorial tattoo on my chest for Lux Interior, one of the godfathers of punk, I knew they were gonna talk to me. I just had to wait.
They did, indeed. They were a nice bunch; lively, loud, kinda immature (but that is very fun on occasion.) Over the course of the next hour, there was a ketchup fight, talks about music, and chess with a homeless guy. It was fun, not gonna lie; not the least because one of them, a cute, nice fellow with a mohawk named Mason, had his arm around me frequently. However, shortly after the chess session, one of the drunker ones, Chris, threw his gum at a(nother) drunk party girl, whose sister proceeded to freak the fuck out. Richard, a pre-Law student, talked them down, while the group, myself included, gtfo'd. Richard had already told me his friend Garrett was picking him up for some sexy time. I found out later Garrett showed up shortly after we ran, so thankfully Richard did not have to spend too long with the angry drunk girls, who were apparently threatening to call the cops.
There were two cars, one belonging to a girl named Anya, and one belonging to a girl named Lauren. We drove to Sid's apartment, where he discovered his roommates were home, so we relocated to the top of this stairwell, where they all appeared to hang out; at least, if the box of Chex already there was anything to go by. We sat in a cluster here, and eventually I started making out with Mason. It is worth noting that I had not been wearing my Fuck Me Pumps for at least two hours, carrying them around instead - this is the extent of their power. If they're even in the vicinity, I am gonna get some ass.
Eventually, he pulled down the top of my dress, and the others subsequently decided to move lower down the stairwell. It was at that point that I got rid of the underwear, excited for some sex.
But then, the unthinkable happened: Mason pulled down his pants, and it was small
. Really, really small. When it was flaccid, it was as long as my fist; when erect, it was maybe five inches, and the width of two pencils. I had never seen such a small dick in my life
Unfortunately, when your underwear's off and your boobs are hanging out, it's not like you can say, "Oh...no thank you. Do they still have weed down there?" So I had to take one for the team.
As we were "fucking", I was participating in the conversation further downstairs, mostly out of boredom:
ME: I love Wu-Tang Clan! *sexsexsex* That's what she
said! *sexsexsex* Did you know that there are 700,000 arrests made per year for pot-related offenses, most of them minor possession? *sexsexsex* Waffles are good
Mason, however, really did not want to stop. He'd come, get hard again, we'd have sex, he'd come, get hard again, we'd have sex. This happened four times. Admittedly, he was quite a skilled fingerer, so I was hoping we could just keep doing that. He was in art school, and in my experience, artists, musicians, and gamers are quite good at fingering. But, tonight, he was pretty determined to have sex.
In a less-than-graceful moment, as I was giving him a blow job, for whatever reason I puked just a little on his dick. This confused me, as I have sucked far, far bigger dicks in my life and had no problem. I silently declared a vendetta on Taco Bell, and cleaned up as fast as I could without him noticing. He didn't, thankfully.Finally
, mercifully, Lauren, who was giving Mason a ride, yelled that it was time to go. We stopped, and got dressed, and kissed goodbye, the taste of vomit still on my teeth. I needed a cigarette ASAP to get rid of that. I walked downstairs to see how Anya, who said she'd give me a ride, was doing - she was passed out, and it didn't look fitful in the least. I proceeded to grab my Fuck Me Pumps and bolt out the door of the apartment, taking roll call of my possessions, hoping I would catch Lauren and Mason. I did, and she agreed to give me a ride to the light rail station.
When we got there, I was hoping to put my shoes on until I got back to my dorm; but as we pulled up, the train I needed to be on did too. I said a quick thanks and, once again, bolted, jumping over curbs and running through two other tracks. I made it, and staggered onto the train. I then realized I had dirty feet, rugburn on my knees from the carpeted stairs, a really short dress, cheap patent leather shoes in my hand, and a mix of ketchup, vomit, come, and sweat in my hair. I presumed I'd be arrested for prostitution within two stops.
One of the light rail ticket-checkers, indeed, walked up to me. They don't fuck around on the light rail, these guys actually have many of the abilities of cops; for example, ability to arrest people obviously breaking minor laws, like smoking pot, disorderly conduct, and prostitution. I knew I had to play this shit cool.
TICKET CHECKER: Hi, there.
ME: *shows bus pass with very guilty look on face, akin to that Taco Bell face*
TICKET CHECKER: Are you, uh...okay?
ME, SUDDENLY DECIDING THIS IS A PERFECT GOLDEN GIRLS
REFERENCE MOMENT: Why, officer, your sweet words could charm the morning dew right off the honeysuckle.
TICKET CHECKER: *nods, backs away slowly*
Alright, not exactly "cool", but I didn't get arrested! And that's something!
I arrived back at my dorm at around 5:45 AM, and padded down the two blocks, hoping no one would see me, and not too many people did. I got inside and got ready to take a shower (at long last). As I set down my Fuck Me Pumps, I promised myself I would only use their powers for good.
If I hit five hookups with these shoes, I need to start a prison-esque tally. Scrawl it into the wall with a scowl on my face after I come home from another ill-advised fuck, maybe play the harmonica for a bit.