I spent Thanksgiving weekend in my hometown. There was a reunion concert for a band named "Haze" that involved my old guitar teacher and his former bandmates. My best friend and I were trying to decide whether we wanted to go eat at the restaurant/club where the concert was being held or go to Hooters. It was a tough decision, hot young titties on girls who pretend to care about us, or a good show surrounded by a veritable high school reunion crowd and the occasional intoxicated hottie who genuinely does want to "get it on." In the end we chose the concert.
We arrived early, ate food that I probably will never order or eat again considering the effects it had on me throughout the night and the next day, and slowly rounded up a handful of friends to sit with.
It can be disturbing to see your old high school crowd show up, one by one, some looking stunning and others looking old and scary.
"What the hell happened to HER??" we wondered, as a very high and partyriffic girl stumbled over, stood in front of our table, and broke out into her traditional "I'm stoned, come fuck me" dance. She was totally and thoroughly wasted and it didn't come from that beer in her hand. We had learned in a slurred conversation with her that she had actually graduated after most of us. In short, she was younger. But oh my God, she didn't look it. She looked positively ancient.
"Rode hard and put up wet doesn't begin to cover it with her," my New York feminist friend leaned over and shouted into my ear over the sound of the band.
"Damn skippy," I replied. "She could be my grandmother."
I'm only 25, I swear
Throughout the night I began noticing increasingly frequent internal problems, apparently relating to the food I'd eaten. I farted a lot. A LOT. And I suddenly found myself feeling unbearably dehydrated. My kidneys hurt with each beat of the drum. I didn't know what the problem was, so I tried to ignore it and go on enjoying my night out with friends I hadn't seen in an eternity. Hopefully the problems would pass.
At one point a stunning brunette passed by me. She could've been a model. I sat there staring at her for the longest time. Finally I turned to one of my friends and asked, "isn't that Susie Swain?"
"I don't know who Susie Swain is," my friend responded, disinterested.
There were 2 very tall women with long hair sitting up at the front of the room, right in front of the stage. They both had identical large breasts. They would stand up during the songs and jump around, bouncing their ample breasts as they did so and catching the attention of everyone in the room.
"Either those 2 women are sisters," I said to my New York feminist friend, "or else they both got identical breast implants. Those things are almost too good to be true."
"You never know," she said. "All I know is mine don't stand out straight like that."
I studied the women a little longer. They had the hips for breasts like that. They were long and tall with hips, tiny waists and huge breasts. They very well might be real.
Midway through the night a pair of hot blondes came in. They looked familiar. I had encountered them before. They were the 2 women who had called me "Charlie" and left a phone number last July. I had not called and I wasn't sure how they were going to react to me now. More than that, I wasn't sure how I was going to react to them.
2 hot blondes
They saw me. There was no doubt about it. I made eye contact with them several times, finding myself frozen as we locked eyes across a very short space. Sometimes they seemed to be studying me. Other times I think they were irritated. Women generally don't like men whom they express an open interest in only to have that invitation fall unanswered. Hot blondes, especially, aren't fond of guys who don't come running when they offer the keys to the panty drawer.
The blondes disappeared for awhile. I couldn't see where they went. I thought I saw them at the bar, but the bar was full. A lot of people were forced to stand. Suddenly I became aware of the blondes standing right behind me, me in my booth and them no more than 2 or 3 feet away, standing there watching the band, talking to passing men who struck up a conversation, or talking to each other. I couldn't look back towards the bar without locking eyes with one of them. At one point they both stared me down, wordlessly drilling me with their blue eyes.
Suddenly the group sitting in the booth next to me got up and left. The 2 hot blondes immediately sat down, with one of them almost touching me.
Legally I'm married. Technically it's complicated. I'm not going into the details, but last time I encountered these 2 hot blondes I had tried to explain it, albeit through a 3rd party. I'm pretty sure they know the situation.
We sat there for quite awhile, side-by-side without speaking. I could almost feel them. Every time I turned to look towards the bar I was looking past them. One of them would flick her hair and it would brush the back of my head. I was sweating. Sweating and farting. Oh damn, what the hell was in that food I ate?? These women are hot, and now they're sitting right next to me. And I'm FARTING!!!
While all of this was going on, I was engaged in a 3-way conversation with the New York feminist whose breasts do not stick straight out, a brunette Canadian named Traci, and Judy.
Judy had come in after me. I had watched her cross the room. In fact, everyone in the place had watched her cross the room. Judy is a rockstar. Or rather, she could've been. She plays bass and she can sing like nobody's business. She's a girl who excels at everything she does. She was a model, a biker babe, a pretty, prissy girl, a vicious, ass-kicking drug-dealer, a business owner, a wife, and now a divorced mother. You couldn't miss her crossing the crowded room. Everyone turned to see that thick, beautiful, flowing hair, the gleaming eyes that seem perpetually amused, and the burning flame that defines a human stick of dynamite. Judy is only about 5 feet tall, but she seems much taller due to the effect of her personality. Normally when Judy and I talk I get the feeling that her eyes are looking through me, as if I wasn't even there. Tonight, for some reason, she looked right at me and smiled a happy, welcoming smile. It made me feel warm inside. I farted each time she turned that smile on me.
I was distracted from the 2 hot blondes. Judy kept smiling at me and laughing. 2 lesbians passed by us, one a red hot chick, and the other clearly the 'guy' of the couple. Judy and I turned to look at each other and raised our eyebrows in unison without speaking a word. It was just as well we didn't speak. It was so loud that we could barely hear each other. Finally I took her cell phone, entered her number into my phone, and began texting her. It was easier than shouting.
Susie Swain, or someone who looks an awful lot like her, kept walking past, catching my eye every time. "Damn, she looks REALLY good," I kept saying to my silent friend sitting next to me. He had arrived with me, sat next to me, and not spoken a word all night. My New York feminist friend and Canadian Traci had nicknamed him "Silent Bob."
Judy had stood up to see the band. Everyone was standing up, so if you remained seated you just couldn't see. I watched her move away slightly, standing next to the booth next to ours. A skinny, long-haired guy with a goatee started talking to her excitedly. I couldn't hear what he was saying. Eventually he stopped talking and Judy turned to me and laughed. Then she texted me, "this guy grabbed me and said "you're that bad-ass chick. You're a legend. You're a fuckin' legend."" Judy found it amusing. I found it not the least bit surprising, especially having seen how animated he was once he got her attention. She is a legend. That dude was wetting himself with excitement over finally meeting The Legendary Judy.
The 2 hot blondes had come as close to me as they could reasonably do without sitting in my lap. I had sat unmoving and indecisive, never attempting to spark a conversation with them. Finally, they got up and left, heading for the door without looking back. I farted again. My kidneys were also aching like a motherfucker. I felt as if my internal organs were turning to dust, I was so dehydrate. I kept drinking, and it kept not helping.
Another factor in my indecision regarding the 2 hot blondes was how sick I was beginning to feel. If I got a tad too intoxicated, and they were a tad too friendly, and we somehow ended up in the bathroom or at their place fumbling around, with the way I was feeling I wasn't entirely sure that all my important parts were going to work. I mean, clearly my ass was working. In fact, it was working overtime, tooting up a symphony. But my mouth felt like garlic and sand. And my kidneys felt as if I had been punched repeatedly there. If I am ever going to tranform "it's complicated" to "I'm available for one-night stands" it probably shouldn't be on a night when I'm not up for it.
No sooner had the 2 hot blondes vacated the booth next to mine when a large crowd of mostly women crammed into it. They hadn't been there for very long when the lone male in the group tapped me on the shoulder and said "she wants to ask you something."
A brunette leaned forward next to him and smiled at me. "Are you married?" she asked.
Fuck! "Technically I am, yes. It's .. um ... complicated," I responded, sick of saying this over and over.
The brunette sitting on her left leaned foward, laughing, and said, "would you like to fuck anyway?" Then everyone laughed.
Let me rub your junk, eh
At one point I ended up in a deep conversation with Traci from Canada. The more she drank, the more often she mentioned that she was from Canada. And then she got up from her seat and came over to sit right next to me. "Are you married," she asked, with her big brown eyes searching me.
Where have you been all night? Were you not just sitting there when I had that conversation with those 2 girls in the other booth? Damn!
"It's complicated," I said, sick of trying to explain this situation which I myself don't fully comprehend. "I'm legally married, but we live apart most of the time. We don't really know what we're going to do. She refuses to move here. I'm tempted to pack it all in and move to Australia. Take it to mean what you will."
"Dammit!" she exclaimed, as she bumped the table, knocking over a bottle of beer, spilling the freezing cold contents into my lap. "Oh shit, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed. Then she grabbed a handful of napkins and began dabbing at my junk.
"It's actually my thigh that's wet," I commented. "Although, you know, that's good too." Just then I felt some of the beer slosh up under me on the seat and freeze my butthole and my taint, sending me lurching up out of the seat in a reflexive jump. I ended up sitting on the back of the booth with several people around us looking at me funny, what with my leg all wet, a big-tittied brunette Canadian woman dabbing at my dick with napkins, and me sitting up in an elevated position breathing heavily.
The night was getting late. The band was wrapping up. The 2 hot blondes had left. Judy the Fuckin Legend had left. Several of my friends had left. Traci the Canadian was very suddenly and quite dramatically showing the effects of the alcohol she had been drinking. My pants and my coat were covered in someone else's beer. I had been feeling sicker and sicker as the night wore on, so that by now I was contemplating a hospital bed. Susie Swain, or someone that looked an awful like like her, was getting ready to go. The 2 tall big-tittied girls were sticking around, doing lap dances on the guys they had come in with. I was starting to get serious chills.
I pushed and shoved and crawled my way to the bar to pay my tab. I and the New York feminist walked out together. "You know, I've started getting counseling," she said to me as we headed out the door and into the parking lot. "I guess I have a lot of anger issues and I've never really dealt with them before."
"Don't we all?" I asked her.
"Yeah, but people say I'm way too confrontational. I seem to push even my own friends away and I don't even know I'm doing it."
"This isn't because I said that you side with women in every single case, no matter what the facts are, is it? Because that's pretty much most women in this country. It's not just you. You're just more honest about it. 9 of the 10 women on the Mary Winkler jury wanted to just let her go without even hearing the facts of the case, did you know that? The 2 men on the jury were furious at the blatant sexism they showed, but they couldn't do anything about it. That's not just you. That's America."
"No," she replied, "it wasn't that. I have a lot of issues from my own family that I've never dealt with before. Since getting divorced and having to move home again I've started to realize how much they affected me."
"Fucked you up?"
"Yeah, something like that."
"That's what family is for."
I was violently shaking by the time I reached my car. My teeth were chattering. I drove home in a miserable state of food poisoning. I stripped off my beer-soaked clothes and threw them into the tub in the bathroom. Then I lept into bed and shivered like mad for what seemed like an eternity while I pulled the covers up over my head, leaving not even an inch of my skin uncovered. It was 2 a.m.
At 3 a.m. I had to jump out of bed, run to the bathroom and shit my brains out.
At 4 a.m. I had to get up and shit my brains out again. I wasn't sure, but I thought I might puke.
At 5 a.m. the puking started. It felt as if someone was standing behind me, wringing out my kidneys like 2 nerve-filled sponges. As I lay there in a contorted position, hurling my enchilada and taco over the side of the mattress and hopefully into the garbage can I had placed down below, I thought about the brunette who said "Would you like to fuck anyway?" Somehow, for some reason, that made me feel good.
And then I continued vomiting.
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