(This is an hyperbolic account of a personal story of mine from two years ago. This is a judge-free zone, right?!)
Winter in Ann Arbor: I was eating Vicodins like a fat kid chowing down Skittles. I was trying to kick pills at the time but to no avail.
Eric and I went to the Old Miami in Midtown. The place looks like the basement of a 20-something–couches in lieu of chairs, pinball machines, a pool table, and a bonfire set up outside.
I was meeting a girl I had met in Ann Arbor at the 8 Ball– the bar underneath The Blind Pig. The townie bar, as it’s also known as: bearded dudes chatting about bands you’ve never heard of; girls with tattoo sleeves; dart-boards and pool-tables scattered throughout; and dirt-cheap Pabst beer in cans.
Hold up, let’s rewind two weeks to that night at 8 Ball: I got Lauren’s number there after a ridiculous night on oxycontin.
When we first arrived, Eric was arguing with Tim about nonsensical bullshit. I was zoning out.
Tim had recently came out as gay (not that had anything to do with it) but had yet to learn about homo-humility. Look, I get it; his whole life he had been acting as someone that was not himself and now that he could be himself, everything was fabulous! But that shit gets old fast.
I had been tooting those blue 30 milligram oxycontins in the bathroom once every hour and a half. They made my body go numb, as if I were receiving a heavenly massage from Penthouse playmates.
Anyways, Eric went to the bathroom or outside for a smoke so I was stuck to bullshit with Tim.
He was very fussy about where to put our coats. I had just tossed mine on the barstool.
All sly-like, I pulled two Vicodins out of my pocket and swallowed them down with some Pabst. I had lately turned to opiates over benzos because of the euphoria and the warmth- plus, drinking made me sound retarded whenever I tried to wheel girls, which was the the whole point of the evening.
Eric returned from the bathroom, so I headed outside for a cigarette. Snow drifted down heavily, so everyone was bundled up. I was the only retard outside in a t-shirt, and wasn’t even shivering.
An Arab kid and his fat dorky friend were attempting–badly–to freestyle rap to some girls. They wanted me to jump in on their beat.
“No thanks, man,” I declined. “I’m white as hell.”
I exchange looks with the girls they were trying to impress and head inside.
Two drunks girls stumbled directly opposite us, and the smaller, Jewish-looking chick grabbed my pitcher and poured herself a glass.
“What the fuck?” I shot her an ugly look.
They laughed like hyenas, thinking it was so funny they had just drank some stranger’s beer.
This is why I hate drunk chicks: except for fucking, booze takes away their femininity. Then again, drunk chicks fucked like animals.
The Jewish-looking chick then started complaining about the band upstairs- I guess she had known the lead singer and was disappointed he wasn’t an asshole.
Like she was expecting him to fuck her in the coat room, but instead he was polite. A “pussy” she said.
Poor guy: he didn’t recognize that our generation was comprised of the least feminine women ever…then again, men had never been less masculine. Buncha “I feel like…” pussies.
She continued on about this guy until she said something that even I–high as hell, heavily sedated, eyelids half-closed– realized was fucking ridiculous.
She was groaning on about nonsense until I heard something about shitting on her pussy. I can’t remember if I had I brought it up or she did. All I know was that was she was down with it. I laughed and knew I was dealing with some DefCon 1 nutjobs.
I excused myself and walked myself over to a table of 4 girls. I had talked to two of them earlier, outside smoking a cigarette. One of them was Lauren and her cute blonde friend.
“Can I hide here for a second?” I asked them. “Some girl just asked me to shit on her pussy.”
They laughed, but the hottest girl in the group (Paige, Kate, Amber? I’m fucking terrible with names) was skeptical. I sat down.
“I swear to Christ she did,” I reassured her. Tinder was getting big lately, which I thought I was the gayest thing ever. “They need to make an app for that, you know. Call it PussyShitz.”
I’m sure at this point they were wondering, “Who the FUCK is this guy?!”…and I knew I was in. I itched my face because of the opiates.
Amber or whatever the fuck her name was turned to me. “So how would this app work? Just swipe right whenever you found a suitable shitter?!”
Ahh fuck, I can’t believe we were still going with this. Fuck this girl for testing me like this; if this was gonna be a game of chicken, seeing who could take it the furthest while maintaining a straight face, I was gonna win.
“Nah, that’s too superficial. Just post a pic of the asshole and the shit. Hell, make it a video of shit coming out of your ass like you Snapchat your friends.”
They all stared at me. “Oh c’mon, drop the fuggin’ act. You’ve never down that? I’m sure you girls snapchat each other crazy shit of your pussy or tits…shit, that girl-” I pointed out the crazy chick that was the impetus for this ridiculous conversation “-has probably snapchatted shit dropping down on her pussy.”
Then after the superficial niceties of introducing one another-they had finally asked me my name- I just went for the jugular, talking about cumming on faces and assplay and other sexual shit.
This was always a game to me–seeing how fast I could turn the conversation sexual without the girls getting weirded out. It began because I was uncomfortable doing it, but goddam it was titillating.