Monthly Archives: December 2013

Don’t bother me, I’m eating the flesh of the young

I’m not a spring chicken, but I’m not closing in on my final days, either; I’m about the age where I’m old enough to know better, and young enough to do it anyway. So, last night I went out “dancing” with a gorgeous, stylish, flame-haired girlfriend. Now, we’ve gone actual dancing before — blues dancing, where the men sweep you around like it’s a cotillion, and you end the night in a dreamy, sexy haze.

This was not that kind of dancing.

This was more akin to an eighth-grade social, where all the girls gyrate together trying to imitate an Usher video, and all the men flank the perimeter, awkwardly staring at whatever body part they’ve recently learned makes them feel all tingly in their private bits. As the alcohol seeps into everyone’s system, the groups start stumbling closer to each other to make random contact (and it occurs to me that this is the very literal definition of “bumping uglies”). It’s a lot like a nature program.

So Girlfriend and I are watching the hot mess, noting the proliferation of faux-hawks, and musing about what the group of possible prostitutes actually does for a living (shopgirls? Olive Garden hostesses?), when a velvet-clad mancub sidles up to us. In what we think was an effort at a clever opening gambit, he calls us “cougars” and then insults the city of our residence while making clear that he is a complete douche (HE’S visiting from San Francisco, a REAL city with actually cool clubs, but he comes back here to make it rain on his friends, because his money goes so much farther here). So, how’d we like to party with him?

We need more drinks.

When I return, two unadulterated tequilas in hand (really you only need to be roofied once to never let anyone get you a drink ever again), I find Girlfriend has somehow amped up this conversation, so that Mancub is almost at “frenzy,” and it’s only been five minutes. After telling me how “kinky” she is – (what the hell did she say to him while I was gone?!) – he tells us we need to come back to his hotel room at the Nines, because he’s “explosive” and “like a fuckin’ animal, man” and we “need to have a reason to remember 2013, some fireworks.” I can’t help imagining his room is full of Mythbusters-style detonation experiments, but I suspect this is unlikely. Girlfriend tells him she’s already checked the Nines off her list. I snicker; he just looks confused. He says he needs some shots, and he’ll be back after he “goes and parties,” but he’ll “bring back some fresh meat for us cougars to devour, since we’ve come down from the hills to feed.” I miss him already.

When he swoops back he’s brought two latinos from the updated-Miami-Vice style school, obviously brothers, obviously, like, twelve years old, and obviously COMPLETELY NOT INTERESTED in the approaching-death spinsters that their mate has foisted them on. I observe aloud that the brothers are wearing identical shoes, and this confuses them. Now I am confused — did they not notice they are wearing identical shoes? They clearly both shopped for them at the “Discount Pimp” store, so is this one of those embarrassing moments where OMG he’s wearing exactly.the.same.thing. as me!?! The brothers cannot get away from me fast enough.

Mancub comes back and asks me: “So. Where do you girls draw the line?” …. um. Um.

[It’s been so long since I drew a line! Can I have a pencil? What kind of line? Help, Girlfriend! Please come back!]

Mercifully, he continues, absolving me from the need to imagine the context in which I should think of these imaginary lines. “Like, you know. Drugs? Nose candy?” … Oh, whew. Girlfriend is back. He repeats: “Nose candy, are you interested? You know, party?” Girlfriend catches on: “OH! You mean COCAINE.” Mancub FREAKS. “Shhhhhh!” … I’m not sure whom he thinks could possibly be interested in this exchange: apathetic hipster security? Or maybe the NSA can hear him over “Brittney, Bitch” at 180 decibels?

Wait: I just remembered how to draw a line! It’s right before I accept drugs from and go back to some complete stranger’s hotel room! Actually, it’s about 500 miles before that happens!

All of the sudden I am assaulted by the smell of Drakkar, malt liquor, and weed, and realize something  someone has started humping my leg. It’s time to call it a night and slink back up to our den in the hills… nothing good to eat down here tonight.


Screamers, squealers, churchmice and Emily Post

I hope my neighbor likes baked goods.

I say this because, although I live in a fabulous old building with lathe-and-plaster walls that godhelpyou one can’t drive a nail into but are fabulous at blocking noise, I suspect I’ve breached neighbor etiquette.  Which brings us to our question of the day:

How do you appropriately modulate a screamer? I’ve considered trying to casually work a ball gag into the “usual” routine, but that’s really a comfort level that takes some working up to… I’m not sure I could pull that off gracefully with a casual partner. “Hey, what was your name again? Stuff this in your mouth. K, thanks.”

Shooooshing them is an option, of course, but besides making me feel like a cranky theatergoer admonishing bratty children, I just hate to tamp down that enthusiasm. After all, it makes me want to go all Mary-Lou-Retton, and throw my hands and boobs up to the sky in a victorious salute. Even if the noise sounds remarkably like a teenage girl who’s just been licked by Justin Bieber, it’s still up there on the level of “positive reinforcement” like an 8 from the East German judge.

Plus, it’s vastly preferable to the stealth bombers. I’m not really a “detail person,” but realizing with chagrin that a gentleman finished five minutes ago and I failed to notice really does make question my observation skills. Having discussed this years ago with a regular partner, he testily agreed to my request that he practice vocalization.  But, since he was the kind of sarcastic bastard I love, at the critical moment what he in fact hollered was “YIGATCHA!!” … which I think was from whatever Anime series he was into at the time. Yeah, I pretty much lost it…laughing…and “yigatcha” stuck around. You’re welcome, every-girl-he-dated-after-me. HOW COULD I STIFLE THAT KIND OF CREATIVITY?!

So the etiquette dilemma here boils down to: what most effectively says “I’m very sorry I caused you to be awoken at 5 a.m. by the sweet, lilting sounds of a mountain lion being castrated” — chocolate chip cookies or banana bread?

Relax Your Face

Some girlfriends and I have always wanted to publish that book — you know the one, the zillion bad dates we’ve gone on. Let’s start here and now. The final days of 2013 are here:  that magical week when some of us are in the office, apparently solely to ensure that the building does not burn down (or be on hand to call in the firefighters if it begins to)… so I’ve got some free time….

I love dating. I show up early and give the bartender my credit card, with explicit instructions that they close out my tab on that card rather than bring a shared check. I don’t have any expectations, or prohibitions (sex on the first date can be completely appropriate, sure). I’m not looking for a long-term relationship, or to get married. I’ve gone on a lot of dates where we don’t hit it off, but are still friends (on Facebook and/or in real life). But I gotta tell you…the amount of crazy that’s kicking around? It certainly makes for some fantastic stories…mine and others’.

Let’s kick off the fun with the story of Relax Your Face. This one wasn’t a date, just an encounter between “friends” at a bar. Everyone was some degree of boozed up at that point of the night, and our fine gentleman protagonist seizes a lovely lass and plants one on her — with full-on scorpion tongue action. Lady, realizing he is three sheets to the wind, very graciously extracts her fleshy appendages from his, and starts laughing… at which point he urges her, quite seriously, and with a hand gesture downward over her face as if he is closing the eyes of a corpse, to “Relax Her Face” — apparently so more of this gratifying oral penetration can occur. Unsurprisingly to everyone but him, this tactic was less than 100% effective, and he was forced to shift his amorous efforts to the next hapless victim.

This story has amused us so much that we now use the saying (and the corresponding gesture) with great frequency. We still aren’t really sure whether RYF actually remembers his part in this action; we’re looking forward to his reaction when he realizes that “that thing all his friends do” is actually his creation. Tee hee.

I and my crack team of researchers look forward to hopefully amusing you further in 2014 with our very best of the worst……………………………