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I’m No Jane Doe

I go to the same watering hole after work frequently enough to be “NOOORRRMMMed” when I sit down at the bar. Yesterday after an uneventfully busy shift at the restaurant, I trooped across the street and plunked down for a cocktail next to a generic, middle-aged fella nursing the last dregs of what appeared to be merlot. Now, I sit at the bar intentionally to talk to strangers, since I am a sucker for no-commitment social interaction, so it’s not unexpected or unwelcome when Generic Man strikes up a conversation. His execution, however, ramps the conversation from zero to Dexter in about 2.6 seconds.


Him: I saw you at [restaurant where I work]. I heard your conversation. That’s a lot to carry. You and I, we’re a lot alike. You have a heavy load on your shoulders, and you’re an extraordinary person. You’re so much above your station, so much more going on than people realize.

Me: Um. What conversation? [Does Frasier Crane here think I’m someone else, or is this the beginning of the weirdest, creepiest pickup overture I’ve heard in a decade?]

Him: It doesn’t really matter, does it? What matters is where you go. Where are you going now?

Me, figuring I’ll be cheeky and lighten things up: Bombay!

Him, looking a little confused: Is that near…Dubai?

Me: Honestly, I have no idea. But I’m getting a Flight to Bombay, and I’ll figure it out from there.


My favorite ginger bartender confirms that I want the usual (a gorgeous, smoky purple-grey mix of cardamom-infused gin, liqueur de violettes, and blue curacao) and Generic Man looks slightly petulant that I’m engaging in wordplay rather than giving his earnest bullshittery the gravitas he feels it merits.


Me, feeling slightly contrite: So, do you live around here, or are you traveling?

Him: More or less, less or more. Does it matter?

Me: Uh…s’pose not. So what do you do?

Him: I used to run [some blathery nonsense about hedge fund stuff]. I had a multimillion dollar [blah blah blah]. And now…..what do any of us do? I’m not sure anymore.

Me, channeling Every Lifestyle Blogger Ever: I’m a big fan of simplifying your life and reducing stress. Good for you.


This is clearly not the bedazzled reaction he’s going for, but he seems adamant in his refusal to participate in ordinary small talk, preferring the Cheshire Cat/Charles Manson method of flirting, after insisting that I am not a server at the restaurant but am in fact management (which sends both me and the owner of the bar into snorting giggles and causes me to aspirate some of my transoceanic martini). I’m trying hard to make some sort of subtle hand signal to either the owner or the bartender that translates as “HEEEEELLLLLPPPP MEEEEEEEEE,” but their self-preservation instincts have caused them to casually and slowly back away from Generic Man and are studiously ignoring my gestures (which, to be fair, may have told them to steal second).


Me, trying to track this conversation back to a semblance of normalcy until I can imagine a reason I need to move to the other end of the bar (better gravity further south?): What brings you in tonight?

Him: I was watching you at [restaurant where I work], but I left because of the book you are reading. You’re a romantic, I see.

Me, trying to connect some kind of dots and feeling like I’ve dropped into a real-life Magritte: You’ve got a fucked-up idea of romance if you think American Gods is a romantic book. Do you always talk like you’re in Through the Looking Glass?

Him: I was disappointed in you. It was the cover I couldn’t handle. Such a typical romance novel.

Me, losing my patience: Look. I work at [restaurant]. I wasn’t there reading tonight, and I don’t even own a romantic book. I think you’ve definitely confused me with someone else.

Him: I refuse to be third priority.


That’s it. I’m going to have to dig my own escape tunnel or they’re going to find my body with evidence of human gnawing on my bleached bones. I catch hold of the only rope I can find: butting into someone else’s conversation to step awkwardly out of my own.


Chef, sitting at bar three seats down: I used to have a duck. <pregnant pause> That was probably a bad idea.



The burst of laughter, charitably provided for me by the chef and her conversational companion, is enough to catapult me into the conversation and firmly signal the end of my patience with Generic Potential Serial Killer, who sulks away from his seat and slips out the front door. I definitely owe her a drink.




Northern Exposure

It didn’t bode well when the 50-something-ish woman staggered to the gate, oozing liquor from her pores and gasping heavily under the weight of her technically compliant carryon while ranting about someone’s aura. My vacation date and I glance at each other and raise our “this flight calls for bloody marys” eyebrows as we herd into our boarding carrels, dead set on a weekend of relaxation and, well, abject whorishness.

We wind up one row back across the aisle from Shirley McPlane, who had apparently been cut off and thrown out of the airport bar for belligerent, drunken fighting, which she loudly informed the plane of before petitioning the attendant unsuccessfully for a Jack Daniels. Despite being denied, as the four-hour flight progresses she seems to ramp it up to eleven, opening with petitioning her rowmates for sexual favors (as a result of which the flight attendant moves the aisle passenger and relocates her to leave as much room as possible between her and poor Ms. Window Seat). In her new seat, she begins actually assaulting a gentleman easily 20 years her senior who has been pacing the aisle trying to stave off embolisms, at first awkwardly flirting and then accosting him, tearing at his clothing, and trying to pull him onto her lap. Date and I (along with the surrounding passengers) began worriedly murmuring about 1. how she was becoming more rather than less fucked up (we figured liquor + antianxiety meds + altitude + ???), and 2. how to subdue her quickly before the situation escalated into an emergency landing because we had motherfuckin’ places to BE. We are wondering about the feasibility of zip-tying her to the seat as a public service when she droops forward and passes out. After ascertaining she’s not expiring for good, we breathe sighs of relief and go back to pretending like Mad Max: Fury Road is “entertainment” rather than a wet dream for BDSM kids who didn’t get Burning Man tickets.

We land near the border and drive a few hours true north for what promises to be a ridiculous weekend of Bacchanalian excess, checking into a charming boutique ski hotel with a boot-warmer, fireplace, French press (Oh, Canada!), and attentive but non-intrusive staff. Turns out, it’s Victoria Day, the local version of Devil’s Night (“sorry, but I’m here to smash your windows, eh?”), so the hotel is improbably thrilled to host our group of 300 lubed-up weirdos and its collection of shocky, whip-y accessories. Date and I decide fortification is essential before the real fun begins and head out for the best sushi of our life; sure enough, when we return, the hallway is awash with rave extras, flashing lights, and glitter…we’re going to benefit from those Omega-3s.

I promptly lose Date as we both chase shiny things, me heading for the rooftop screw & view to get some true patriot love and him jumping into a pile of writhing humans like a seven-year-old into a Chuck E. Cheese ball pit. When I next encounter him, he’s looking pleased as punch, balls deep inside some woman folded over and tied to what appears to be one of those 80s-era ergonomic kneeling chairs. Eventually we regroup poolside, draping ourselves over dangling loungers in the cool night air and retelling the conquests of our evenings. We stub out our butts and head back inside, me off to the land where I’m a glowing-hearted Viking and him out to fly free among the horny night owls. He’s snoring blissfully next to me when my eyes scrape open in the morning.

After slurping coffee and putting some dents in our headboard (which is one rustic, salvaged board ironically bolted to the wall at the head of the bed) we pry ourselves out of the eiderdown and aim towards breakfast, settling on a hippie-dippie wrap shop with adequate breakfast burritos. As we head out, he realizes his wallet has gone missing; after a few moments’ freakout, he retraces his steps and finds it in the bondage room, where it had fallen under some equipment that resembles a Pilates reformer when he overzealously dropped trou.

I insist we go out and explore the area’s scenic shit, so we spend a few hours poking around the trails in the charming mountain ski town before the group activities begin. We’ve chosen to ease into sluttitude today, spending a few hours doing touristy things like axe throwing rather than getting massages or taking a workshop on how to improve our anal sex lives (cliff’s notes: less is more). We’re back to the (literal) grind by late afternoon when the pool party is in chilly full swing (Canada in May isn’t actually anywhere close to summer, so the weekend’s 70 degree weather is considered a heat wave). Although we’re not technically supposed to be nekkid in the common spaces, about 65% of the population is ignoring this and we are treated to a show of three women twerking and spinning their tits poolside. (One brave soldier attempted to represent the gentlemen with his helicopter maneuvers, but was largely ignored and slunk back to his chaise lounge.)

I learn from Date that one of these performers is in fact gainfully employed as a professional partier. She looks the part, having basically stepped out of a Pharell video (legs for miles, long silky hair, single-digit body fat, standard tattoos) and she’s targeted her sights on Date for the weekend. Apparently she enjoyed his log ride (with a satisfying sploosh) and bought a skip-the-line Magic Kingdom pass to go again and again without waiting in line. I fist-bump him approvingly, because although she’s certainly not my jam, she’s definitely one of the most attractive and coveted women at the event. We part ways for the evening when I tap out of a packed, sweaty orgy, leaving him with Party Professional and a cadre of her beautiful friends.

By the next morning, when we regroup poolside, he’s enjoying the oral attention of an under-kilt scuba diver while musing that he’s really “learning to like this,” by which he means “receiving head.” I snort pina colada out my nose, laughing so hard the head bobs up to make sure I’m not in danger of choking to death. Date muses idly that he thinks—although his math skills and memory aren’t in top shape—that this is the seventh woman who’s blown his love whistle so far this calendar day, including a steamy 3 a.m. hot tub dalliance. (“We see thee rise,” indeed!)

By Monday, we’re exhausted and dehydrated, but rally long enough to get fisted and fucked by the neighbors because, you know, life is short. By the time we scrounge up all our leftover loonies and toonies for the housekeeping staff (god bless them for their service) and slam the door behind us, we are nearly catatonic and are completely overwhelmed at the prospect of going back to the states and explaining to our vanilla hosts why we failed so miserably at taking a relaxing vacation. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t buy our claims that loud partiers had kept us up (although technically the truth); we eventually “confessed” that we had basically spent the whole weekend fucking (although we left out the “dozens of other people” part). Thankfully, this seemed to satisfy their curiosity. Besides, we only had one day to recover before we moved on to a second week of traveling threesomes, foursomes, moresomes and parties, so we were grateful for fewer questions and more glorious and free naptime.

Spatial Awareness

Everyone should road trip across the country, both to evaluate whether your anti-stress techniques or medications are working and to experience firsthand all the charmingly weird shit sprinkled around the country (Nebraska: “Come see the world’s largest ball of stamps!”). Drivers in Kansas are honorary graduates of Seattle’s Ballard School of Driving (motto: “you pay taxes on the whole road, get your money’s worth”), so it’s not uncommon to see cars straddling both lanes on major interstates. Thankfully they only stayed for the first week’s lessons and usually travel at least 13 miles over the 75-mph speed limit.

The prevalence of this kind of attempted vehicular homicide made more sense to me after more than one friend related tales of giving or receiving road head for literally hundreds of miles of barren highway (make-your-own geyser practice through Yellowstone won gold in this storytelling competition). Orgasms while driving—mine or someone else’s—are strongly incompatible with my hyperconservative grandma-driving crash-avoiding ethos; besides, I’ve seen firsthand the (best possible) negative ramifications, when a carful of randy friends arrived four hours late to a campout after getting the directions garbled either somewhere in the telling (“Dake ettttthit thixtee nun”) or in the understanding (“got it, exit in two miles…oh, oh ohohohoooooooooohhhhhhhh mmmmm yeah oh don’t stop don’t stop YASSSSSSSSS…..wait, where the fuck are we? Are those wolves?”).

On my last two cross-country adventures, I’ve visited dear family, old friends, new friends, and complete-stranger friends-of-friends who have opened their couches and coffee pots (but regrettably, none of their legs, despite onlookers’ hopes for a lesbian pillow fight in St. Louis). The current journey has been a peculiar juxtaposition of revisiting and renewing connections that have lasted decades (or a lifetime) at the same time as I’m living out of my trusty but very impermanent Subaru TARDIS, Shirley (she’s bigger on the inside).

After more than two decades, the region of my youth appears to be preserved like Sean Connery (Red Lobster landmark, check), but reminiscing with my high school BFF about friends, loves, and grudges demonstrates how noticeably I have aged (although I like to think more deliciously, like cheese, than datedly, like questionable chicken). HSBFF is happy, healthy, and cheerfully settled in with two fucktrophies and a nice dude; my high school boyfriend (the doomed Romeo-and-Juliet-style fuckup I got suspended with for smoking dope in the boys’ locker room) was brained with an I-beam, changed his name to an Oasis brother, and more fervently than ever believes he’s the second coming of Christ (or Jim Morrison, same same), but is also settled in for the long haul in Northeast Ohio. Meanwhile, I move around so much I can’t even remember what state I’m in, and “it’s complicated” is an unnecessarily dramatic answer to “where ya from?”

Turns out I’m surprisingly well-suited to the transient life of a military adjunct, growing up with a nutbag of a mother who compulsively jerked us around the country in search of whatever grail she believed would make the lambs stop screaming. I spent a few futile and miserable years in early adulthood “nesting” into a sequence of what I hoped would be permanent homes before realizing that settling wasn’t my style, tattooing my knees, and moving every year since. The Army “pack and pray” method of relocation is only the culmination of years of intensive indoctrination into the Marie Kondo cult of minimalism, allowing me to fully embrace letting beloved possessions (and people) drift away like a mislabeled moving crate.

We’re eagerly awaiting the delivery of our worldly goods, although this is mostly a pipe dream since we are still 1200 miles and 9 days apart and have about as much certainty into our ongoing living arrangements as green card holders from Syria. Some part of me hopes that we wind up unpacking someone’s weirdly fascinating collection of SPAM-flavored sex toys and ancient Chinese pornographic opium bottles; the romantic in me hopes they will then be happily-ever-after reunited thanks to the forest elves or movers with an unusually Midwestern work ethic rather than dumped into inventory for Storage Wars. (Between our selection of sex toys and our costume closet, I’m sure our movers will enjoy unpacking us every bit as much as that C-list reality show.) We’re also curious what we will spend the next seven months looking for and eventually acknowledge is gone forever. (It’s never the wagon wheel coffee table, is it? It’s always the scuba gear or the bundt pan or something similarly unitasking and necessary for Tuesday’s shenanigans.)

One highlight of embracing the attitude of viewing life as a Japanese movie—with no sense of strictly linear time and no particular attachment to characters or settings—is the freedom to go back and replay parts I didn’t get quite right on the first take. Replacing the co-star in some climactic life scenes has certainly made the second takes play better; re-shooting scenes after years of personal growth and progress has both allowed me to take advantage of Easter eggs I now have the cheat codes for and disappointed me with quest levels that are much more predictable and boring the second time around. (Exploring the Oregon Caves was definitely better without having to yell “don’t touch that!!” at the whiny man-child escort every thirty-nine seconds, but renting a car to explore the countryside in greater depth proved so white-knuckle terrifying that I returned it a week early and reprised my enjoyment of England’s wonderful train system—a decision that cost me thousands in airline fees when a fallen tree delayed my return trip, but which I still believe was a solid choice.)

No matter how much you enjoy sending the drama queens in your ensemble packing, it turns out the world is a small and tightly interconnected place, so you should refrain from literally or figuratively burning your relationship to embers. A friend broke up with one arrogant twatsicle when he tried to mansplain how to play her World of Warcraft character. Specifically, when she told him to fuck off and let her play the way she enjoyed, he sneered, “THERE’S NO CRYING IN AZEROTH!!!” (which I think is nerd for “you’re such a snowflake, go back to your safe space”); she responded by handing him his Zorbing papers or whatever the WoW equivalent of pounding his ass to the grass and stealing his Camaro is called. A few years later, he was treated to a John Hughes level of awkward when she and her husband ran into him in a Chiefs Club in Okinawa; turns out, both gentlemen are now Navy chiefs. Because she is a much nicer human than most, she refrained from subsequently telling his peers (or underlings) how she made their esteemed coworker/respected boss cry like a bitch over video games.

What the journey has taught me as I flash back to earlier episodes, welcome previous series regulars back for cameos (to varying degrees of success), and introduce new, hopefully some-day-beloved cast members, is that the show needs both continuity in the main character roles and regular changes to refresh the supporting cast and locations. When the writers get lazy, complacent, or afraid, the stories stay safe—and become stale. We keep things—and people—because we don’t want to lose them and start over rather than because they are still enriching our travels. We fear we will be lonely; we fear others will pity us for being broken, or look down on us for having failed.

But it really is all about the journey…there isn’t any destination, and the success of the show depends on how well you commit to making each episode humorous, touching, and memorable. You’d best pull off and see the world’s largest butter sculpture now, because that shit melts fast.


Sing It Loud & Proud

Not only was the bald fella damn cute, he was killing it at live band karaoke and definitely impressing what looked to be the other half of a first date (too bad for my friend, who noticed the situation when she tried to sidle her hips closer to his microphone). He was singing AC/DC’s mercenary classic, “Dirty Deeds (Done Dirt Cheap),” and my collection of just-this-side-of-tone-deaf friends were trying to drink enough to decide that throwing our names (and tips) at the emcee was a good idea. Of course, the first step in the fantasy is choosing the perfect song, right after you down ¾ of a fruity cocktail that doesn’t taste at all like it contains 4 shots of rum (I went with a “Jet Pilot,” because of course I did) and try in vain to get the umbrella to stick in your chic 4” long bob.

There are songs that seem to have been made (or at least definitely found their highest and best purpose) for karaoke: Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer;” Journey’s….well, anything; the Village People’s “YMCA.” We do not want to be those people, who sing those songs, natch, although I have to admit that “What Does the Fox Say” was a downright magical cacophony when sung by an entire drunk bar and was mildly envious of its singer.

Some brave lady steps up to stretch her cords on Bon Jovi’s “Wanted, Dead or Alive,” which always makes me think 1) Young Guns II was actually a really enjoyable movie and 2) generally of strippers, since it is one of the most classic stripper songs ever produced. The subsequent table conversation revolving around songs to karaoke vs. songs to seductively remove your clothing to is both inspirational and possibly disturbingly revealing of some of my friends’ more peculiar sexual proclivities. (I’m pretty sure “The Internet Is for Porn” from Avenue Q is definitely more suited to karaoke, unless muppets are your jam, and although stripping to “Friends in Low Places” does appeal to my overstimulated sense of irony, I can’t see it being a turn on.)

We agree that musicals in general fall into the singing-only category (although the striptease version of “Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair” would certainly explore some fetish territory), but “Touch-a Touch-a Touch-a Touch Me” from Rocky Horror can easily go both ways if your bedroom audience has a sense of humor. Buckcherry has essentially crafted his entire career out of yelling strip club anthems, but loyalty to this kind of angry fuck-those-bitches-rock is far outweighed by a strong contingent who are partial to 80s hair rock generally. This, I suppose, makes sense, since for your average 40-to-60-year-old patron listening to “Cherry Pie” (Warrant’s not-even-thinly-veiled ode to pretty ladyparts) it’s a TARDIS ride back to when they were full of youthful vigor and could actually convince an occasional co-ed to snack on their fruit basket.

As Portland has the highest number of strip clubs per capita (close to 9 per 100,000), the market saturation would seem to demand that there be a broader diversity in the musical offerings, too (although Stripperoke just embraces the crossover and combines both pursuits). In general, pulling in successful money as a mainstream stripper in Portland already requires you to be a second-stringer for Cirque du Soleil with an aversion to wearing clothing rather than just a single mom working her way through college as was traditional in my Midwest hometowns, so maybe “choosing more creative music” is just one of those yearly review action items that never gets addressed. Or, you know, maybe stripping to Spanish flamenco doesn’t get the weeds whacked.

Whatever the music, this town has a booming market for all kinds of niche preferences: entertainers ranging from supersized BBW to pocket rocket little folks, in ages from “barely legal” to “proud members of the AARP,” in absolutely any shape and size you can imagine. A friend who is a Native Portlander hosts a yearly XXX Christmas pilgrimage to sample a host of the year’s new offerings and old favorites, in a northwestern twist on Jewmas (minus the Chinese food). On the inaugural outing, she saw a woman fold matchsticks under her nipple rings, light them hands free on the stage, then climb the pole and shimmy them out, after which she knew this would be a yearly event. Strip club hopping is as much a reasonable outing as any other here, especially since you can choose from such a diaspora of talent, but strip club bingo is another level altogether, especially when it entices participants normally unmoved by the spirit of burlesque but who are suckers for octogenarian entertainment pursuits.

One friend tends to decline invites to strip-club outings because they’re rarely to one of the few male clubs and he’s gayer than a cock-flavored lollipop. He agreed to go along on one outing, however, because he’s also Asian and there was going to be bingo. As one of the most competitive individuals in North America, he promptly undertook a campaign of bribery and cheating to ensure he could check off as many of the positions, outfits, and scenarios on his card as possible. (Stripper hangs from ceiling like batgirl? Check. Projectiles propelled from a bodily orifice? Check. One-legged stripper? Have to add Mary’s Club to the itinerary.) As he’s wielding his paint marker triumphantly at the rail, the dancer flips grandly and lands in a spread-eagled handstand, giving him a Georgia O’Keefe close-up of her blooming orchid. Surprise and revulsion take turns before the Wheel-of-Fish facial expression generator stops on “confused horror” and he blurts out shakily, looking much like Rowdy Roddy Piper witnessing the portal to hell ripping open for the first time, “WHAT. IS. THAT.”

Turns out he’s never actually seen a lady garden since he gave up the sticky comfort of the maternal incubator, which causes the rest of the bingo bunnies to double into choking, sobbing laughter and the stripper displaying her completely ordinary vulva to look more than a little confused. Despite having to surrender their ante to the night’s winner, the rest of the players have always considered the night’s money well spent for that priceless peek into his flaming gay soul.

After recounting this story, our Gaysian slams the rest of his Hula Hoochie with a flourish and swoops up to the stage, shamelessly belting out a spectacular version of Fever that most certainly didn’t make ladies want to take their clothes off, slowly or otherwise.

Not Quite Mile High Club

When I tell people that my partner is a Blackhawk pilot, 97% of them immediately ask whether we’ve had sex in said helicopter. (The remaining 3% are under the age of eight.) Now, however you feel about the relative organizational skills of the U.S. government, it actually keeps pretty good tabs on who’s taking the birds out for a spin and would probably be pretty likely to notice a civilian stowaway giving sky head to the pilot.

Despite the fact that both of us qualify as frequent flyers (me more decadently, preferring to enjoy pressure-controlled comfort and a bloody mary rather than swelter in a flight suit), a trip back to the best coast in July found us together in the air for the very first time. So, naturally, after we enjoy a free grope-and-tickle from the TSA, we contemplate the potential for mile-high-club membership.

Sex at elevation is a heady prospect, not only for the lightheadedness that comes from the hypoxia but for the logistical difficulties. Rarely do you find yourself with a willing partner in the upper atmosphere in a situation conducive to sexual congress. (Although I hear from the guidebooks that the ladies’ room on the 95th floor of the Hancock building is the most scenic place to get it on in the Windy City, I’ve never figured out what role the washroom attendant plays in this particular popular scenario.)

Of course, this is why I always get the highest hotel room possible, and I’m certainly not alone. When pressed spread-eagled against the plate glass windows of the Stratosphere—or, hell, even just the Westin tower in Seattle—a glance into neighboring high rises will quickly reveal a sprightly army of frenetic fucking. It took me approximately four seconds, while enjoying the view from a friend’s 25th floor condo, to point out the buxom brunette self-gratifying ten floors down and two streets over—and I didn’t even use the binoculars.

I admire anyone who can figure out how to fuck on a plane, though, since I can’t even figure out how to retrieve the carryon I’ve tucked under the middle seat without pouring my cocktail over the neighbor’s cock or tail. Of course, I’ve never had the extra yearly-GDP-of-an-island-nation sort of spare cash to spend on a first class upgrade (which I hear grants you enough extra millimeters of room around the genital area to make coitus theoretically possible) or those lay-flat coffin-sized business class beds. But in addition to having a distinctly necrophiliac flavor, it hardly seems fair to give full credit to new club members who had to stretch their creativity only enough to squash into a portable casket.

As we spitball the details of how, theoretically, we could rise to the occasion in the fully economy class accommodations in which we find ourselves, we are joined by our aisle seat row-mate. She’s a blandly attractive mid-twenties coed, and she introduces herself to us while marveling at the outrageously confusing and mind-blowing concept of open seating. Apropos of nothing—not having heard our previous conversation—she muses that she’s never joined the mile-high club and suggests that on such a long flight we’ll have time to really get to know each other. She inquires whether we knew each other before we chose our seats, glancing at Partner’s hand sliding up my inner thigh. Without even a hiccup, Partner responds that there was a killer happy hour in the executive club before the flight and waggles his eyebrows in a suggestive Groucho Marx fashion, implying we have just met. She seems to accept this completely, which causes Partner to give me the “what the literal fuck” look. I brush my lips to his ear and murmur, in response to this latest expression of his constant bewilderment that I find myself running across spontaneous orgies and other “once-in-a-lifetime-vanilla-dude-fantasies” when 1400 miles from home, welcome to my life, my love.

Our Freaky Flier rowmate babbles on that she is returning to Seattle after a whirlwind tour of Phoenix’s pool-party-club scene, having come directly from a multi-day rave/EDM/DJ event with a five-minute stopover to shower off the molly sweats. This all makes more sense now. However, having failed to bring a blanket or otherwise properly prepare for this potentiality, we resign ourselves to fantasizing silently through the two-hour flight and discussing lustily the Pac NW craft beer we’re planning to pour into our faceholes during our pilgrimage home. FF has mostly nodded off, but perks up at the mention of Black Raven brewing, noting animatedly that her friend works there, have we been there, and have we met her friend Ethan?

Partner, who apparently has forgotten how to deal with drunk bimbos, tries to explain that though we’ve been there before, as he previously mentioned, we don’t live in the area now and…. I cut him off and tell FF that we’ll keep an eye out for Ethan. Satisfied, she drops into ecstatic dreamland, leaving us with pretty much no chance of a score unless we happen to go down in a water landing and have to put our heads between our knees.

When we make it to the brewery a few days later, we are amusedly reminiscing about FF and resolving to never be caught unprepared on future flights for the chance that a strange woman with lingering ecstasy desperation wants to get handsy and make an emergency sexit. We’re also sampling some spectacular stout, and when Partner opines more loudly than he intended that the brewery really should barrel age some of it the bartender promptly sets him straight that there’s already some in the works. As he bustles off, Partner mutters, “should we ask him if he’s Ethan?” and, feeling punchy from the 13% ABV, I can’t resist.

Apparently, this question comes across less as “random interested beer fans” and more as “creepy stalking weirdos” until we tell him we met a friend of his on our inbound flight. Turns out FF is actually his ex-girlfriend and he’s not even mildly surprised that she was inappropriately forward; he’s actually had to block her on Facebook since she freaked out his current fiancée with repeated overtures of friendship that read more as backpage personal inquiries. In her spare time, when not attending desert raves, she spends her time chatting up and “working out” the Seahawks’ practice squad. We feel a little flattered that FF relaxed her standards to hit on us, being used to the glamourous life of making sure tackling dummies get and stay erect, and resolve to tuck a tube of hand sanitizer in with the condoms, blanket, and lube that we’re definitely packing for our next commercial flight. (We also anticipate TSA will spend a few extra minutes with us when they figure out we belong to that piece of carryon baggage.) In the meanwhile, we’ll be booking a penthouse hotel suite, working out the mechanical logistics of midair coitus, and planning a visit to Denver so we can at least check the box on a technicality.





Pillow Talk

Crossing the country with a leggy, captivating 26-year-old basically invites lascivious attention, particularly when she’s sporting eight inches of new art on her upper thigh, necessitating a travel uniform of short-shorts. As we crossed over the Rockies, we passed out of liberal-feminist-equality-land and into the heartland of “gentlemen” who tipped their hats and called me “ma’am” while they dislocated their jaws trying to contain their drool and complimented her “sick ink, brah.”

We pulled into our no-tell motel in nowheresville, Missouri around 11:45, following 8.5 hours of monotonous Kansas highway. After parking our truck/trailer as minimally illegally as possible, we hauled a few bags and a bottle of excellent Irish whiskey into what seemed like the Waldorf-Astoria after the previous night’s RV park.

Passing a community patio area, we’re immediately hailed by its only inhabitants, two middle-aged suburbanite dad-types, offering us beer. Feeling a little like a tenth-grader who has just been offered Schlitz by a friend’s creepy uncle, and reluctant to share my whiskey, I somewhat snarkily defer.

After the endless cornfields and Kansas City traffic snarls, we’re aiming for a mainline of liquor with a relaxing beer chaser, but despite the six boxes of craft beer we have in the van, we’re looking at one single soldier in our cooler. We decide to accept the Stepford Dads’ offer of cold brew and make for the patio.

We see immediately that they are well past three sheets to the wind – somewhere around “opening a prison laundry” status. Regrettably, they’re drinking Michelob Ultra and Mike’s Hard Purple Drank, but it’s too late now – we’ve been spotted. The chattier of the pair asks our names twice before abandoning the pretense of memory and naming us “Hottie 1” and “Hottie 2.” I hear this as “Heidi one-and-two” and subsequently can’t shake the image of a little Swiss girl with pigtail braids twirling in the field of all the fucks she doesn’t give. Motormouth doesn’t seem to notice that I’m giggling like a psychiatric patient – he’s lost in the legs.

He introduces himself as “Kurt. Cobain.” …or maybe Jeff. He’s too drunk to remember his name anyway, and his friend helps him out. It’s not really going to matter if we get it wrong, he can’t hear above the rushing of blood away from his brain as he ogles Legs’ thigh. In an attempt to compliment her “ink” he opines that it is “hot as shit,” observing that he doesn’t have any “tats,” himself, because clearly he is a “mangina.” He’s always wanted some Arabic script, though, ever since he was in the Middle East, and man, he should just “pull out his tampon” and get some ink. As somewhat of an afterthought, he inquires whether I have any, and seems blessedly relieved when I display a chaste arm rather than any part of my much less gamine lower limbs (which are, in fact, quite decorated). Legs attempts to point out that not having tattoos is hardly indicative of being womanly, as the two of us are the only ones around the table who have any, but Zombie Kurt drowns out the pesky talking vagina by asking intrusively personal questions: What does she do? Where is she traveling? Most importantly, does she have a man?

He’s definitely intoxicated…and not just on Midwest-special malt swill. He asks Legs the same questions about seventeen times, either not understanding or not caring about the answers, which essentially boil down to: no man, no job, no kids, free as the day she was born…accessorized and improved by a healthy appetite for adventure, craft beer, and basically everything else. I worry that he might actually have an aneurysm if he doesn’t blink; he hasn’t taken his eyes off her thigh in 23 minutes.

His quiet companion, who turns out to be the coach of his 9-year-old daughter’s soccer team (they’re in town for a regional competition), stands unsteadily and sways off towards sleep, while Zombie Kurt turns on the charm by telling us all about his Wonder-bread 3-kids suburban-hell family and why it’s sooooo much better than the free-spirit life he used to live. He was cool, once upon a time, he claims. He was wild. He had Point Break hair. He traveled. He loves Korea, it’s so spiritual, all the Buddhist monks. Blah blah.

He swivels towards me for the first time – I think he just spun a little too hard after turning to stub out his Marlboro Gold and overshot his target, but stayed committed and took me to task, although I’ve volunteered nothing in this tiresome conversation so far, enjoying onlooker status to this dumpster fire. “Someday you’ll meet the man for you and settle down,” he proclaims, somewhat accusatorily. “It happens to everyone.” “Is that what happened to you?” I ask drily. “Did you find the man for you and settle down?” He’s super confused and looks back to Legs for help. “Or woman,” she adds helpfully, for some unfathomable reason trying to guide him back to his “how he met the miracle worker wife” story.

With the amount of liquor in his bloodstream my sarcastic linguistic tricks are too much for him to follow, so he jumps off the love boat and heads to gay island as the abused neurons start exploding like July 4th. The “woman” comment has somehow confused him into joyfully believing that we are lesbians, and his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. “Do you both – together …?!“ You can just see the lights and cameras start up as this scene starts recording to the fap folio, so he goes ahead and commits: “You girls gonna go back to your room and dyke out?”

We exchange amused glances. “We’re planning a pillow fight,” I say.

And with that, he’s done. He admits defeat, unable to figure out how to make more words come out in a coherent manner. We may have actually shut down life-sustaining parts of his brain. He tries again to push purple drank on us before disappearing into the gangway, hopefully towards the correct fungible suburban female.

“You realize,” I tell Legs, “we are going to be the highlight of his Pole Vault for basically as long as he can work the pommel horse?” She snorts. “And because he was absolutely annihilated, he’s not going to know what’s real and what he imagined, anyway, so over the years, this is going to rival Debbie Does Dallas in classic rub reel quality?”

“We can’t help that, can we?” She responds, with wisdom beyond her years: “Let him have his fun. God knows he needs something to make up for how much an 8 a.m. soccer tournament is going to drill in the regret he feels for his poor alcoholic choices.” I can’t disagree.

We call it a night and retire to watch Bob’s Burgers in bed, because that’s what Hotties do in hotel room king beds, right? Because there are like 1000 pillows……totally perfect for watching cartoons.


Phoning It In

I’m getting ready to hurl my pocket-computer out the van window as it drops a phone call for the thousandth time, lamenting its utter worthlessness as an actual oral communication device and yearning for my little Nokia that absolutely killed at voice connections.

My friend reminds me that I traded it in for a smartphone because sexting was a real challenge on the brick. “Tap-tap-tap ‘I’ tap ‘a’ tap ‘m’ tap-tap ‘h’ tap-tap-tap ‘o’ tap-tap-tap ‘r’ tap-tap ‘n’ tap-tap-tap ‘y’”…. I take her point. I do love the sexting.

I embraced sexting in a way I never cottoned to phone sex or, godforbid, Skype/Facetime sex (where someone can see EXACTLY how tragic your matted hair and crusty eye boogers look without the compensatory enjoyment of a wake-up blow job). Done right, sexting has the convenience of porn, the interactivity of a video game, and the guilty indulgence of cheesy erotica. Even more than phone sex, you can flesh out the scene to the limits of your imagination, custom crafting your partner(s) to spec. Plus, its silence allows you to multi-task, enabling you to sext while, say, proctoring a practice LSAT exam or defending a foxhole in a simulated wargame/military training exercise.

Not everyone is a sext-sational partner, though. Sexting done right is a carefully crafted blend of dirty talk and imagination-inspiring fuck prompts. Similar to in-person explicit chatter, it’s imperative to have good timing for your messages and responses. (No one wants you to tell them how glorious their fuckstick is while they’re wishing their mother condolences for the passing of her Labradoodle, right? So don’t intersperse what you’d like to do to their meat waffle with a request to delouse the dachshund.) Keep messages short, and notice how the breakup of thoughts affects the pacing; no one wants to wait 3 minutes between messages for a three-sentence missive, even if it is an ode to the joy of embracing your perky, gleaming mammary orbs.

If you’re the kind of sensuous, romantic partner who whispers sweet nothings while nuzzling your lover’s armpit, you’re going to have to school yourself in some down-and-dirty, hardcore smut. Compare:

“I want to slam you up against the hood of my ’69 Mustang”

“cupping your ass in my hands”

“feeling you throb against me”


“I look deeply into your eyes”

“Wanting to hug you and caress you gently”

“Maybe put on a romantic movie”

NOPE NOPE NOPE. I may be a pretty straightforward vanilla fuck – I don’t want you to hit me, tie me up, electroshock me, or any other tortury nonsense – but I like my sexting urgent and dirty, rather than reeking of deleted scenes from The Notebook.

Now, like porn, sometimes sexting is an excellent accompaniment to self-gratification, enhancing the orgasmic experience, and sometimes it’s merely an erotic amusement. And while the amount of connection to your partner-in-slime can be as minimal as with a favorite dial-a-smut 1-900 operator, as I leveled up I learned that sexting can also be a smashing way to erotically connect with an IRL partner who is inconveniently, maddeningly located out of handy fucking distance. (This has been a useful skill to master now that I’m in a relationship with not only GI Joe but also his wanderlust-filled Uncle Sam.)

Finding a sext partner whose style matches your own is damn near as hard as finding a compatible in-person dickride, although I admit I’m unreasonably fussy. Idiotic text abbreviations kill my lady-boner faster than you can type U R SO GORJUS, and by and large, spelling matterz 2. I don’t mind typos or autocorrects so much, especially when the screen reads Oh God I’m Cummerbatch … it’s like erotic humor for nerds! I typically welcome well-shot videos to accompany the text, but this does get a little awkward while sexting on public transportation or while in line at the DMV. Plus, multimedia isn’t my strongest suit; my reciprocation tends to be less than technologically proficient. (The time I got the response “I’m thrusting towards the black dot” both made me snort and alerted me to the fact that perhaps finger-over-lens isn’t the sexiest video position.)

If you’re using FB chat, there’s the constant fear (or turn-on?) that the data scrapers and human monitors are enjoying your sexploits in God Mode. I haven’t been censored or warned yet, so I figure that if I’ve been found out, I’m keeping at least a few underpaid, overworked low-level Silicon Valley paeans smuttily satisfied.

I tend to sext using FB messenger, which allows me to type faster and more accurately, but poses its own dangers, as the steamy conversation gets faster and more breathily intense…especially if you’re multitasking. No kind of flogging will make your cheeks burn with shame hotter than having to send this message to your mother-in-law:

Oops, wrong chat window.




Professional courtesies

My bedside table looks like I stole a goodie bag of samples from the adult film industry awards. (Curiously and regrettably, these do not have a cute sobriquet…admittedly the “Cock-scars” doesn’t exactly engender good feelings, but I’m sure someone could come up with something clever, right?)

Finding the right intimate products for you and your partner(s)-of-the-moment, for the activity-of-the-moment, is a relatively daunting task, so I’ve got options…lots of options. There are condoms in a variety of sizes and materials (not flavors…it only takes one time accidentally licking a grape-flavored crankshaft to understand how quickly faux fruit triggers your gag reflex). There’s slippery stuff in a range of viscosity and composition for use in various situations and depending on the relationship of the involved parties. (While many partners adore that lovely silicon lube, and it’s condom-friendly, it induces a feeling much like a day-old sunburn in my own lady parts – still on fire, but starting to itch like the devil – so there’s a complimentary tube of water-based, too. And the one that’s pistol-perfect for old-school hand jobs isn’t latex-approved, so it’s reserved for the primary partner – sorry, strangers.)

In the course of moving this array of random sexessories from my west-coast home to my east-coast digs, I packed the handmade clay pots they lived in on my nightstand (thanks grandma! She’d be so proud…) with my household goods, which I won’t be reunited with for another three months. The contents I threw in handfuls willy-nilly into my luggage, because I have no intention of waiting that long for sexcapades.

At the airport, of course, my luggage was overweight. (Nothing can stick to a diet in Portland, home of 58+ craft breweries and too many foodie nirvana destinations to count.) After learning that the surcharge was $100 (are you fucking kidding me?! A second bag up to 50 lbs is only $35!!) the helpful gate agent tries to assist me in transferring 8 lbs from my large bag into my “carry on” (which I fully intend to gate check for free). Opening up the behemoth produces a waterfall of explicit devices and accouterment. The gate agent, god bless her, manages to stay utterly impassive, even pointing out when one of the little buggers tries to escape from my bag explosion area. After stuffing everything successfully back inside, and zipping it while the gate agent sat on the lid, I turned the case over to the TSA for their entertainment and pleasure. (Notably, this was the one time in the last 12 flights that the TSA did not leave me a “we went through your bag” notice.)

In telling this story to a friend, and remarking about the skill and professionalism of that hapless Delta representative, Friend mentioned her recent experience with the most patient electrical service technician ever.

One morning, she began to hear a buzzing, rattling noise coming from inside the walls of her home. It got progressively louder, then waned; it seemed to vary in speed, intensity, and tempo, sounding much like an old, clattery, slightly unbalanced attic or cooking fan. Although she searched the house from rafters to crawl space, she found no apparent cause, and worried it might be related to the recent electrical upgrades performed on her fixer-upper. (There was also the very real possibility that a swarm of bees had nested in the vents, Florida being the kind of place that tries to kill its residents by any means necessary each spring to make room for the new wave of retirees.) Already late to work, she figured if it was still a problem in the evening, she’d deal with it then.

When she came home from work, she called her roommate, and then performed a (consensual) search of his room and bathroom to no avail. She cut the power to the house, but the racket persisted. Since she was imminently leaving town for 10 days, reticent to have the house explode while she was 300 miles away (although it would theoretically be better than while she was sleeping), she finally called an electrician. Sparky, a bland, middle-aged electrical professional, came the next morning and checked out the main power and breaker box, then proceeded to do a room-by-room sweep. The rattling, humming buzz persisted.

Eventually Sparky emerged from the guest bathroom, looking discomfited. “Bottom drawer.”

Opening it, Friend found the culprit: a self-animated, particularly enthusiastic vibrator, hopping its way around the drawer and periodically colliding with the other contents (which explained the rattling noises). It was also joyously cycling through its options: buzz, low, high, and “random.” Sparky had gone ashen by this point, but noted that “[his] girlfriend had one of those” and tried his damndest to don his “all in a day’s work” face. (Which is likely a stretch, unless porn is actually accurate and showing up in uniform is actually a common precursor to sex on the baby grand with horny housewives.)

Friend still swears the love wand isn’t hers, as does the roommate; despite its mysterious origins, everyone is unequivocally in awe of how it managed to perform for 72+ hours without a rest or sandwich (a feat even beyond the skill set of 29-year-old pilots). Personally, I’m most impressed by Sparky’s ability to maintain his professionalism, and am thinking about hooking him up with my gate agent, if she’s single.

Meanwhile, my OCD requires that I sort my sex supplies into some kind of orderly chaos while I await the arrival of grandma’s pottery to my new home.




Sleeping Booty

His arm shot out like a chest-burster, hand landing squarely on my head, fingers beginning to knead my cranium like he was testing a cantaloupe for ripeness. I let him practice amateur phrenology for about 45 seconds before I flipped over and butt-snuggled him until another limb’s interest took precedence over his zombie arm.

This isn’t unusual as Man-Friend falls asleep: he’s a twitcher, and his snap-reflexes are sharp and violent enough that I’ve learned the hard way not to doze off with my face anywhere near his fists or elbows.

Yesterday, he fell asleep on the couch, head propped up on his own hand. I thought I woke him by snorting and then choking on my vodka tonic, laughing, after he twitch-punched himself in the temple (which also did not wake him). As it was, with him slumbering peacefully atop the remote control, I remained trapped watching a marathon of “The 72 most deadly Australian animals,” which is 1. an actual show, and 2. surprisingly light on the arachnids and heavy on the marsupials.

Now, I’m lousy to sleep with, so I am frankly thrilled to have anything to balance the scales. I snore, I blanket-steal, and I vacillate from scorching radiator to heat-sucking ice pop. Oh, and I sleep like the dead. In college, I slept through numerous fire alarms, despite the siren being mounted on the dorm wall 10 feet from my unconscious ears. I slept peacefully through the marching band that high-stepped past my first-floor window at 8 a.m. Saturday mornings, as I was just falling asleep from my job as a night-shift waitress. More than once, I fell asleep in the shower – the communal showers, separated by curtains – leaning up against the wall. Only once did I remain asleep for a number of hours, until I awoke to conversation; others from the dorm had entered the shower stalls and were, ironically, speculating on my probably-revolting personal hygiene habits, since they had never seen me take a shower (normal college students aren’t awake at 5 a.m., my customary scheduled window for scrubbing fry stench off my skin and anticipating three glorious hours of shuteye before class).

I finally quit the all-night diner gig, despite its lucrative income stream, when I realized that I had mastered the art of sleepwalking…through my “waking” hours. In addition to making plans I didn’t remember (or keep), one of my proudest episodes included coercing some fellow acting students to rifle through the student center lockers with me in search of a bag of potatoes (so I could make the french fries, of course). I said goodbye for good when I realized I had actually started dating someone while sleeping: one afternoon after Voice and Movement class (during which I had neither spoken nor moved, having fallen asleep during warm-up meditation), a classmate asked me if I was coming back to his place. Confused, I inquired if that was a really half-assed pickup line, or if we had made some sort of plans (which by now I was used to not remembering). Somewhat woundedly, he replied that I had come home with him on the last three Thursdays – had he done something wrong? The 10-block walk was appreciably awkward, as was the realization that I knew that when I opened the fridge there would be only Mountain Dew and ketchup (lucky guess?) and the freezer would contain mint chocolate chip ice cream. When the sex felt distinctly familiar, however, I grudgingly admitted that third-shift work was not within my purview.

Super-somnambulism also allowed me to stay in a years-too-long relationship, a decade later, with the Jackrabbit. This prize package, who coincidentally also worked nights, was chronically cranked up on Monster energy drink and coming up with new ways to be a better twelve-year-old boy. We had two different sizes of homemade giant Jenga (to test which was best for play, of course), enough camping gear that we were never going to lose any of our players to exposure on the Oregon Trail, and sufficient Guitar Hero paraphernalia to replicate any of Arcade Fire’s greatest hits in our basement. All of these pursuits were fair game at 3:30 a.m., as were amorous overtures. Despite my affection for sexual congress, it is roundly defeated by my addiction to sleep, and Jackrabbit was rarely successful in (a)rousing me – resulting in a very pouty partner who hadn’t dipped his lick stick in weeks. Eventually we settled on a compromise position: he was free to have sex with me at any hour – if he didn’t wake me up.

This arrangement proved surprisingly successful. Jackrabbit had earned his moniker not only for his over-caffeination but also for his monotonous, hour-plus concrete-breaking sexual endurance. As someone who needs approximately 94 good seconds of penetration to climax, I was not a great match; generally I started bitching (and smoking from friction) at around 20 minutes – tops. Permission to slumber straight through 68+ minutes of that was like a papal pardoning for me, and allowed him to hammer away until he slipped a disk or finally found the focus to work up an orgasm. Sleep-coma sex worked out pretty well until I finally got around to riding that blind, cancer-riddled relationship out to the farm to live with the other sick horses.

So Man-Friend’s grabby twitches, despite the occasional accidental Heimlich performance, both amuse me and make me feel he’s ever-so-slightly competitively fucked-up in the sleep habit department. Besides, I hardly ever fall asleep during sex these days.

After getting the impromptu scalp massage, I giggled myself to sleep when the old Jewish couple from the end of When Harry Met Sally popped into my head, explaining the beginning of their 40-year-successful marriage in thick Brooklyn accents: “I knew the way you know about a good melon.”



Last Chance for Ass

Today’s blog is from a special guest contributor who truly understands the Relax Your Face ethos. Enjoy!


My story begins in El Paso, Texas, a few weeks before I embarked on an all-expenses-paid trip to Afghanistan for the better part of a year. Since it was July 4th weekend, I had a four-day pass (read: last opportunity to drink, fuck, and do anything else soldiers love). I spent most of my 96 hours of freedom bouncing between alcohol-fueled shenanigans and alcohol-induced dementia. Most of the roughly 200 deploying soldiers were staying at the same hotel and it remains an unexplained mystery how no one was kicked out; a sampling of the weekend’s offerings included skinny dipping in the fountain, crashing a wedding reception, vandalizing the elevator camera (in order to have sex in the elevator), and 5 a.m. pool parties, for starters.

It was Saturday night: our last evening for debauchery. Everyone was in rough shape from the previous three days, but my buddy Mike and I decided to rally and take a cab downtown. We had only one goal: find someone to pleasure our soon-to-be-very-lonely genitals.

11:00 pm: Bar #1. We arrive and start downing vodka+Red Bulls in an attempt to remain both tipsy and awake.

11:30 pm: We determine there are no promising “prospects” at Bar #1. Change course, move down the street. Embark on new flight path.

11:45 pm: Bar #2. This place appears to be more promising. Consume more vodka+Red Bulls, acquire shots, commence conversations with pretty girls.

12:30 am: We are both drunk and tired. Despite dancing and socializing with few prospects, no one seems inclined to head back to the hotel with either of us. Examine our options.

1:00 am: There is only one solution: more alcohol and lower standards. New course set…engage.

1:30 am: Two girls we started talking to at about midnight are starting to look attractive and they seem interested. Perfect. Maintain course.

2:00 am: They offer us a ride back to the hotel. Cram into the backseat, maneuvering soldier-size arms and legs into every tiny inch of real estate not occupied by a car seat.

2:15 am: Make a quick stop for sustenance (the only time Taco Bell is ever an appropriate choice of nutrition). Steady course.

2:45 am: We arrive at the hotel. Despite the hour, there are still a couple of our most strong-livered friends on the pool deck. They’re draped around a table, which boasts a mountain of empty bottles and cans teetering on the brink of a cascade. They have reached a historic level of inebriation. We socialize as briefly as politeness allows – approach maneuvers complete.

3:30 am: Mike and his date head to the relative seclusion of the outdoor hot tub.

3:45 am: Pants down, head up: Mike’s date is blowing him on the pool deck. I suggest to my own date that we “go get some sleep” and we head to my room. Landing zone in sight.

4:00 am: My date is being a little shy. I gather my last bit of energy to persevere. I give thanks to the god of Red Bull and flight.

4:15 am: Coming in for the approach. I hear the sound of water dripping and briefly consider that this is unusual for a balcony room during a very dry July. Fuck it, maintenance issues aren’t going to stop me now.

4:20 am: The dripping now sounds like a small waterfall. Whatever, clothes are coming off. Beginning final descent, coming in hard, balls to the wall.

4:25 am: Her hand is on my cock when she asks, “what is that sound?” I tell her it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t accept this answer. I snap on the bedside lamp to investigate and find Niagara Fucking Falls cascading into the foyer through what used to be the hall light fixture. The water is already about two inches deep in the entryway and bathroom, and is starting to gush into the hallway towards the main room. I have brought no snorkeling gear on this mission and am not prepared for a water landing.

4:35 am: There are no other available rooms. The concierge is “very sorry.” Wave off, wave off, wave off.

4:45 am: I am sex-less, sleep-less, room-less, and knocking on Mike’s door asking to share his bed. Hooah.

The End.


It should be noted that the fine gentleman protagonist who spawned the Relax Your Face blog itself is today’s guest author and the protagonist of this story.

Imagine my surprise when I ran into him after a number of years and sheepishly admitted to running a blog dedicated to godawful dating stories inspired by his antics – and my delight when he volunteered his own fantastic contribution. Thank you, my good-spirited friend!