Posted by Lex Konrad in Snaps | Jul 03, 2007
NLP on the go
In a fit of drunken stupidity, I hit the Apple Store at about 4am last Saturday. The results were entirely predictable. A word to the wise: if you’re going to carouse in a town where one can purchase expensive electronics after midnight, leave your credit card at home.
UPDATE: Everyone’s been asking me for my verdict. I’ve had the iPhone for almost a week now and I’m quite pleased with it. The device feels sturdy in my hand and slides into my pocket in such a way that I can grind against a chick from behind without inadvertently poking her in the ass. Call quality is merely average but I haven’t had any problems using the speakers or the headset in noisy environments. The microphone attached to the headphones works well and the inline pause button is a sweet touch. The bright, high-resolution display is gorgeous; it looks more like a plasma screen than an LCD.
The real killer app for me is the browser — when I’m out on the town I can quickly pull up Naked Loft Party — and I’ve found AT&T’s EDGE network acceptably fast here in NYC (I’ve been averaging around 170 kbps). Email, text messaging and Google Maps are also a joy to use. I was pleasantly surprised by the keyboard’s auto-correction feature; I’m already typing as fast as I did on my old Crackberry. The calendar is so slick that I haven’t bothered synching with Outlook — I’d rather just enter appointments on the iPhone as needed. The camera doesn’t offer much in the way of options, but it does take decent pictures and the photo browser is superb. From what I’ve seen thus far, the battery will love you long time. Heavy web surfing over wi-fi will eventually send you running for your charger, but listening to music non-stop barely dents the meter.
The iPhone isn’t without its faults. For instance, I can’t figure out why Apple launched this sexy device without multimedia messaging, IM, Flash, or even a fucking to-do list (something a competent developer could code in about an hour). Equally puzzling is Apple’s decision to close the iPhone to third-party developers (although hacks are emerging by the minute). Plus, if you have any self-awareness whatsoever you will likely feel like a hipster douchebag for owning one. But when you actually start using the iPhone none of these flaws seem to matter so much anymore. Certain other road warrior devices may be crammed with more features but they’re also bulky and difficult to navigate. The iPhone just feels right, like a 21st century phone ought to feel. It is easily the most compelling handheld device I’ve ever used.
And the chicks? They dig it.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Apr 12, 2007
I am drunk now. Please excuse me.
Kurt Vonnegut is dead. I quoted him a couple of times. I suck compared to him. I am a dilettante — an artiste of the slightly funny deal. IAMANIDIOT. I think the difference is that he didn’t really give a shit what you people think of him.
I just fucked a married woman and I am sitting here smelling my fingers. The fingers of my left hand smell like Leslie’s pussy. The fingers of my right hand smell like the married girl’s pussy. Why does pussy juice smell so fucking good after it has dried up on your skin? I don’t want to shower.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” the married girl said.
I know the feeling…
She lives in the suburbs and drives an expensive car. I find this amusing. My life is weird. I used to be self-righteous and smug about not fucking married girls. Now I’ve joined the rest of you hairless apes.
I’m listening to the same Red Hot Chili Peppers song over and over again. My obsession with the song has something to do with what happened this past weekend. The song goes like this:
I like pleasure spiked with pain
And music is my aeroplane
It’s my aeroplane
Songbird sweet and sour jane
And music is my aeroplane
It’s my aeroplane
Pleasure spiked with pain…
That motherfucker’s always spiked with pain
My arm was sore. And the next night someone dropped a heavy chair on my foot. I walked with a limp. Also, I felt fucked up inside.
But I think everything’s okay. I feel like I’m coming along as a human being.
And you know what’s fucking bullshit? I quoted Steely Dan in one of my journal entries and when they (they meaning the Man) published my scribblings in a book of short stories they had to remove the lyrics. Turns out they couldn’t use the lyrics without paying an unreasonable sum of money. What happened to fair use? I hope the bean counters hang when the revolution comes. Fuck em all.
Less than 24 hours ago I was fucking another girl. I think she’s my mistress or my bitch or something. She wants me to call her my bitch. “My body is yours,” she said to me last night. I really love women. Maybe I love them too much but I cannot help it. I took a nice picture of my mistress (my bitch?) in the morning but sadly you’ll probably never see it.
I’m still scratching my head — winter sucked and then spring came and I’ve been getting laid left and right, but Les and I have also taken another step in our relationship. We’re seeing people separately. I really enjoy fucking, but I also want to love everyone. And I want everyone to love me. Why now, when I’m getting married in a month? It’s a Hegelian thing. This is synthesis.
Fucking Vonnegut is dead — shuffled off his mortal coil or whatever shit. And my oblivious cock (what is a cock if it’s not oblivious?) was inside a married woman tonight. Can you believe that shit? I can’t even summon a single tear for my main man, yet take me to hear Bruckner’s 7th at the Philharmonic and I’ll weep like an infant. How pathetic is that?
Anyway. The phrase echoes in my head: The system of the world. That’s all it is. None of us ask for this. But we deal with it. And then we die. Blah blah blah.
Bummer.
Maybe I shouldn’t give a shit anymore.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Apr 14, 2006
We sat in a gay bar uptown listening to the trannies, the dykes, and the midnight cowboys belt out karaoke hits. Emma asked me whether I was going to take a turn. I told her there was no way I could compete with the Gay Men’s Chorus.
The night wore on. I doubled the two-drink-maximum I’d set for myself. I placed my hand upon Emma’s thigh and then, remembering where I was, withdrew it (alas, when in Rome…). “I should go,” I said. It was a school night. Leslie was out of town.
“Just one more drink,” Emma insisted. How many times have these words been uttered? How much trouble have they caused?
I ordered a beer. Emma pulled her blouse outward and showed me the reusable latex pasties she had on, accessories which seemed to serve utterly no purpose under her sweater. “You’re a strange chick,” I told her.
She pressed my hand to her mannequin breast. I peeled the latex circle from her tit and tweaked the firm nipple underneath. Mr. Penis got a little hard and I remember thinking it had been a while. “Your place or mine,” I intoned.
“I have to work early.”
“What’s early to you?”
“Eleven.”
I laughed. “Your place then.”
Emma almost never explicitly assents to anything—it would ruin the air of nonchalance she’s so carefully crafted over the years. So I followed her home, and when we arrived at her door she held it open for me. She stood in her bright living room, expectant perhaps but not letting on if she was.
As we lay naked, entwined upon the comforter in her darkened bedroom, I was struck by the thought that being with her alone wasn’t all that different. I pistoned into Emma, twisted her little body into a series of improbable positions, searching for that perfect angle—the ideal configuration of hips and limbs that might let me have her properly. Smooth and deep. Maybe I was searching for something else too.
When Emma’s alarm cried out I awoke with a start, disoriented, swiveling my head in search of familiar surroundings. It’s a panic I used to associate with marathon business trips, when I’d tumble out of bed only to find myself in Tokyo or Helsinki or—God forbid—Little Rock, Arkansas. Lying there in Emma’s small bed, I realized that perhaps my overnight visitors sometimes feel this panic too.
And so, on a bright, beautiful spring morning, I walked from West Side to East Side across the top of a flowering Central Park, sneaking into my building in the clothes I wore the night before, avoiding eye contact with the neighbors, and finally opening the door to an empty apartment that looked just the same as I’d left it.
Turnabout is fair play, I guess.
Posted by Lex Konrad in Relationships | Feb 21, 2006
Fry: “Hey, wait! I’m having one of those things. You know, a headache with pictures.”
Leela: “An idea?”
Fry: “Mm, hmmm, hmmm.”
Saturday night I answered an age-old question, one that’s been on my mind ever since I hit my first real party in New York. Why do people always think I know where the drugs are?
When the third dude approached me looking for pills or coke or whatever I pulled him aside. “So what is it about me that makes you think I’m a drug dealer?”
“It’s the orange shades man.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah. And you smile a lot.”
Would-be drug kingpins take note.
It sure didn’t hurt that I wore my checkered seventies retro shirt unbuttoned half-way to reveal my ‘Porn King’ wifebeater. When I stood in the slow-moving bathroom line a young woman placed her hands on my chest, parting the shirt.
“Are you really a porn king?”
I had to think about this for a minute. “Actually, well, yeah. I don’t make the stuff though.”
I’m convinced Porno Jim is a minor deity: he seems to be everywhere at once, at least as far as these underground parties are concerned. I told him about the project Anya and I are cooking up.
“Have you seen her stuff?” he asked me.
“Oh yeah. She’s a freakishly talented and prolific writer.”
“Sounds like it’s gonna be great.”
“Listen, I want you to do a podcast for us.”
“About what?”
“About this. We need to capture this shit somehow—all of it—because this is the real New York. Plug your show at the end or whatever. For me this is about the love first and the money second.”
Our conversation segued into sex, as it always does. Porno Jim was telling me about his favorite position, in which the two girls soixante-neuf each other while the lucky guy fucks one of them doggy style. “I call it the winner’s circle,” he intoned.
“That’s the perfect term for it,” I said.
“Cause everybody wins!”
The night thundered on. The loft was huge, well-worn, cold in some places but comfortable nonetheless. People wore elaborate carnivale-themed costumes, giving me an eyeful of jiggly asses and breasts. Friendly faces lined the hallways. I milled about. I danced with Les and Emma. I ran into people and the conversations all ran together.
“I always dreamt of this New York,” I was telling Mort, a recent arrival to party central and a friend of Emma’s. Earlier in the evening we’d dropped by his birthday soiree in Manhattan. We returned to the conversation we’d struck up a few hours ago regarding the varieties and vicissitudes of hooking up in this city.
“I’ve learned a lot from you,” Mort said.
“I’m no prophet,” I replied. “I just have a certain… perspective on life. You wanna know the secret? Just connect with people in whatever way works for you—that’s all I care about anymore.”
By now I was clipping a pretty good buzz. I found Emma in the back room. She’d straightened her hair for the occasion and I’d been eyeing her all night, imagining myself plowing her from behind while knotting her ponytail in my fist. I pulled her close and slipped my hand down the back of her jeans, grabbing those little pale asscheeks—I was sorely tempted to take her up against the wall. She wrapped her arms around my waist and stumbled into me.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m just a little drunk.” She took a seat upon the window ledge.
“Just don’t fall out the goddamned window, alright?”
She laughed. I pivoted and saw Anya dancing by the deejay table so I shuffled over to say hello. “I love that man,” she sighed, gesturing at her boyfriend. He was busy working the turntables.
“You seem so much happier nowadays,” I said.
“That’s what a good relationship will do for you.”
I smiled broadly. It’s nice having her back in my life. You see, her journey has paralleled mine: we’ve both experimented and fucked up and been fucked up and been fucked only to tumble out the other side happier and wiser.
Nature called. As I reached the head of the bathroom queue a willowy young brunette materialized by my side. “I really have to pee,” she said in accented English. I raised an eyebrow. German perhaps?
“Darling, there’s a line.”
The girl furrowed her brow and hopped up and down for emphasis, pleading with me now, “But…”
I slipped an arm around her waist. “You can come in with me but you have to pretend you’re my girlfriend,” I said, cocking my head toward all the people queued up behind us.
“They won’t be mad?”
“Not if you’re my girlfriend.” She leaned into me and I buried my nose in her fragrant hair. We entered the bathroom together amid howls of protest. “No fucking in there!” someone yelled. Indeed, there was a sign posted on the door that admonished partygoers against using the facilities as a bordello—and encouraged people to fuck wherever else they pleased.
I went first—no need to be too charitable, after all—and when her turn came she matter-of-factly dropped her pants and plopped down. Evidently untroubled by my gaze, she looked up at me and grinned.
“Kannst du Deutsch?” I asked, figuring there was no need to address her formally at this point.
“Yes, but I’m Swedish.” Her task completed, she rose from the seat and gently dabbed her well-groomed cunt with a neatly folded square of toilet paper (funny how everyone’s bathroom ritual is different—Les, for instance, dabs first and then stands), then lifted her leopard-print thong along her creamy thighs, finally wriggling back into her trousers with a sigh.
“Nice pussy,” I said, and she laughed. People were already pounding on the door so we made exaggerated orgasm noises as she stood over the sink. I took her hand when we exited the bathroom. “You have to meet my friends.” In the back room we came upon Leslie, who was dancing with a fetching lass in pigtails.
“I have to go,” said my bathroom mate, “my friends are leaving.”
I winked at her. “That’s really too bad.” The girl gave me her number and we parted with a kiss.
By now the party was beginning to thin out, body heat no longer serving as a bulwark against the frigid air seeping in. I’d given my parka to Emma and was now missing it. And her. I checked in with the usual suspects—Les, Mort and so on—no one had seen her. Eventually I located my coat, stuffed next to Leslie’s in an oven that doubled as a turntable stand. And eventually Emma called from home, safe and sound; it seems she couldn’t find us and decided to make a break for it. Even though I had told her the bathroom would take awhile I couldn’t be angry. I’ve grown accustomed to her skittishness.
I located Leslie and her new friend Peggy-with-the-pigtails, whereupon we wound up in a darkened apartment downstairs chatting about everything and nothing while two naked people rolled around on the floor. The sun came up. The day brightened. The three of us gathered our things and took the F-train back into Manhattan, Les and I parting ways with Peggy at 14th.
I napped most of the way uptown only to be awakened, ironically enough, by a large group of Swedish students barking in a tongue that’s both familiar and frustratingly incomprehensible. Les and I shared stories of our separate adventures; I learned she’d shared a three-way kiss with Peggy and another girl, and that she’d licked still another woman’s buttocks.
“You know,” I told my sweetheart, “this is part of what’s so great about us: we take our own paths but we always find each other in the end.”
She peered into my eyes and we then made out like hormone-poisoned adolescents.
“By the way,” I said, pulling back from Leslie’s pillowy lips, “I finally found out why people are always asking me for drugs.”
Posted by Lex Konrad in Sex | Nov 10, 2005
V.
We’re standing downtown amid a throng of party people. It’s probably in the 40s. I’m dressed in my tunic, with shorts on underneath, and sandals. Over that I’m wearing a light trench coat. Oddly, I’m not as cold as one might think. “Why didn’t you double-check the date?†I ask Les.
“I don’t know; why didn’t you double-check the date?â€
Here we are—right place, wrong time. “We’re such dumbasses. Heh, looks like it’s just the two of us tonight.â€
We walk toward Girl from Ipanema—well, I walk and Leslie shuffles in her mummy wrap. Her costume proves to be every bit as popular as I’d imagined it would be. People call after her: “Cleopatra! Cleopatra!â€
I’m relieved to have another day of rest before the party. The second consecutive night of drunken debauchery sometimes finds me hanging by a very thin thread indeed.
VI.
I see the better and acknowledge it, but I follow the worse.
-Ovid
I call them sex parties but not all of them are actual sex parties. In swinger lingo the type of event we’re attending tonight is known as an off-premises party, which means that people may talk and flirt and dance but they’ll have to go somewhere else to get naked. In theory anyway. In reality—nudge-nudge, wink-wink—things can get a little out of hand. The off-premises party is our preferred venue for just this reason: we can transgress in a way that’s simply not possible when everyone is expected to be transgressive. Or else, if we’re not interested, we can stand around and socialize without feeling out of place.
And so our journey to the underworld begins. The party is our first One Leg Up affair, soirees I’ve avoided in the past because I found Palagia’s shtick to be a little pretentious. But what the hell. Variety is good. A woman on stilts greets us at the door—I think she’s supposed to be a tree but I can’t be sure. We utter the password: “My climax.” As we walk across the Park’s airy, tree-lined foyer Cleopatra grabs my arm, tittering, “She’s still looking at us. Ohmagawd that’s so creepy!” And the woman is, indeed, bending over at the waist (oh but how does she keep her balance?) and peering at us, pantomime-like, through the doorway.
“I’m freakin’ out maaaaan.” All I can think of, though, is how she’d look naked on those stilts, and what kind of view I’d have if she stood next to me.
On my way up the stairs I unsheath my weapon and brandish it menacingly at no one in particular. “Izzat a dagger I see before me?” I pray I’ll be able to unsheath my other, fleshy dagger at the earliest opportunity. We slip on our masks before we reach the upstairs door, mine gold and Leslie’s black, ornate, very cat-like—we’d prefer not to be wearing them but the party is officially a masquerade ball. Jimmy and a few of the others in our group have to buy theirs from the ticket-taker. We’re admonished against removing our masks until the appointed hour of 1 AM. See what I mean by pretentious? “This isn’t fucking Eyes Wide Shut,” I grumble. Oh well. When in Rome…
Generic Slut #69 is still in abundance but at this party she’s undergone a metamorphosis. Her erect nipples, for example, might poke through a sheer mesh top. She might eschew the customary short shorts for lacy panties. Not that I have a problem with these wardrobe tweaks. One such specimen, a pretty girl with loopy eyes, approaches. She has that vacant, coke-whore aura about her, something so prevalent in this city that I’ve nearly begun to find it sexy. “Are you Caesar?” she asks.
I’ve gotten this two nights in a row. I was annoyed but now I’m mildly amused. “Naw. I’m Mark Antony. I came here to bury Caesar’s ass.” The woman runs off in search of another source of amusement—or perhaps another bump.
I’m talking to Lisa, the badass sheriff in her busty, badass leather outfit. “You look like a black, female Will Smith,” I’d told her earlier when we were having drinks at Jimmy’s apartment. A newbie couple latches on to us and we talk about the wonderful world of sex parties. Inevitably, wherever I go, people see me as some sort of urban sherpa. On the street they’ll single me out for directions. At a club they’ll ask me where the drugs are. At a sex party they’ll grill me on etiquette. I think my perceived authority derives from primal instinct: only the tall ape-men could peer over the brush and spot them sabertooths coming.
The girl on stilts is upstairs with us now, dancing. She’s still doing that creepy mime thing but snaps out of it when I ask her whether her stilts feel as natural as her own legs. She assures me they do.
Les and I wander over by the hot tub, a swinger fixture we’ve missed out on all these years. Juanita, our Barrio neighbor, is in there with Jimmy and a couple other guys. She beckons us to join them. Les pinches my thigh. “Are you kidding me?” I protest. “The girl-guy ratio is all fucked up.” The girl laughs as I eye her neat strip of pubic hair. It’s not that Juanita is unsexy, but she’s painfully heterosexual and most definitely on the hunt for a borefriend—I’d just as well not get all worked up over nothing. I’m talking to Les now but out of the corner of my eye I can see that one of the men in the hot tub is standing up and the other guy is blowing him. I nudge Les and then smirk over my shoulder at Jimmy. Cause I just know he’s a little freaked out.
I cannot recall whether he was the giver or receiver, the guy who’s standing in front of me now in his underwear, still dripping wet from the tub. He has a bit of a Marilyn Manson look. And he wants to see my cock. “You should get into the tub with me. I’ll take care of you.”
Smiling, I say, “No thanks, man. I’m only into ladies and trannies.” This isn’t entirely untrue. I had, after all, kissed Ophelia just a couple nights earlier but s/he is so pretty it almost doesn’t count.
“I’m bored,” I’m telling Les later on. “Other than that guy getting a foot job over there and the gay sex, this party is remarkably tame.”
“Yeah, what gives? I thought these parties had a reputation.”
I shuffle over to the bar and order more drinks. I return to find Les in an animated conversation with a couple—he a friendly-looking fellow in semi-formal attire and she a very pretty, very petite brunette in a bottomless ensemble that reveals her lacy red boy shorts. I soon learn he’s Swedish and she’s German and they’re married and new to this. I tell the husband I spent a week in Göteborg without ever seeing the sun. I speak to the wife in her native tongue. Leslie, always more direct with women than I, employs her tongue in a more obvious fashion, and before I can process what’s going on here the German girl’s lovely tits are out in the open. The guy grins broadly and grasps my shoulder, “Don’t be shy. Touch my wife. Please.” Even after all the time we’ve spent touring swingerland this still sounds weird to me.
“If you insist.” I take a swig of gin and stash the glass somewhere. The girl smiles up at me and places her hand on my waist. I place my palms over her breasts. She’s still smiling. I bow before her and let my mouth explore, sucking and teasing, my lips pursed and pulling at her pink eraser tips. She moans. I kiss the nape of her neck and breathe deeply; the smell hits high and sweet like roses and I’m not certain whether it’s her hair or some perfume she’s wearing. I’m touching the girl from behind, obscenely, my middle finger tracing a path from her clitoris to her tail bone as she locks lips with Les. The husband watches, still grinning and egging me on. The girl shifts her weight against me now, pressing her thigh into my erection, so I lift my tunic and press her hand to me, my eyes fixated upon the small patch of red fabric between her legs. I watch as my hand slips under it, into something soft and warm and wet. My hand is a practiced hand, a relationship hand: after a thousand and one nights of bringing Leslie off as she lies next to me in the dark, it just knows what to do. Deft fingers find the girl’s clitoris, begin to dance over it, subtly varying pressure and speed, perfectly attuned to her movements. Sex is language. Her pivoting hips tell me she wants my fingers inside. Going slowly, careful not to poke or prod, I oblige. When my fingers emerge I offer them to Les, who, closing her eyes, takes them into her mouth and suckles them clean. I kiss my girlfriend, tasting the German girl’s nectar on her lips. Les reaches under my costume to paw at my shorts and I pull them down to relieve the awful swelling between my legs. She squats and wraps her mouth around me, the golden beads in her hair tickling my bare balls a little. I place one hand on Leslie’s crown, the other on the German girl’s breast. I remember we’re standing in a high traffic area. I realize we’re being watched and I don’t care. People mill around us, gathering speed, coupling and uncoupling at a breakneck pace, seeking but not finding, spinning until their colors all run together…
VII.
I’m in a cab. Juanita is seated next to me, I know, even though I cannot lift my head. Leslie is on the other side of her. May as well be a million miles away. I am drunk drunk drunk. Dunno how I got this way. Every bump sends my head bobbing, amplifies my discomfort. Just wanna stop moving. By Jove I swear I’ll never drink again. Never. Again. Just get me home.
VIII
Who keeps company with wolves, will learn to howl.
-Latin proverb
We’re out with Sara at a pub across the street from our old place in Chelsea, having decided to make a stop here after seeing a lackluster horror flick. Sara’s dressed as the tooth fairy, wearing a little pink wig and carrying a jewel-encrusted wand. Les and I decided to forgo our costumes tonight. Movie and a drink. Then sleep. I’m perfectly happy to have a conventional night out for a change.
“Just one beer to bite the dog back,” I tell Les. “I promise. Woof.” She rolls her eyes. I get no sympathy for my overindulgence.
“So what was the party lake?” Sara asks.
“It started off a little slow, but it ended up being fun, even though I wanted to leave before Lex and he was being an ass about it.”
I throw my hands up in mock surrender. “Hay, I was tarbly dronk at the tame.” Sara laughs at my ridiculous attempt to simulate her accent. Clearing my throat, I continue, “It’s about what you’d expect—you flirt a little, dance a little, maybe get a little naked and fool around. Come to think of it, that’s an average night out for us, innit?”
“If one includes the part about you being an ass, then yes.”
“Ouch. So anyway, it was kinda like Friday night, except way more expensive.” I scratch my head and turn to Les. “Wait, why do we go to those parties again?”
“Well, we did have nice costumes.”
“Right? And then there’s the sex addiction. Care to analyze that, doctor?”
Sara smiles. “I’m the last person you should be talking to about seggs addiction. I masturbate three times a day.” Les raises an eyebrow and touches Sara’s leg.
“You know, I tried to jerk off today. Thought it might ease my hangover. Can you believe I nearly bored myself to death? I have access to all this free porn and absolutely nothing did it for me. Hell, even my fond memories of that sexy bitch from last night didn’t do it for me. It was like that Twilight Zone episode where the guy’s all alone in the library, surrounded by books, and he drops his glasses.”
“Do tell about the sexy bitch,” Sara insists. Les relates the whole sordid tale but I’m fuzzy on some of the details.
“Did you—did you blow me last night in front of everyone, or was I just imagining that?”
“No, that happened.”
“Okay, and what was this about them getting mad and storming off? Because I seem to recall—”
“The Clockwork Orange guy—”
“Little Alex!”
“Yeah, little Alex. Anyway, he was eating her out in the hot tub and her husband got angry about it.”
“Oh, well I was sitting next to her, fondling her or something like that, and little Alex came by and stole her from me. Next thing I knew, she and the Swede were gone.”
“No no, that was later.”
“Then where the hell was I when all this was going down?”
“That’s when we were arguing over leaving. I went to get their number, remember?”
“Ach. Scheisse. I can’t believe I missed out on all the sexual intrigue. There’s one thing I still don’t understand, though. I was doing all kinds of stuff to her. Why was that okay?”
“He told me they liked the two of us. Basically we had his blessing.”
“Who was that little Alex guy anyway? Such a fucking vulture. He didn’t even seem to be there with anyone.”
“There were a few creepy guys there, like the one who tried to touch me while you were talking to your boyfriend.”
“Ha. I was busy deflecting his advances. Sorry I didn’t lay the smackdown dear.”
A quiet night out with a nice girl. Thank the gods. I tell Sara she need feel no pressure to attend such debaucherous soirees with us, that we actually prefer nice girls who know something about intimacy. “That’s the reason we stopped going to the on-premises events,” I tell her. “Too many creeps. Everyone had something to prove and there were so many dysfunctional pseudo-couples. It was like high school all over again.”
“So what about the off-premises parties, then? Aren’t they similar?” Sara asks.
I take the last sip of my beer and sigh. “There’s less danger of forgetting your shoes at the end of the night.”
