I’ve always been uber-annoyed at public displays of affection. Whether it be on the MTV Real World, where kids are making out in pairs in hot tubs, a hipster-trash makeout session on a blanket in the park, or a couple folks sitting in a booth at the bar, tonguing each other like the Titanic is going down, it irks me. Hell, I don’t even like public hand-holding.
See, I am not the kind of girl who meets a random dude in the bar and then starts publicly making out with that random dude at the bar. I’m just not. And if you’ve ever witnessed me doing this, I’d like a post about it because I can’t recall one moment in my when life I’ve done this…Until now.
I was bored. I was borderline meltdown territory. Tired of the same-old, same-old, I decided to take my ass out to an art museum last Friday and see some fucking art. It was OK. I remembered why I don’t go see art more often. Also, people who go to art museums generally really suck–like they’re kind of freakishly unattractive and boring as all hell, pretending to be pretentious and liking some piece of shit inflatable toilet or some performance-art jazzercise noise. Did you ever notice that?
Anyway, after the art, a friend texted me, “Wanna grab some dinner?”
Sure, sure I did. I love eating. I love it almost as much as I love fucking.
So, we go out to dinner, then the local bar for some whiskey shots and pickle-juice backs and High Lifes. Another friend joins us. We do more shots.
Around 2 a.m., I’d gather, these two black guys come into the bar and start talking to us. Now, I’m feeling pretty fine and saucy, so I guess I’m giving this one guy shit-talk right back, but in a playful way, not like in a Teachin’ Lessons way.
Per usual, the talk turned to sex.
“So, what is the real reason black guys like to get with white girls?” I asked this guy.
“It’s because white girls will do all sorts of freaky shit,” he says. “Black women won’t do that stuff.”
“Like what stuff? Like crazy, tied-up, orgy-type stuff?”
“Nah, man,” he says. “Just like blow jobs and stuff.”
“What?” I say. “Not even blow jobs? That’s pretty standard shit.”
“I know!” he says.
So, anyway, we’re hitting it off. He is totally not my type—i.e. a big, muscled, football-player looking guy. I tend to prefer tall and skinny types—but he’s funny as hell. He tells my friend, “She’s so angry. I like it.”
“Take my number,” he says. “We’re going down the street to Soda (another bar).”
“No,” I say. “You’re the man. You take my number.”
So he takes my number. They leave. He texts like two minutes later, “Come to Soda.”
So what do we do?
“Let’s go to Soda,” I say. We troop down there. I slide into the booth with the Football Player and immediately start making out. At the bar.
Now, this goes on for a bit. And somehow I get home but I have no idea how. I wake up the next morning with a couple texts from this guy calling me “sexy mf” and “tasty.” And then it starts coming back to me: I was that asshole making out at the bar last night. Me.
And I’m thinking, that’s not a bad way to end a Friday night. Not bad at all.