Tag Archives: drunk

Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 16

Of the eight boys that I’m semi dating right now, my favorite is my smooth boyfriend.  (Please see Vol. 14 if you’re wondering why and how I got myself into this mess.) I definitely spend the most time with him and he makes me laugh.  He gave his couch a name, he wears socks with pictures on them and he is also obsessed with salmon and has taken to texting me every single time he gets some.  “I’ve got some good news for you.  I just ate some salmon.” is the latest message I received from him.

I actually met him at least a year and a half ago when Rory and I were playing pool at a local dive bar.  A handful of us started hanging out that night and naturally, the conversation immediately turned vulgar and hilarious, so smooth boy and I have had an unspoken bond since.  When the very first conversation you have with a stranger is about anal sex, it’s safe to say that you’re bonded for life.

After that, smooth boy and I would say what’s up if we saw each other in that bar, but I didn’t even know his name and he was usually busy playing pool (it’s pretty sexy how good he is at it) and I was usually busy flirting with whoever my flavor of the month was.  For the first time since the anal conversation a year and a half ago, we had a conversation that lasted more than ten syllables just a few weeks ago, but unfortunately I was wasted.  I was a hot fucking mess that night and woke up the following morning scared that I was kissing this OTHER dude with a red beard at the bar which would be so embarrassing and white trash of me.  I decided that I did make a fool of myself at the bar and I came to this conclusion not because I remembered or had solid evidence, but because of my rule.

Caitlin Rule: Always assume the worst when trying to remember the details about the drunken night before.

Before I may or may not have been kissing red beard, I was definitely chatting it up and laughing with smooth boy.  We had chemistry and though I don’t remember what in the hell we were talking about for so long, I do remember that for a moment, it felt like we were the only two in the bar.  It would have been worth trying to see him again, but I was not about to step foot in that bar though for at least a few months, and I was confident that there was a chance that he thought I was a giant hoe, so oh well.  I’ll see him around in a few months, I thought.  A few days later, I was walking up to a restaurant to get a late night bite to eat and I hear, “Don’t you go to Harbor Bar?”  Oh shit, who is this going to be? is what I was thinking as I turned around.  It was smooth boy.  Crap.  The one person that I was the most embarrassed to see because I had accepted the fact that I had been flirting with him that night, and then started making-out with someone else at the bar in front of him.

I sucked it up though and sat down and ate some food with the guy.  Fifteen minutes into the conversation, I got the courage to just flat out ask him.  “No!  You were totally fine that night,” he said.   “I didn’t even realize you were that drunk.”  What a relief!  Whoo!  I gave myself an inner congratulations.  I must have just thought about kissing red beard.  Or maybe I kissed him outside the bar.  Who the hell knows, I’ve avoided that guy since.

Now it’s a week later and I just went to the strip club with him.  Of course, because what could be more absurd than me, a white 29 year old girl in my faded band t-shirt and leather jacket, rolling into a strip club with these motherfuckers:

Smooth boy, who is black by the way, and wearing red shoes that corresponded with the red lettering on his Nike t-shirt and immediately started yelling with his wad of one’s, “We’re going to change the weather pattern in this bitch!”

Kid bartender.  He’s a white, 21 year old kid who wears a silver chain around his neck and says bro a lot.  That makes him sound lame, but it is important to note that he is very sexy and I would cougar the shit out of him.  Well, not now because he is smooth boys’ friend and I do have some morals.  But, I am willing to bet that Kid bartender could get laid every single night of the week by a different girl if he wanted to.  He’s sweet and I can relate to him because we both recognize the fact that the only reason why the opposite sex is attracted to us, is because of our hair.

Sweet M.  She’s a big black woman, probably in her 40’s, who wears a fake ponytail and big pink t-shirts.  She’s hilarious and has game!  If you could have seen her in that strip club, she was giving us all lessons on how to be a player.  She is a wonderful lady, gives the best hugs and I love being around her.

So that was our motley crew at the strip club.  Kid Bartender and Sweet M were getting lap dances in the back while Smooth boy and I were failing at getting a drink.  The bartender in that place seemed to be the only person who was drunk in that whole establishment.  Getting three beers was a fifteen minute ordeal due to her temporary inability to see, hear or have authority of her motor functions.

Each of them EASILY dropped $250 that night.  I just sat back and let everyone entertain me.  The crew that I was with was just as entertaining as the strippers were.  When a song came on that he liked, Smooth boy would yell at whoever was on stage, “Oooo girl, you better do something good with this song!”  Then he would literally run over to the stage, hold a wad of cash in front of the stripper like a launch vessel that he was teasing them with.  If they sucked, he had no issues with shouting advice at them.

One stripper had this fringe type, belly dancer thing around her waist.  It was pretty annoying because it made that obnoxious sound, so Smooth boy took it upon himself to let the manager who was walking by know.  “That Moroccan bitch has got to go.  Get this girl back on stage,” he said as he pointed to the stripper that Sweet M was whispering to who looked like they pulled her straight out of the Amazon.

Later, I heard that jingle jangling approaching and Smooth boy and I immediately made eye contact and said at the same time, “here comes the Moroccan bitch!”  When she walked by, he said, “Morocco!  What’s up?  Girl, we knew that was you coming.”  I don’t think she got it, but I thought it was hysterical, and him and I high-fived and were laughing our asses off.  One of the things that I do like about Smooth boy, is that he initiates high fives with me.  A lot of boys hate high-fiving their girlfriends or any girl who they may want in their bed at any time in their life for that matter.  I’m not exactly sure why, but it seems to be a thing.

I would like to note that we were all sober.

During all this, Kid Bartender was leaning back with his feet propped up, while the strippers came to him and he nonchalantly put a wad of dollars in their thong like a pro.

The night ended with me and Smooth boy on his couch that he has named, watching Family Guy and discussing the best ways to prepare salmon.  Perfect night.

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The Adventures of Touring – Special Edition: Noisey Made Me Sound like a Groupie, but I Feel Cool Anyway

This is how much I love VICE… I have the app. I barely understand what phone applications are, so if I have an app, it’s because I really use it. Along with VICE, I have BBC News, the dictionary, USPS, google translate, atVenu and fucking Solitaire. Dorky apps. On the bus during long drives while a lot of the guys are on some game application that gives me a headache just by looking at it over their shoulder, I am the annoying one announcing things like, “the word of the day is solipsistic,” or “VICE found a guy who claims that he only has 100 boners left.”

For those of you who need some VICE in your life, Noisey is basically the music section of the magazine, and I got mentioned in one of the articles. Well…. kind of. Indirectly. Very indirectly. I was misquoted, and made to sound like someone’s one night stand, but you know what, I’ll take it. He was nice enough to keep me nameless, but I am here to take full credit because like we all know, I am perfectly comfortable with exploiting myself.

This particular tour holds a very special place in my heart, so I didn’t think that I’d be able to write about it for a while. I fell in love with this band and crew, and the band and crew of the entire three band tour package. When that happens, it’s sometimes difficult to take a step back and explain it all in a way that the non-touring world will understand. However, due to being mentioned in a Noisey article… I will tell this single tale for now. I’m sure there will be more later.

On the last day of the tour, a Noisey columnist came onto the bus to interview the lead singer of the band that I was working for. They discovered a note that I had taped to the television so that everyone would see it which read, “Hi boys- I lost my jeans somewhere on this bus. Please let me know if you find them amongst all of your stuff. Thanks! -Caitlin”

I suppose to someone who has never lived on a tour bus, that may sound strange. However, when there are twelve people living on one bus, shit gets misplaced. If you’re a good busmate and understand bus etiquette, you only bring the necessities onto the bus and leave your fucking carry-on in the bay (the storage space underneath the bus). Regardless, with twelve people, that still means at least 36 pairs of socks and underwear, 24 shoes, five million chargers and approximately three trailer keys. When you add the consumption of three bottles of liquor, two cases of beer and copious amounts of drugs every night, shit disappears. T-dog, my favorite bus driver, would regularly find my underwear in the bus vents and I have found men’s pj pants in my bunk who belong to boy’s who had definitely never been in my bunk.

My note was interpreted by Noisey in the article as saying something more like, “I left my jeans on the bus last night. Let me know if you find them.” I appreciate the artistic license he took because that makes it sound a lot more rock n’ roll, like a hot little metal chick with last night’s make-up smeared around her eyes wearing sexy fish-nets and I-just-got-laid-hair put the friendly letter up, instead of the boring merch girl.

Before you start thinking that this is going to be a fun mystery thriller which ends full circle with the jeans providing some profound moral to the story… it’s not. It’s just a story that is characterized with a shit load of bums and the jeans really have nothing to do with what went down. Lost pants is just a hilarious representation of the drunken debauchery that took place.

The night before, one of the guys, who I will call the Trojan, and I stayed up until sunrise drinking gallons of vodka while he educated me on Metallica. We sat there and listened to a whole album from beginning to end, which is something I appreciated because so few people do that anymore, and his enthusiasm was kind of a turn on.

The following day was a day off. When we all woke looking like a crew of utter death, the Trojan turned to me, still in his boxers and said, “Caitlin! Are we drinking?” You can’t say no to a Trojan…

Jack Daniels for breakfast in my Niagra Falls mug. It’s going to be a fucked up day.

The guys went to a bar early afternoon, but I had to break from the pack and do something normal to kind of recenter my life for a moment. After multiple days of staying up all night and drinking, you start to lose your sense of time and space. So, I went to a museum, looked at fossils and learned some shit.

Later, we all went to a steakhouse that had at least 500 taxidermy animals on the wall (not exaggerating) and we ate some of their insides. It was delicious. We were rolling 12 people deep, so we needed two van taxi cabs everywhere we went, which was a pain in the ass. I enjoy minimal responsibility, which is why I will never TM, but somehow I became in charge of calling the cabs, so when they didn’t arrive for a while, for some asinine reason, I got held responsible. To fend off the harassment, I started doing a tap dance on the sidewalk to lighten my mood, and when that didn’t work, I resorted to throwing a can of soda into the street. Rebel.

While waiting outside of the restaurant for my whole life, a happy bum approached us and OF COURSE, the Trojan started chatting him up while most of us attempted to not make eye contact. In the Trojan’s defense, I think he was the only one who was drunk. The exchange between a black metal Trojan and a skinny homeless man who looked like he could have been Sammy Davis Jr. became such a spectacle, that it was like watching a theatrical improv show on crack. At one point, the Trojan and the bum started dancing together on the sidewalk. At another point, the bum said something to me, to which I responded in perfect English, “I don’t speak English.”

Later, the bum said something about Jesus, to which the Trojan said, “I deep throat Jesus everyday, that little bitch.” At least we know how to keep things controversial.

We were in Denver, and if you have never been to Denver, it’s essentially where people go to do nothing. In other words, weed is legal there, so that’s where all of the hardcore stoners migrate. I can only tolerate so much Grateful Dead. Speaking of the Grateful Dead, I saw this on the wall of the bar that we ended up going to, and I couldn’t believe the perfection.

IMG_1543

That is possibly the most god awful published photograph that has ever existed. The guys in the back… holy fuck.

The boys were playing pool, and I was drinking my weight in whiskey while people watching and deciding that the girl who was dancing with the teal fringed mid-drift had escaped from a Mormon family and was currently experimenting in lesbianism. I often play that game where you look at a stranger and make up a full back-story for them. It can be a fun bar game.

After losing numerous pool matches to a guy wearing cargo shorts and a fishing cap, the Trojan was over it and we decided to head back to the bus and just… see what happened. And oh, shit happened.

We crossed paths with a girl at a bus stop. She asked us for money, providing some story about how she needed to get to the next town over because of her dying mother. I could be completely off, but it was something absurd like that. She was good, so if you have never lived in a city, you might have believed her, but because I know that anyone panhandling is fucking lying, I knew better. Still, we spoke with her for a moment, encouraged her and I gave her my knife that I keep in my shoe (because she was whining about not feeling safe) and we went on our way. Regardless of our awareness that this girl was completely full of shit, after denying her and walking five meters, the Trojan and I turned and looked at each other and both said simultaneously, “I like her.” Damnit.

It felt like the idiotic thing to do, so naturally, we went back. We’re so vain; we liked her because she was pretty and articulate and just not your average beggar. At all. She did not look like she was on the streets. Put her in some heels and a skin-tight dress, and she could have gotten by as a high class escort. Come to think of it, I should have suggested that to her. Anyway, we went back and told her that we can’t help her with her child who has been kidnapped (or whatever the story was that kept changing), but we can buy her a drink. So the three of us went into the place that was immediately next to us, which of course ended up being a gay bar. Long story short, she’s out of her god damn mind, and kept trying to hit on flamboyant gay men and complaining that the bar didn’t have olives in the cocktail tray that she was using like a buffet counter. The Trojan and I thrive on this type of awkwardness, so we were eating this girl up. This got us all kicked out however.

At the time, it seemed ridiculous that we were being expelled from the place, because I have seen much much much more obnoxious behavior at a bar, but I got the feeling that she is probably a regular there and she is probably not welcomed at the establishment anymore for past reasons. We said our goodbyes, she cried because she’s mental, and the Trojan and I went on our way.

About 100 paces later, we run into Michael Mud. Another bum panhandling, and despite the Trojan claiming to hate people, he is incredibly friendly. I like people (…in the grand scheme of things… unless you chew with your mouth open), and the Trojan and I were kind of partners in crime during this tour, but had he not been there, none of the events of the night would have taken place. So due to his nature, we of course start chatting it up with the three toothed beggar who we would later learn to be, Michael Mud.

The Trojan and Michael got deep. They were having a serious moment and I know my place, so I kind of stepped back and just observed this take place. They were bonding on a musicians’ level. Michael had an acoustic guitar on his back, so we asked him to play something. He kept declining because the guitar only had three strings, and I think he felt embarrassed playing in front of the Trojan, who is a guitarist. The Trojan almost literally kicked Michael Mud in the ass, demanding him to play and like I said… you can’t say no to a Trojan.

So Michael started playing, and it was really something. I wish I could remember details. Damn alcohol. But I can remember the feeling, and it just had so much heart. I could have sat there at that dirty bench all night listening to him play. He kind of started playing the blues. True blues. When you strum some minor chords and fill in measures with improved, lyricals of misery. We learned a lot about his outlook on life in about thirty seconds because of a song sang on the side of the street at 1:30am with a $30 acoustic guitar that was missing half of its’ strings.

Some more words were exchanged, and later Michael Mud started giving us his sob story. Something I really like about the Trojan is that he doesn’t give a fuck. He does and says what he wants and he doesn’t have sympathy for people because he can see that we are all the same. When Michael Mud responded to something that he said with, “well that’s easy to say when you’re in a successful band….”

This sparked a fire in the Trojan. To which, I don’t blame him. He has worked fucking hard to get to where he is and he still has to work bullshit jobs that he doesn’t like in order to maintain his status. So what I remember the Trojan saying back was basically, “Fuck that. Life is shit for all of us. The world is a cunt, but you have this guitar, so just keep doing what you want to do with it.” Michael Mud started to tear up a little bit, and that’s when I knew we had made a slight difference. Even if it was just in that night. And he made a slight mark in our path too. I’ll never forget that man, or watching him and the Trojan smash each others hearts with cold iron stakes.

We told him to come to the show the next day and we’d put him on the list. He didn’t have a phone or anything to take down information with, so I wrote the address of the venue in sharpie on his guitar, and also my phone number in case he had any trouble. We both walked away knowing that there was a slim chance that this man on the streets would actually arrive. Despite this, the next day I arranged to have Michael Mud on the list. To my surprise, he called me the following morning. He basically wanted to make sure that we weren’t just being drunk retards last night, and that we still wanted him to come. Of course! I was so happy!

He never showed though. I still wonder what happened.

Somewhere in Denver there is a really special bum named Michael Mud, with the address to Summit Music Hall written in sharpie on his now, six string guitar. The Trojan gave him some of his guitar strings before we parted ways so that he would have a complete instrument. I gave up my sick knife to the first beggar, and the Trojan gave up his guitar strings to the second. In a weird way, that’s everything we had to offer.

The Trojan and I made our way back to the bus, and who the hell knows what happened after that. But somewhere between the walk back and the truck stop the next morning, I lost my jeans. I have no idea how because I was wearing them! That’s it. That’s the story of how I came to be indirectly mentioned in a Noisey article. I never found those damn jeans. I’m sure that they just ended up on the floor of the bus, tossed out of my bunk, and then haphazardly shoved into another bunk but… whatever. I’ll trade a pair of Levi’s for a night like that any time.

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Why I Love Not Having a Smartphone

I have many pretentious arguments as to why smartphones are the end of social progression, but I’m going to exempt you from my rant, and go straight into my small anecdotes, those of which would probably not have happened if I owned a smart phone.

Side Note: I don’t understand why “smartphone” is one word, so to embrace my obstinate side, I am going to refer to them as “smart phones.”

I often find myself needing to stop to ask for directions, since I don’t have a GPS in my phone or car.  We all know that I just let loose, take the ride, and find myself in some unexpected places.  Due to this, I have woken up to the, where-the-fuck-am-I, thought on more than one occasion.  Because I don’t sleep, it’s usually at an absurdly early hour, between 6:00am and 8:00am, depending on how late it was that I passed out (generally between the hours of three and five).  With all of that being said…

Anecdote 1:

Girl’s night out with my friend, Maia.  Long story short, I woke up the next morning on her couch, in my tiny little dress, and had no idea how to get home.  I splashed my face with water, flung my heels into the car and drove to the closest place that would be able to provide me with answers as to my location.  McDonald’s.  Brilliant.  French fries and milkshakes are the perfect hang-over cure so I was killing two birds with one stone.  I walk in looking fucking beat.  I asked the cashier for directions, but he was young, and clearly had grown up with a smart phone, so was equally as clueless as myself.  I sighed and dived** into my milkshake and french fries.

A sixty-something-year-old man who had apparently heard my unsuccessful exchange with the cashier, approached me and asked where I was trying to go.  I explained, then so did he… giving me flawless directions.  Here is where it gets fun.  He said, “You look like you had a hell of a time last night.”  Yup, yes sir, I did.  I said something about how I was feeling the consequences of it, and he went on to say that the best hang-over treatment is another drink.  He brought me out to his truck, where he retrieved a flask from the glove-box, and poured a healthy amount of bourbon into my vanilla milkshake.  Fuck yes.

To paint a small picture, it was literally 7:05 in the morning, and I was in this dress…

high heels, smeared make-up, sweating alcohol, obnoxiously large sunglasses to hide my blood-shot eyes, and not giving a FUCK about any of it.  To see me in a McDonald’s parking lot, accepting a shot of bourbon into a milkshake at 7am, from an overweight man with a mustache… all I’ve got to say is, I hope someone driving by appreciated it.  We ended up talking for a good ten minutes about how billboards have destroyed road-trips, and then I went on my way, feeling 100% better and laughing out loud about what just happened, as The Smashing Pumpkins played on my car stereo.

Anecdote 2:

Got lost driving back from a person’s house who I should definitely not have spent the night at to begin with.  Again, I was wearing some absurd outfit at seven in the morning, and pulled over at a Denny’s because I figured I’d grab a coffee to remedy my pain and then ask for directions.  Before I was able to walk in, I met TJ.  TJ was an old mother fucker.  He looked like he was eighty, but from what I learned about him during our conversation, he couldn’t have been quite that old.

He was crouched down in front of the door smoking a cigarette and said, “where you tryin’ to get to young lady?”  How did he know?!  I explained in the best way that I could, considering that I was absolutely still drunk from the night before.  He told me how to get back, and then we just started talking….

The conversation led into how he came to be in California.  He had literally jumped on a moving train from somewhere in the Mid-West (I forget where exactly) and ended up in California where he has been working for the train yard ever since.  The mentioned train yard was directly behind the Denny’s we were at, and he went on to say that he’s there almost every morning during his early break because he’s “sweet on” one of the waitresses.  I told him he should ask her out and jokingly offered to be his wing girl, completely forgetting the generational gap, and that he would have no idea what the hell a “wing girl” is.

It didn’t matter.  We bonded over shit coffee, and the unspoken recognition that both of us were willing to befriend an unsuspecting stranger.  Something that seems to be a dying practice.

Anecdote 3:

I have an odd fascination with barges, and also find giant industrial style landscapes to be beautiful.  So, I was driving down I-110 some late night, and noticed the colossal port of Los Angeles.

Just a section of the LA Port.

I turned in and drove through it for AT LEAST an hour.  The place is huge, (7,500 acres) and I would stop every half a mile or so to stand up on the roof of my car and look out onto the vast landscape of man-made beauty to remind myself that I am happy and free.  During these moments of middle class white girl introspection, I decided it was my calling to somehow work at the docks, but I had no idea how I was going to make that happen.

My first challenge however, was going to be finding my way out of the deep maze that I had just drove myself into.  I just started driving and hoped I’d eventually find a sign pointing me to some recognizable highway.  Instead, I saw a bar.  I figured that almost every patron inside would be a port worker, so I shrugged my shoulders, thought what the heck, went in, and walked up to the first man I saw.

“Hi!  Do you by chance work at the port?”

“Yes.”

From there, Greg, a late thirties Mexican American man told me all about dock life and how to get into the Union, which is very interesting but I won’t get into that now.  We had a couple of drinks, I learned about his family and truly enjoyed his company.  He didn’t get creepy at all, and actually checked a couple of his friends who interrupted a few times with inappropriate innuendos regarding the two of us.  Why can’t two people of the opposite sex have a conversation without it appearing romantic?

Greg then gave me directions out of there, and left me with his work number in case I ever wanted him to show me around the docks.  The following week I gave him a call, and he happily showed me around the areas he works, and it was amazing.  I loved every second of the visit.  Mark my words, I am destined to one day, somehow be involved with a city port.

Final point: None of these wonderful encounters would have happened if I owned a smart phone.

**Did you know that “dove” is not a real word?  To be grammatically correct, the past tense of dive is, “dived.”  Fun fact.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 4

Girl walks into a bar…

She leaves with the big question, “Was that guy drunk or just socially awkward?”

I occasionally will stop at a random Pub on my way home from an outing.  I don’t think this is strange, but apparently everyone else does.  Each time I decide to do this, I get roughly five minutes with myself and my beer, before some guy or guys decide to strike up a conversation by stating how unusual it is to see a girl at a bar by herself.  How am I supposed to respond to that?  “Oh, cool.”?

Caitlin Rule: Do not attempt to start a conversation with a line that is difficult to respond to.

The strangers that I really love talking to, are the ones that are slightly socially awkward, but not enough to where  you are unable to hold a conversation with him.  I can handle socially awkward men, but for some reason socially awkward women freak me out.  Anyway, I met one of these guys last week.

I had been moderately flirting with the bartender since I arrived.  She was giving me the eyes, and I wasn’t sure if it was genuine, or if it was just the, “bartender way.”  Bartender’s will flirt with her:

if it means getting a good tip.  I usually have pretty good “gaydar,” but the red lights didn’t flash when I saw her.  You never know in Los Angeles though.  As the night progressed, it became very clear that my gaydar was off, and she was into me.

This pale, skinny kid takes a seat next to me.  We exchanged MAYBE four sentences, and then he moves around in his seat and exclaims, “I’m so anxious right now.”

I just started laughing, I couldn’t help it.  Social awkwardness at its best.  I knew I was going to like him.  Obviously, I asked why, and he just said he didn’t know, followed by more fidgeting in his seat.  I made some joke, and he then, making fun of himself, yelled across the bar (way too loud of course) for a paper bag.  We kept talking and he kept sharing too much information, like socially awkward people do, and saying inappropriate things, which socially awkward people do.  I was loving it.  It’s refreshing when compared to typical, humdrum small talk.

It was my time to leave, and the bartender slipped me her card, which I didn’t even ask for… I must have been on my game.  This cute moment was quickly interrupted by socially awkward boy saying, “Wait, are you gay?”

Again, I just started laughing.  Who asks that after only a ten minute conversation?  I love this kid!  “You’re not allowed to ask that until at least conversation number two,” I said joking around.

He then began harassing her, asking if she was gay and making conclusions.  I was still laughing, but she was obviously annoyed.  He apparently is a regular there, so she has to deal with him all the time as a customer, and not as the entertaining kid I got to experience.  I ended up answering him honestly, responding with, “Occasionally.”

To top off his lack of interpersonal skills, he then pulled out his card, right in front of the bartender, and gave it to me.  Did I just get two numbers in four seconds that are now in competition with each other?  What made it all even more perfect, was that his card was a GUCCI card.  He’s a sales associate as GUCCI.  So brilliant.

I called the bartender and we got together a few nights later.  I may have Matthew, the socially awkward Gucci worker, to thank for my steamy (such a Cosmopolitan adjective) night with her, because asking her the question, “So was that kid drunk or just socially awkward,” was the ice breaker that really got the evening going.  I do hope to have Matthew as a drinking buddy again sometime soon though!

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 2

Foot job?  Footjob?  Foot-job?  I’ll go with, “foot job.”

I have a friend, well, an old friend now, since the events I am about to confess took place.   For the sake of anonymity, I will call him TW.  TW has a foot fetish.  He is very candid about this fetish, and has no qualms with openly discussing it with strangers or at the dinner table.  Somehow, because of his charm and sense of humor I suppose, no one is disturbed by this fetish or his recounts of correlating events (musicians can get away with anything).  I even participated in the lighthearted discussions, and on the night of December 23, 2010, at a Christmas party, all in good faith, I asked him how in the hell a foot job is done.  This my friends, was the first mistake of a very long night.

I went to the party with a girl who we will call, H.  Most of the time I am straight, but occasionally I stray and H was one of these victims.  At the time, her and I had neither acted on, nor spoke of any feelings between us, but as much as she may dispute this, we knew what was on each others minds.

Like many eventful nights, this one started with alcohol.  A few drinks in, and I ask TW the question that should have been accompanied by loud thunder and a lightning strike to foreshadow my approaching onslaught.  Obviously excited by my curiosity, TW brings me into the bathroom to perform a demonstration.  We were accompanied by H, and TW’s girlfriend, a free-spirit who is clearly damaged, like most beautiful girls are, but more lovable than anything else.  As the two girls giggle off to the side, TW sits me onto the toilet, gets down on his knees and extends his forearm with his hand fisted.  Yes, his forearm was a simulation of a penis.  Before my brain had caught up to what the hell was going on, he had already flung my shoes off and started his demo.  While this probably sounds like odd behavior, TW and I have known each other since we were fifteen, and our entire circle of friends are very close and very… candid with one another.  So my feet being cupped around TW’s pretend dick, was not as unforeseen as one may imagine.

I always assumed that a foot job would be done with one foot, rubbing it against the man’s body.  Nope.  To my surprise, during a foot job you use both feet, and cup them around the penis, simulating the shape of a vagina… I guess.  Talk about a foot cramp.  It was an enlightening demonstration, slightly embarrassing because of my gross dancer’s feet, but I figured he, of all people, would embrace such characteristics, and we all headed out of the bathroom.  What started as a night of innocent holiday fun however, did not end as such.

Skipping ahead to now several drinks later, H and I are in the bathroom, (classy, I know) mauling each other for a second time that night.  First base led to second base which led to a fucking knock on the door and TW’s voice.  Of course.  A man to ruin the mood.  He guessed what was going on,  “Come on girls… let me in.”

We laughed, quickly assembled ourselves and opened the door.  What was said is very foggy, but I know we were all mostly laughing… joking… then left the bathroom.  TW and his girlfriend obviously thought that they could witness some girl on girl action, but H and I were not interested in including anyone else in our affairs.  A couple more drinks after that, and it was time to leave.  TW offered to drive H and I back to my house because I had no business getting behind the wheel.  Accepting his offer was my second big mistake of a very long night.

H and I are in the backseat, completely unaware of our route.  The car stops, we exit, only to find that we are not at all at my house.  We are at TW’s girlfriend’s house, who we will now call, Sibyl.  Being the drunk retards that we were, H and I entered the house despite our internal creepy meters flashing red.  We discover that Sibyl’s room is a mattress on a floor, and a record player.  That’s it.  It screams sex pad… but we went in.  Third big mistake.  Next thing I remember is being on top of H mauling again, and then realizing that TW and Sibyl were only a foot away from us in the same bed, acting out their mutual lust for each other.  I knew it was time for an inner pep talk,

“Concentrate.  Just think sober for a second, Caitlin.  Think sober.” I thought to myself.

I did truly care for this girl and I did not want anyone taking advantage of her, including myself, so I backed off and whispered in her ear, “Do you want to go?”

She replied with a yes, so I helped her up and we told TW we were leaving.

“Oh yeah?  How are you getting home?”

Fuck!  Being the drunk retards that we were, we forgot that he drove us!  This is when things got uncomfortable.  TW was my friend, so I was completely taken off guard by his shortness and blatant disregard for my feelings.  If I was some bimbo he picked up at a bar, his behavior would be more understandable, but we had history.  His passive aggressive refusal to drive us back pissed me off, but finding my inner “girl power” proved to be difficult because the kind of confrontation it would have required to call him out on being such a douche bag, was not something I was prepared for.  Like I said, he was an old friend of mine and creating tension between us was not something I took lightly.  So what did I do?  I held her hand and called my 911, my best friend, Lance to pick us up.

No answer.  We sat back down.  While I was absolutely drunk, H was much more.  TW and Sibyl crawled over to her and together, with the grace of friggen Vicomte de Valmont, they started to undress her.  H, being almost catatonic, could not defend herself, and I had no idea if she wanted to be saved, or if it was even my place to “save her.”  But I did.  Somehow I was able to successfully switch the attention over to Sibyl, (do not ask how I managed this) whose shirt was now off, and TW and H were rubbing her breasts as if they were petting a cute puppy or on ecstasy or something.  Sibyl giggled and put her hands over her face as I sat there feeling like I was watching The Garden of Earthly Delights come to life.  Clearly, TW and Sibyl were looking for some kind of foursome, but I had no interest in such activities and was not willing to further corrupt H.

One pee break later, where Sibyl and I shared a toilet seat (why?), and two more grope-fests after that, I witnessed the foot job.  H and I were on the bed with our foreheads practically sewn together because we wanted our body language to clearly display our unwillingness to participate in “group activities.”  I heard some suspicious sounds, and an odd shape out of the corner of my eye, but I did not want to look.  I then felt H’s leg moving…  Oh no.  I took a deep breath and looked.  TW was lied out with his erect penis for all to see, and propping himself up on his elbows as he watched topless Sibyl give him a foot job and as he used H’s foot as a “helper.”  Not until the next day did I realize the severity of what he had done.  It was not okay and one of the reasons he is no longer a friend of mine. I quickly pulled her leg away and scolded her for letting it happen.  She was in no state to reason, and I was in no state to problem-solve.

Back to the foot job. The top half of Sibyl’s body was hanging off of the mattress as she moaned and moved her cupped feet up and down.  My thoughts were on the extensive amount of muscular exertion it took for her to perform such an act.  There is no position to be in other than awkwardly facing each other from several feet away, her legs spread making a diamond shape, and using abdominal muscles, inner and outer thigh muscles and gluteal muscles in order to move both legs, the heaviest part of your body, up and down.  It looked like she was doing a pilates exercise.

H and I continued to smash our foreheads together, pretending like we weren’t waiting anxiously for his climactic moment so that we could get the hell out of there…  and finally.

They walk out of the room to clean-up I imagine, and this ordinary action ended up being the most hilarious part of the night.  Sibyl was walking on the outer-part of her feet, as one might do if walking bare-foot on hot pavement.  Witnessing this hysterical attempt at not tracking boy juice through the room almost made the traumatizing events leading up to it worth it.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 1

All I wanted to do that night was drink massive amounts of alcohol that would put even Bukowski to shame, and hook up with Luke Taylor.  Earlier that week I had fended off a roommate whom I had mistakenly went to first base with (but that’s another story), had been hit on by my boss (yes, another story to come) and quit a job I had not even started yet (one not so very interesting story).  Making bad decisions with Luke Taylor, the boy with the hot name, sounded like the perfect antidote to my vile week.

The red dot had other plans for me, however.  Remember those disgusting tampon commercials about seven years ago that represented a woman’s period with a fat red dot on a white screen?

A lovely girl, strolling along the beach with her curly locks blowing in the breeze, giggling as she sips on a fruity drink and gazes on at the dolphins playing in the waves, then…

BAM!  Red dot, white screen.  Her period.

I used to laugh and roll my eyes at those obnoxious commercials.  Now, I feel for that curly-haired girl because my period came and fucked up my whole day too.  Only hours before I was to hang out with Luke Taylor, my red dot came.  All I wanted to do that night was drink massive amounts of alcohol and hook up with the boy with the hot name.  In an effort to not come across like I objectify men, I will digress and say, he is the only person I have met so far in Los Angeles who is, 1. Normal.  2. Not an actor (you can’t trust those).  3. Did not attempt to name drop at the first available opportunity and 4. Made me laugh.

Despite my vagina bleeding, I still shaved my legs and made attempts at looking attractive.  Now, I will fast-forward through the flirty parts, and bring us to later that night, after large quantities of alcohol had been consumed by both parties.  I was too drunk to drive home, and Luke Taylor, being a nice young man, offered to let me stay over.  Don’t roll your eyes, I know he was probably more concerned with his penis than he was my safety, but he is sweet and disguised that well.  Luke and I met on a film set where we did the whole, flirt all day, make cute eye-contact and then exchange numbers awkwardly at the end of the night thing.  This was the first time we had hung out since that day.  I was not expecting to be spending the night out anywhere, so I did not bring an extra tampon.  Luckily, my period is always very light, so the fear of leaking through has never been a concern of mine.

A good twenty minutes into a hot make-out session, it came to the point where we were either going to bring things below the belt, or not.  Though I have had my period for eleven years now (don’t bother guessing, I’m twenty-five), I still am sufficiently grossed out by the thought of clumpy blood mixed with vaginal discharge flowing out of the female body.  I absolutely do not participate in any type of below-the-belt act while I am on my period.  I know I am speaking of it freely here, but I do find periods to be embarrassing and avoid telling a boy that I am on mine at all costs.  As Luke Taylor’s hands reached for my belt buckle, my hand’s intercepted. A short look, then from my lips,

“So…. I uh-”

“Are you about to ask me if I have a STD?” he said.

That’s when I knew I liked this guy.  I laughed and said no, though it’s mildly disturbing that this was not even a little bit on my mind.  Quickly, he came back with,

“You’re on your period.”

I forced out some kind of sound that resembled a yes, and then we continued with our intense making-out which included straddling him, shirts coming off, dry humping and all of the other embarrassing foreplay activities.

The next morning, we did all of the necessary post-hook-up duties… cuddling, complimenting and caressing which took up about fifteen minutes… then I left.  Not until I got home did I realize I had fucking bled through.  Of course.  The icing.  No, the period itself was the icing.  This was those little bullshit flowers on top of the cake that are inedible.  I spent the next two days freaking out that I had possibly perioded on Luke Taylor’s bed sheets.  Figuring out at what time during the night the leaking took place was vital, but I was drunk, and mental backtracking through pee breaks I had taken was not jarring any memories.  I went to the physical evidence… the pants.  I examined the blood stain and let out a sigh of relief when I concluded that there was not enough to have dripped through the denim and onto the sheets.

Then, the flashback of myself straddling Luke Taylor came flooding in, drowning me.  What if I had perioded on him?  My crotch was absolutely rubbing up against his and all I could see was him getting up in the morning after I had left, to the fat red dot on his white boxers.  Ew.  So what did I do?  I called my 911, my best friend, Lance.  Lance is fucking annoying when it comes to periods because he is not grossed-out by them at all.  I suppose it’s safe to say that he and I are on total opposite ends of the spectrum when it comes to vaginal bleeding.  I wanted him to tell me that if in fact I had bled on, or around Luke Taylor, that this boy with the hot name would simply never call me again.  That sounded fair.  A girl periods on your bed on the first date, and you never contact her again.  I was cool with that.  Unfortunately, Lance informed me that if it had happened to him, he would have probably just ignored it, washed the sheets/boxers and still called the girl again, assuming he had a good time with her.  This is not what I wanted to hear because then how could I ever be sure if it had actually happened or if I was just being paranoid?

I’ll save you from the suspense.  It has been a few weeks since the incident, and I am still not positive if I did in fact period on, or around Luke Taylor.  I have hung out with him a few times since, and I am 95% sure that I did not, and here is why.  Lance is my age, 25, but Luke Taylor is only 22.  In a lot of ways, this means nothing, but in a few ways, it means enough.  When I was 22, boys my age were equally as repulsed by periods as I am.  Now at 25, I’ve noticed that the boys simply don’t care anymore.  They claim that they’ll just put a towel down and go to work.

The difference between 25 and 22 also becomes apparent during/after a blow-job.  I have found that the 22-year-old’s are still very apprehensive about their own cum.  They warn you about its approach which, I guess I appreciated when I was 18 because I participated in that awkward pull away thing where you finished him by jacking him off, or even worse, he finished himself with the last few strokes, because the thought of semen in your mouth was terrifying… but we grow out of that.   A 22-year-old will not want to kiss you again until the next day, even if you do brush your teeth.  A 25-year-old does not give a shit anymore, and will kiss you as long as you don’t have cum dripping down your chin.  So that was my clue that I did not period on Luke Taylor.

I went down on him about two weeks after the possible “incident,” and he absolutely played the role of the 22-year-old, warning me, and then even going as far as throwing away the glass cup I spit into instead of just washing it.  This leads me to the conclusion that he would have also played the role of the 22-year-old in the period situation, being disgusted by it and never speaking to me again.  So my friends, I am happy to have reached the verdict that I was simply being paranoid, and did not period on, or around Luke Taylor, the boy with the hot name.

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