Find yourself in a densely crowded downstairs Latino dance club, trying to find a drunken female friend and her roommate, with whom you were wildly (and unwisely) making out mere moments before. Get a call from a female friend who works in a bar. Miss the call. Get a text from her saying, “Come to the bar. X is single and ready to mingle.” Go outside, find the drunk girls, get them in a cab and wash your hands of it. Retrieve message from the bartender: “Come to the bar now! X just broke up with her boyfriend and is asking about you!”
Grab a cab to the bar even though it’s less than a 10 minute walk. Arrive and kiss your friend and thank her for the tip. Sidle up next to the newly-single, smoking hot, 20 year-old vixen.
(Editor: Be forewarned, the following is a graphic and explicit depiction of sexual acts of dubious legality.)
Drop some great lines that make you look cool. “You know I’m hot for you, right?” When she complains about all her guy friends suddenly trying to fuck her, say, “Well, just for the record, I never tried to be your friend.”
Take her to another bar for a couple more drinks and listen to Hall & Oates. Invite her over. Cook her a late-night breakfast since she’s shitfaced. Make out a bit. Plop her on the couch in front of some cartoons. After fooling around on the couch fades, and she decides to sleep there, talk her into the bedroom. Pass out. In the middle of the night, as both of you clutch at each other half-heartedly, go ahead and go for it. Have brief, drunken, half-asleep sex that is both brief and unsatisfying. Her pussy is shaved and delicious; her asshole is tight and sweet around your tongue; her nipples are tiny and hard as rocks. By the time she starts to get into and actually starts moving her ass a little, come.
Wake up, try for the good morning stuff, fail. Take her to breakfast and give her a ride home.
You can’t call her for a date because her brother kidnapped her phone because she owes him $50. The next time your bartender friend is going out with X, tag along. Listen dispassionately as she classlessly talks about the guy she fucked the night before. Swallow any sane reaction as she spins the drama recklessly. “I came home this morning and my ex was in bed with some skanky bitch. I know he did it just to spite me, and the only reason I fucked that guy last night was because I knew he was fucking this whore.” Roll your eyes. “So when she was in the bathroom I threw this leather-bound law book at his face and broke his nose. He’s all fucked up now — let’s see him get laid with that fucked-up face.” Stifle a choke.
Wander around a bit and realize that “where to go” is limited to the spots that she knows she can get into without being carded. Feel the word “underage” float across your cranium and ignore it.
Accompany them to a shady bar with a lousy DJ and a cramped dance floor and let her ignore you all fucking night. When they leave, go home and pass out.
Start getting texts from her at around 3 in the afternoon — apparently her mother gave her a new phone. Text her back, field her queries about what you’re doing that night, wait an hour or more for her to respond, eventually realize that all she’s doing is casting around for the best offer of the evening. At around 1a.m., realizing that she’s been blowing up your beeper for 10 hours, turn your phone off and go to sleep.
Get a text asking “What you doing tonight?” and, before you realize that she just wants a ride, pick her up and take her to the bar, where your friend the bartender is having her last night. Realize what a dank, dark, depressing place it is. Realize that you’ve got to listen to this annoying little girl talk if you’re ever going to get a taste of that pussy again. Realize that it’s probably not worth it, that you could be at home.
Hear her explain that she’s getting paid the next day. Say, “Where are you taking me?” She suggests a place for dinner — a place where she knows the owner so she can drink. When she asks if you’re up for it, say, “We’ll see. There are a lot of flakes in this neighborhood,” echoing something she said minutes before. Feel her venom. “I’m not a flake. Don’t you ever say that again.” Tell her to have a sense of humor.
Let her insult and degrade you because the idea of going to a bar—the same one where she so famously ignored you — to play “Guitar Hero” with a bunch of children her age just doesn’t sound so alluring. Allow her to browbeat you into going. Upon arrival at the bar, discover that “Guitar Hero” isn’t even happening. Watch her wander off to talk to her friends without bothering to introduce you. Have a beer at the bar. When she comes over, tell her you’re leaving. Get a chaste, dispassionate hug.
Get a text offering to buy you dinner. Decide that a free meal is a free meal. Skip the late lunch you had planned and work out your day so that you’re available at 8:30 to meet her. At 8:25, get a phone call. “I have to cancel. I couldn’t cash my paycheck, because the fucking place that said they’d fucking cash it WON’T, because they say they need ID and I don’t have mine because my ex fucking stole it because he says I have his sunglasses.” No apology, no attempt to reschedule. Say, “That sounds complicated,” and get off the phone, fast. Make alternate dinner plans with friends. About an hour later, get a text from her saying, “Fuck it. Want to go out anyway and I’ll pay you back tomorrow?” Return the text: “Made other plans.” Vow never to call her again.
In a moment of weakness, shoot her a short text and get a response telling you to meet her at a bar. Make a stop on the way to see a friend; text her that you’ll be there in 15 minutes. Get there in ten. Notice that she’s not there. Wait a few; text her; no response. Go out and get hammered trying to pick up some bitchy Chicago transplant.
Get a text the next morning saying, “I had too many drinks with my friends and had to be taken home.” Wonder, just exactly, what that means, but not too hard. Text her back: “You’re pretty incredible. Stood me up twice.” Immediately regret it. Remember that advice from VICE years ago — everything she does is ok, ok, ok, and then when you fuck her you turn the bitch over and punish her for everything she ever did to you. Remember how good you are in bed and how much even good girls like punishment. Start to think that this one doesn’t deserve it. Swear to yourself not to call her again.
Half drunk, text her and find out that she got a new apartment; finally away from the ex. Tell her you’re coming over with beers. She resists; you insist. Drop by with a couple cans of Bud and see her completely empty apartment — nothing but a bed, which would be fine, but all she wants to do is leave. “I thought you said you had furniture?” “Yeah, but my ex is making me buy it all back.” “Why do you keep dealing with him?” “I don’t know.”
Sit on the wooden floor and play with her dog — who’s super nice. Hear her start to whine: “What is your problem? I told you I was about to go out.” “You’re just not very nice, are you?” Try to remind yourself that you’re not talking to an adult, you’re talking to a child. Slip and say part of it out loud: “I keep thinking I’m –“ catch yourself. “talking to someone else. Sorry. Guess I am half-loaded.” Hear her accuse you of being shitfaced, which is somehow comical. Get out of the house.
Hear her muse about where to go, all based on the day of the week and the fact that she has to take a set of keys back to her ex-boyfriend later in the night. Laugh derisively. Hear again as she asks what your problem is, what she ever did to you, etc. Feel your soul cross that infinitesimal line over the bottomless pit, that split-second noise gate, that hair-trigger liminality, that level up-with-which-you-cannot-put-any-further. “You could give me some points for putting up with this much. You bailed on our dinner at the last possible minute–“ “I couldn’t cash a check, I had–“ “You didn’t offer to reschedule, you just bailed. And then, the other night, you straight-up stood me up.” “I was drunk! I had to be taken home!” “Yeah, you’re always the victim. Nothing’s your fault.” Audibly hear her mind shift gears and her pitch, volume and timbre rise as: “I try to do something nice, try to buy you a beer because I know I fucked up before”–you do? — but if you can’t even fucking handle some one trying to be nice, I PUT UP WITH ENOUGH FUCKING SHIT IN THE LAST COUPLE OF DAYS I DON’T NEED TO TAKE ANY SHIT FROM YOU.” She’s yelling by then and turns a kitten heel and heads up a side street. Stop, blinking, and notice she’s already halfway down the block. Half-heartedly call her name. Decide not to follow.
Go home. Delete her name and number out of your cell phone—not just the phone memory, but the SIM card, too. Promise yourself that if she ever texts, even if you recognize the number, you’ll text back:
Who is this?