Chinese New Year of the Slut (or Year of the Cock) – Part III

“I slept with him so you don’t have to.  You’re welcome”

You know what’s even shadier than sleeping with 7-8  guys in 6 months?  Sleeping with 2 guys within a 24-hour period, and not showering or changing the sheets between the two.  What can I say, I’m classy.

I spent the first half of 2016 overindulging in “passions of the flesh,” which sounds far more poetic than “fucking my way through the bar,” or comparing my bedroom to a scene from Caligula, which is by the way a strong exaggerationGuys do this reckless shit all of the time and don’t catch heat for it, so I cloak my indiscretions under the guise of feminist sexual liberation because I’m a modern girl who says ‘cunt’ a lot.  A lot.   If I allow my actions to make me feel guilty about my wicked ways, then I’m submitting to the slut-shaming culture and letting social stigmas dictate my behavior…and when have I ever bowed down to societal expectations!  Okay, pretty much every day I show up to work in clothes instead of pajamas, or refrain from farting in public…but let’s pretend I’m a revolutionist for the next several paragraphs so I sound more heroic than whorish.

While I’m not exactly proud of my accomplishments in 2016,  I do want to make it clear that the only reason I feel slightly remorseful is because I still see most of these guys at the same corner bar on a weekly basis, and I feel confident in their knowledge of being Eskimo Brothers.  It can be a bit awkward sometimes.  I don’t necessarily imagine them gathering around the beer cooler to compare notes considering most of them were too drunk to take shorthand anyway.  I do however think about conversations I have with my lady friends…and we sure as shit compare fucking notes!  (And I mean this as in notes about fucking, not ‘fucking’ notes but literally fucking notes, kind of like Cliff Notes…feel me?)

Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, sleeping with all of those guys was pretty selfless of me. I wouldn’t go so far as to compare it to community service, but I took one (+6, maybe 7?) for the team, maybe even took it in the eye once. Okay, that didn’t happen but I did have several UTI’s which cost me co-pays and a slight drop in dignity.  I’m fairly certain the doctor at FastMed either thought I had a crush on him, or was lying about always peeing after sex.  Which I totally did by the way!

By the time summer arrived, I had made my way through most of the pack and was feeling a little blue…kind of like when you get to the last bite of a big-ass burrito and are sad because it’s almost over.   I had consumed a lot of calories but still wasn’t satisfied.  Maybe I should have had a Snickers instead of intercourse…maybe hunger was to blame for my careless decision-making?  Maybe I need to pause for a snack break right now because I can’t stop thinking about food.

Anyway, I had essentially sampled most everything on the limited menu except the one dish who was just too young for me to try, like veal.  Okay, he isn’t really too young because he’s over 25 but he is out of my league, so I just pretend he’s too young so I don’t feel so shitty about myself.   Things probably would have been just fine had I excused myself from the table (sorry, I’m just so hungry), but I let myself get caught up in the dessert tray.  On a side note: Does anyone remember when restaurants actually had a tray of foam “desserts” they’d use to showcase the goods? I stuck my finger in a butterscotch blondie at a Bennigan’s, thinking the foam would recover back to its original shape like a stress ball.  It didn’t.  The waiter jerked back the tray in disgust as if I had fingered his asshole.  I probably should have, or given him a stress ball.   

I know I’m getting a little carried away with the food references but what I’m trying to say is that I choked on some feelings, just like Mama Cass choked on a ham sandwich.  Yep, believe it or not, I have them…not ham sandwiches, feelings.  I have feelings!!

I wish I had ham sandwiches instead.

TO BE CONTINUED…

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