Ehren Brings Class To A Social Gathering

Over this past weekend, something occurred to me: I have no business being brought out in public. Seriously, somewhere on the line, my parents made an awful mistake when chose to stop locking me in the basement. No where is this clearer than in my interactions at public gatherings.

Against my better judgment, I attended a Halloween party on Saturday. It was a typical sort of affair: pumpkins, candy, and about a 50 girls in outfits that would make a stripper blush. Seriously ladies, it’s not called Whoroween.

While there, I ran into a friend who introduced me to some acquaintances of hers. Seeing as it was an open bar affair, a fact I taken full advantage of, I was feeling unusually festive. And loose-lipped. Considering that the last time I’d been drunk I proposed marriage, one would have thought I’d learned my lesson. And one would have been wrong.

One of the people my friend introduced me to was a thoroughly inebriated girl dressed in a Greek robe. It was obvious that my friend was setting the court for a lay-up. All I had to do was trot down and lay the ball in the net. Just as obvious, however, was the fact that I have the social skills of a chimp on crank.

“What are you supposed to be?” I inquired.
“I’m a Goddess.” She answered.
“Goddess of what?” I asked.
“Anything you want me to be” she purred, lighting up a cigarette.
“That’s some shoddy planning on your part.” I retorted. “I’m guessing from your cigarette that you’re the goddess of cancer.” Where-upon I began speaking with a fake voice-box.
“Don’t do that.” She begged. “A lady with a voice-box came into my job the other day. She had one of those holes in her neck and it started bleeding when she spoke to me. It was so gross.”
“Do you have her number?” I asked. “I’d like to wrangle a three-way: you, me, and tracheotomy girl. One man: seven holes.”

For some strange reason, she didn’t wind up going home with me.

While talking to a guy dressed in a jogger’s suit, he confided that he found one girl at the party extremely attractive. He’d been eye-raping her for the better part of the night and was obviously, not going to make a move unless pushed. So, having already irretrievably fucked over my chances at companionship, I turned my attention towards crashing the personal life of everyone else around me.

I approached the girl and said, “Hey, how’d you like to meet my friend.”
“Who’s he?” she asked.
“He’s the rapist in the hoodie over there.”
“You mean that’s his costume…or he’s actually a rapist?”
“Only one way to find out. But he did ask me to put something in your drink. What are you dressed as, anyway?”
“Ummm…I’m a football player. Can’t you tell?” She was getting considerably less receptive to my presence at this point, so I decided to swing for the fences.
“Well, I’m not sure what position your costume requires you to play, but I’m sure my friend has a few he'd be happy to show you.”
“I have to go.”
“Well,” I shouted after her. “Just watching you walk away, I can tell you’re not a tight end.”

Later, I was hanging out with a group of people while my friend told the story of "The Pinky Guy." She was just getting to the part where she confided in the audience that she almost never picked up guys for sex and that she was, at heart, a good girl.

"Isn't that right, Ehren?" she asked.
"What did you say?" I replied. "I'm sorry. I don't speak 'Whore.'"

What can I say? I’m the king of class, baby. And if you don’t believe me, just check out this picture from Saturday night.



I was walking around when a middle-aged guy and his asian wife came up to me.

"I just love your costume" he said. "Where'd you get it?"
"It's mail-order." I replied. "Just like your wife."

Elvis has left the building. Thank you. Thank you very much.

Confirmation I'm An Idiot

In case anyone questioned whether I'm as out of mind as I profess to be, it turns out that one of the girls I text-messaged in my drunken stupor (See Why I Didn't Post Yesterday, Part II) has a blog of her own. So if you want another description of my vodka induced sentimentality, click here.

P.S., the picture in her profile is absolutely horrible. Though you'd never guess it based on that photo, she is not pear-shaped...I think. Then again, maybe she is and I was just drunk.

Intergender Violence

Among the more compelling reasons not to beat on girls is this: any physical entanglement between a man and a lady inevitably ends with the male getting kicked in the groin. Now, I’ll be the first person to admit that there’s no excuse for beating a woman and any guy who does it probably deserves what’s coming to him. However, I think that all in all, girls choose to try to damage a guy’s chances at having kids way too easily.

I was eating lunch in mixed company at a local restaurant, when one of the girls related this tale:

She had been out drinking with a few people, when one of the fellas decided he wanted to drive home. He was noticeably drunk, and when you’re talking about an Irishman, that’s saying something. It was then that she and her friends decided it would be an extremely amusing time to play keep-away with the drunken man’s keys. Apparently, they are the worst judge of character ever. Shockingly, Drunk Guy was not in least amused and eventually wound up in altercation with the story teller. In trying to pry his keys from her hands, he managed to give her a rather nasty looking bruise on her forearm, which she rather proudly displayed to the table.

“You should have kicked him in the balls” chimed in a female listener.

See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. Why do women feel the urge to immediately escalate levels of aggression to the “Ball-Kicking” level? It’s completely uncalled for.

Imagine that you, as a lady, are out on the town. It’s rush hour, the streets are packed and you’re jostling for position to hail a cab when you see a friend holding a door to a taxi for you down the street. In your hurry to get to your waiting carriage, you accidentally elbow a skinny guy out of your way. You turn to apologize over your shoulder, when the guy, very coolly, draws back and slugs you as hard as he can in the tits.

Justified? Of course not. Shit has gotten completely out of hand. These days it’s like negotiating aggression with dictators armed with nuclear weapons. “You say that maybe we should allow our women to vote, eh? That’s it, we’ll nuke you!”

Now like I said, when I started out, there ARE some cases where a kick to the nuts is completely justified. Like when you find your man sleeping with your 15 year-old sister. In that case, you are well within your rights to beat his sack like a piñata. But what we really need to institute is a strict set of guidelines about when attempted castration is a viable course of action. A sort of “Geneva Convention of Ball Kicking.”

I humbly suggest:

Justified:
Infidelity
Rape
Threat of life-altering violence
As a last resort when other negotiations have failed.

Not Justified:
I thought it would be funny
He’s pretending he doesn’t know why I’m upset
PMS
He made fun of my favorite “My Little Pony”



Failure to follow the laws will result in a swift retaliation, in the form of a fist to the breasts. In the cases of flat-chested women, a temporary lift on the “punching a woman in the teeth” ban will be instituted.

There. Now let’s all try to get along.

Ehren's Big One Year Special

As my one year anniversary of blogging approaches, I was thinking of having a big “Best Posts” compilation. My audience has grown far greater than anything I could have imagined, and due to the sheer volume of shit I’ve posted (seriously, have you looked? It’s INSANE), I know that it’s probable that there are some amusing posts that got overlooked, or never read by everyone.

So if you have any suggestions for “Best Post of the Past Year” email me (don’t leave a comment. I’d like there to be a bit of suspense about the winners) with your votes.

Also, thanks everyone who reads my ramblings. You guys (and girls) are fabulous. Keep it up and who knows? Maybe I could be sending YOU drunk marriage proposals by text message, too.

Why I Didn't Post Yesterday, Part II

Among the stranger events of last night included my friend behaving quite oddly. Granted, most of the odd behavior began AFTER he’d consumed an entire bottle of Jack Daniels, but still. Even for a drunk person, it was outlandish.

For starters, he didn’t seem to want to stay in doors. Now given the squalor in which my friends live, this is no surprise. Basically he’d lie perfectly still on the couch for about 10 minutes, then, with near supernatural speed and grace, he’d dash outside and fall ass-over tea-kettle into the leaves on the front lawn. Then he’d lie there in the October chill and refuse to be moved, alternately cursing me for not giving him his keys and trying to move him into the house because his lips were turning blue.

Fortunately, he eventually passed out on the gravel driveway and allowed me to load him into his car and drive him home. With him snoring contentedly in his bed, along with the fifty or so leaves he’d brought with him, the interesting portion of the evening REALLY got underway.

Sitting on his sofa and watching cartoons, it suddenly occurred to me: I’m a smooth pimp daddy. What girl wouldn’t be flattered to receive a phone call from me at 11:00 on a Tuesday? My opinion was most likely influenced by the 2/3rds of a bottle of Sky Vodka I’d drunk (I know I said in part one that I'd only had half. Since then, I've seen the bottle. It was WAY more than half).

Now, for some reasons, girls doubt your intentions are pure when you call them drunk off your ass and claim you just want to “hang out.” Cynical whores. And the more insistent they became that I had no genuine fondness for them, the surer of my affection I became. When lines like, “I love you. Come sleep with me, Hot Lips” failed to make her melt, I actually proposed marriage. Twice.

In fact, all in all, I called one girl, and texted at least three more. I was skimming through some of my outgoing messages, and here are some of the more amusing ones:

When a girl informed me she was going to Salem this weekend, I responded: “Are you a Witch? Either way, you should come have ritualistic sex with me.”

To a girl who was in my address book from two years ago who I never actually went on a date with: “So how come you never called me back, bitch? I blame the schools.”

To yet another girl: “I know you have a boyfriend. Until you stop repressing your feelings, I have enough love for both of us.”

You know those breathalyzers that judges put on the cars of frequent DUI offenders? I need one of those on my cell phone. On the other hand, I wonder if I’m really any better when I’m sober.

Needless to say, my romantic advances were not met with the enthusiasm I'd hoped for. Which is why I awoke the next morning, alone on the couch while my friend yelled from his bed, “Why am I so itchy?” Ah, good times.

Why I Didn't Post Yesterday

My boss sent me home early yesterday, due to office technical problems that would have prevented me from accomplishing any work. Rather than use this time productively, I promptly scored a bottle of vodka and proceeded to get completely wasted before sundown.

What followed was a series of completely strange and unlikely events. For example, my friend needed to get a picture of a tollbooth for an ad he’s working on. So we hid the car on the side of the road and he marched up the center island with a camera. So let’s review: there were a Muslim and a Jew in a hidden car, while a second Muslim snuck up toward a hub of New Jersey Transit. I was just WAITING to get busted by Homeland Security officers and transported to Guantánamo Bay.

A bit of a side note: my friend thinks it’s hilarious to stand behind me in store lines and tell check-out girls that he saw me steal whatever credit card I use to pay with. Then he insists that I’m not the guy on my driver’s license. He’s done this at least 10 times. I was ready to administer the ultimate payback, had we gotten stopped by police:

“Thank God, officer! These two fundamentalists said they were going to kill me as part of their ‘Jihad.’”

Nothing like selling your friends down the river for a cheap laugh.

Fortunately (or “un,” depending on your sense of humor) I never got the chance to send my friends to a maximum security military prison. Oh well, there’s always the next time we get pulled over for speeding.

A number of my friends are currently living in a small house together, which is where we decided to go to drink. They’re all male, single and between 22 and 25 years old. Basically, it’s like “Lord of the Flies” only with more porn.

The house is rapidly turning into a certifiable slum. You can almost see them single-handedly lowering the property value of the entire neighborhood. They started out with a garbage can, but it’s more of a garbage wall: a mound of trash rising halfway to the ceiling. I keep expecting to see them chase a goat out of the living room, contentedly chewing one of the many unwashed cans.

As staggering as their willingness to expose themselves to conditions that led to plague outbreaks in Pre-Enlightenment Europe is, however, it's dwarfed by their overpowering and awe-inspiring laziness. For example, three days ago, Orange and Rockland shut off their electricity. I assumed that they were broke, but planning on getting it switched on when the first paycheck came in. As usual, I gave them far too much credit.

Here’s the exchange of the evening:

Me: So when do you guys think you’ll have electricity again?
Friend: Well, it’s not that we don’t have money. We just have to call and get the power put in someone else’s name.
Me: Wait…so all that’s preventing you from having heat and light again is a phone call?
Friend: yeah.
Me: So what did you do today?
Friend: ran an extension cord from the neighbor’s house over to here so I could watch TV.

Honestly, I’m shocked that they’re still bothering to use the restroom, and not just squatting in the corners. My prediction: eight months and a rat-infestation later, the place will be condemned by the city. They will move into piano crates on the street and not notice a significant change in their living environment.

Also, considering I drank about half a bottle of vodka and was hallucinating from cold, I take no responsibility for my actions last night. This includes any random marriage proposals I sent to various women.

More later today when I regain my equilibrium.

Educating America's Youth, One Family At A Time

I believe that a certain amount of professional pride should come into play when it comes to sex. Sure, it should be fun, but let’s not forget the whole purpose: to make a girl thrash and scream like a demon on exorcism night. I’m sure one of these days I’ll get the girl’s head to spin completely around. Until then, I’ll just have to keep trying harder.

I’m on friendly terms with a lot of my ex-girlfriends, and one of the many topics we end up discussing is sex: how it was when we were together, what we liked, and how it is with anyone they happen to be dating. By the way, I really recommend doing this. Girls who are no longer dating you (and therefore under no pressure to lie) will give you some great feedback and tips for improving your game between the sheets.

So it came to pass that an ex-of mine told me one day, “You are no longer number one on my list. The guy I was with last night completely rocked my world. You’re good, but I’m afraid that you’ve been bumped down to the number two slot.”

And that’s when pride kicked in. I had no emotional desire to date this girl again…but I’d be damned if I was going to stand on the sidelines while my orgasm record was passed. It was time to come out of retirement.

At this point in the story, you have to imagine a Rocky-esque training montage. Queue “Eye of the Tiger” while I do pelvic thrusts up the stairs in front of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, while a grizzled old man looks on and declares “He’s a wrecking machine! Get in there Rock!”

I got her agree to go on a trip to Cape Cod with me. While I have no doubt she knew I was going to fuck her, I honestly think that she wasn’t really prepared for the amount of sex I was going to dole out, not for pleasure, but for reputation. She wasn’t going to be seeing New England. The only thing she was going to be looking at was the ceiling of a tent…then the side of the tent…then the hood of my car…then, well, you get the picture.

We arrived at our campgrounds in Cape Cod late, and after a bit of driving around, finally managed to find a spot for our tent. It was pitch black so by flashlight, I set to work getting the place ready for the night. Feel free to insert any number of “pitching a tent” jokes here. I’ll wait.

…

At long last, we settled in and I got down to business. Without getting too graphic, let’s just say that I successfully reclaimed my title. Now, among this girl’s more attractive qualities is the fact that she screams. Loudly. She’s kind of like the Marv Albert of sex:

“The dick goes in! YES! You’re fucking me so good! That’s it!”

You get the idea. Essentially, she was providing commentary for the people watching from home. It’s a good time.

The next day, after an equally satisfying repeat morning performance, I unzipped the tent to go find a bathroom and to dispose of the condoms. I stumbled out, yawned, and tried to work a kink out of my neck that I had gotten when she somehow managed to get both feet up around my shoulders while I—

Not 10 feet away sat a family looking right at me.

When I set up the tent, I’d done a quick sweep of the area with the flashlight looking for any nearby campers we might disturb. Apparently, they had managed to set up directly behind a number of shrubs.

Now, when I say a whole family, allow me to elaborate:

Two daughters: roughly ages 8 and 12. They were blond, and apple cheeked. The kind that appear in postcards and advertisements for winter apparel innocently singing Christmas songs while holding candles.

One son: age 10. He was probably the star of his little league team. He no doubt constantly said things like, “Gee whiz!” “Shucks!” and “When I grow up, I want to be just like you, dad.”

Dad: Middle aged and wholesome. I bet he coached his son’s little league team and married his high school sweetheart.

Mom: Organizes bake sales at the nearby church.

It was like a Norman Rockwell painting had been brought to life ten feet away from the site of a porno shoot.

THEY WERE ALL STARING AT ME. I wondered whether the father had brought a gun. There was no way they couldn’t have heard me defiling the attractive girl emerging from the tent behind me.

“I swear, I think your cock’s gotten even bigger since last time we fucked. Next time, can we try--”

Then she saw the family. I was already outside, so I got a great view of watching the entire table cringe at the words “Cock” and “Fuck.” There was no hiding from this. I’d already made eye contact. So I did the only thing one can do in such cases.

I grabbed the girl by the hips, dipped her and proceeded to tongue kiss her so deeply, I tasted the contents of her stomach. Then I glanced over at the table, looked the father right in the eye and winked. On cue, the whole family looked away.

While deep down, I thought it might be funny to move our tent even closer to their site and go at it again, my companion did not approve of the idea. So we drove several miles down the road and set up in a more secluded spot.

All in all, it was an interesting trip, where I learned, among other things such interesting facts as:

• How far back my passenger’s seat goes.
• Whether my dome light is stain resistant.
• That air mattresses really don’t provide anything close to adequate back-support.

Still, I like to think that as informative and memorable as my trip was, the ones who really got the education were the kids in that family. And that’s what really counts. After all, children are the future.

The Big Pimpin' Weekend

The most difficult thing about keeping this blog is that friends, co-workers, and girls I date, all know who I am. Meaning that occasionally I come up with funny shit that can’t be printed here or I’ll be strangled. Sometimes, I don’t mind shooting myself in the foot. I figure “fuck it. It’s funny.” Such was the case in Wednesday’s post. Now, in retrospect, it was probably not the greatest of ideas for me to go public about my suspicions that one of my dates is a prostitute. She definitely reads this blog, and is ALSO definitely not returning my calls. Which I’m mostly ok with…except that now I’ll probably never know whether she actually was a hooker. I wonder whether it would be in bad taste to mail her a fifty.

However, the silver lining is now that I’ve officially burned another bridge, I can tell a story that I kept off my blog for fear of sabotaging my already marginal chance of getting laid. That’s right; my loss is your gain.

A few weeks ago, I was just getting back into the swing of single life. I’d been in a long distance relationship that, while good, involved very little sex due to a six hour drive. So after a brief mourning period, I threw myself at the opposite sex with a determination that was, in all honesty, probably a little creepy. I was a beast, tracking down leads every free minute.

My diligence led me to one of the most exhausting weekends I’d ever experienced. The itinerary was this:

Friday
4:00: Call Girl1 to see if she’d like to grab lunch in the city on Saturday. She agrees.

5:00: Seeing as how I have nothing to do until tomorrow afternoon, I decide to impose myself on Girl2 with whom I’d been shamelessly flirting. We make plans to meet up later that night.

5:30: Girl3, with whom I’d been playing phone tag, calls and asks if I’m free for drinks. I politely decline and ask for a rain check for Saturday night. She can’t do Saturday night, but she doesn’t work Mondays, so I agree to meet her on Sunday Night.

9:00: Meet up with Girl2. We hit it off and I sleep over.


Saturday
12:30: Finally get out of bed and leave the house of Girl2. I’m panicked because I’m supposed to meet Girl1 in two hours in NYC. I’m currently at least three hours out of state and realize I have no idea where the fuck I’m going. I’m also exhausted due to not getting any sleep the night before.

1:30: After a frantic phone call where I try to sound cool, despite being lost in the middle of nowhere, I leave a message informing Girl1 that I’d like to find out exactly where she wanted to meet. Also she should call me back and explain how the fuck I find my way to the New Jersey Turnpike.

2:00: Starving and completely lost, I decide to stop at a Ruby Tuesday's. The girl has not called me back, and I’m supposed to be somewhere in The Villiage in 30 minutes. God hates me. I order shots.

2:05: Girl1 calls me back on her way out the door to our rendezvous. She asks where I am, and I get an address from a hassled looking Maitre-De. After a moment of stunned silence, Girl1 says, “That’s literally 2 minutes from my house. You can see where I live from there.” Out of the whole fucking state what are the odds that I'd take several wrong turns and wind up in exactly the right spot? God loves me and wants me to spread my seed.

2:06: I desperately attempt to shave in the Ruby Tuesday’s bathroom despite the fact that I’ve forgotten my razor at home and only have a package of replacement blades. It does not go well.

2:30: Meet up with Girl1. Despite being unshowered, exhausted, and bleeding profusely from my face, I charm pants off Girl1. Declining an invitation for dinner, I head home. She sends me a text message 10 minutes later, telling me she had a great time.

6:30: Arrive home. Shower and collapse in bed.

7:30: My friend calls me and announces he’s coming over to drink.

9:00: an entire bottle of Jack Daniels later, I get a call from another friend, informing me that a girl she wants to set me up with will be joining her at a nearby bar. I am completely trashed and confident that I am the greatest seducer of women since the Old Dirty Bastard. In his honor, I vow to talk like him for the rest of the night.

9:15: Driving over to the bar, I’ve forgotten my vow and am now talking like Dave Chapelle imitating Rick James.

9:30: The girls show up. More drinks are ordered. I demand that the girls "Show us your titties! I'm Rick James, bitch!"

10:30: Girl4 loves me. Then again, after 8 Whiskeys, I'd love me too. She gives me her number. Son of Jor-El, Kneel before Zod! I'm unstoppable.

12:30: I decide to go home. Stumbling back to my car I see a pizza place and become overwhelmed with the desire for two slices. I take them back to my car, turn on the radio and…

Sunday
4:30 AM: I’m waking up. The car is still running and reeks of pizza. Somehow, I have not died from Carbon Monoxide poisoning. My glasses are missing.

4:45: I give up on finding my glasses, and become convinced that while I was alseep, with the car running, someone broke into my car and stole them off my face. Some how, this scenario seems highly plausable. Finally, I say “Fuck it” and drive home with out them.

12:00: I wake up in my bed. I’m still drunk and unable to locate my glasses. A phone call to my friend confirms that I left the bar with them. I forget all about being able to see anything, however, when he asks when I’m leaving for the show. When I inquire what show he’s talking about, he goes on to tell me that I promised to take Girl4 to a concert for which I don’t have tickets.

7:30: I pick up Girl4. Tickets were still available. My glasses turned out to be in my pocket. I’m a fucking idiot.

9:00: George Clinton and the P-Funk All Stars. Best. Show. Ever. I’d blow me after this concert.

12:00: I drop off Girl4. I don’t get head. I am disappointed until I remember I’m supposed to meet up with Girl3 when she gets out of work. I drive over and get head. Life is good.


For those you keeping track, that’s 5 dates with 4 girls in just over 50 hours. Honestly, by Sunday evening I couldn’t remember what stories I’d told to which girl. I was also a little nervous I’d call one of them by the wrong name. It was an interesting weekend, which ended with:

Monday
10:00AM: I am at work, and completely exhausted. I am staring at my computer screen contemplating whether I can get away with sleeping under my desk when my phone rings. Looking at the caller I.D., I see it is Girl3. Thinking about the craziness of the last few days I send her to voicemail and grin.

I’m not a player, I just crush a lot.

Halloween Stuff

I’m not a big Halloween guy. I mean, I like a hot chick in a schoolgirl outfit as much as the next guy, but when observing said disguise I prefer to be wearing nothing at all. My indifference towards All Hollows Eve puts me in direct difference with some of my friends who feel that this is the end all, be all of holidays. I have a friend who ordered his costume in June. Granted, this is a man who owns his own light saber, so maybe he isn’t someone I should be measuring myself to.

This year, however, I’ve been commissioned to play a Halloween party, so I’m going to have to do something to get myself in the holiday spirit. This would be a lot easier if my band mates didn’t insist on terrible songs. Now, Halloween parties are expected to have a certain amount of “cheese” to them. But there’s a good chance I’ll hang myself before I play these fucking songs. We’re going to play a little game: I’ll list the songs and you try to see the difference in material.

Ehren Submitted:
Highway To Hell – AC/DC
Sympathy For The Devil – Rolling Stones
Zombie – The Cranberries
Superstitious – Stevie Wonder
Voodoo Chile – Hendrix

The Rest of the band has chosen:
On Broadway – George Benson
Hang On To Your Love – Sade

When the list was emailed to me, I told the singer, “Well I guess we know what our costumes are: a gay band. Maybe we can follow those songs off with something that rocks a little harder…maybe ‘Endless Love.’”

The worst part about this is I’m going to have to listen to these songs repeatedly over the next week or so, which means I’m going to have “Hang On To Your Love” stuck in my head for probably the next three months. This is how killing rampages happen.

On another Halloween related topic, I invited a girl to come to the party and, naturally, we began debating over what costumes we should wear. Finally, we settled on an angel and devil theme. Here’s where shit gets weird: now, she’s a very attractive lady (in fact, she was bragging about how great she looks just last week), but she kept picking the most boring costumes. So we entered a debate.

I suggested:


She countered with:


So I came down to:



I swear I don’t understand women at all. If I had tits like hers I’d never leave the house.

True Whore False?

Today I had to ask myself a serious question:

Is it possible that my friends sent me on a blind date with a hooker?

Now, I’m not even certain that

1. She is a “lady of the evening.”
2. If she is, that my friends are aware it.

In fact, there’s a really good chance that I’m just being my usual, paranoid self. The difference in this case would be that my paranoia would help me avoid crabs. And, possibly, a beat-down from a guy in a pink fur coat.

The lady in question and I share a close mutual friend who’d been trying to get us in the same bed for oh…roughly, seven years. After a few drunken nights on the town, the two of us finally exchanged numbers and hung out. No sex was involved; in fact the only physical exchange was a few drunken kisses goodbye at the end of the night.

Now here’s where things start to get weird. I’ve made a couple more attempts to get together with her. By which I mean, “Attempts to put my cock inside her mouth.” What I’ve noticed, is that she is, apparently, never around before 1:30 in the morning, at which time she materializes near the bar scene. This, on its own, would not do much in the way of arousing my suspicions. Maybe she likes to nap and go out late. Maybe she likes to pre-game before the bars.

However, the old hamster wheel in my brain began turning after I recalled that when she talks about old friends, they all seem to fall into one of three categories:

1. Hooker/Stripper
2. Pimp
3. Fetishist

Lastly, is when I asked her out recently she told me “I’d love to, but I signed up for extra-curricular activities that night. I really need the money.”

Now, we tend to have a good time together, and she’s still returning my emails and text messages, so I don’t think this girl is blowing me off. Ok, maybe “blowing me off” wasn’t the greatest choice of words, given the situation. At any rate, I wonder what she’s doing at 10 PM on a Friday to earn money. I guess she might have gotten a second job as a bar-tender...

I want to be clear, that I think she’s a great girl…alleged prostitution aside. I mean, nothing in her personality suggests that she sucks dick for money and owns a pair of clear-plastic pumps. But my active imagination isn’t quite ready to dispel the notion all together.

If she is a whore, then three things happen:

1. I feel INCREDIBLY bad for her. The girl’s smart. She can do way better than that.
2. My friends have played the greatest prank on me ever. I might have to buy them each a night with her.
3. I get really pissed that I went on a date with a hooker and didn’t even get head.

If she is and they don’t know…Wow, what the fuck does it say my friends, other than “it’s no wonder they’re all single”?