Confessions of a Man–Slut or: Fuck My Life (a Two Act Play) -- Part 2 of 2

ACT II: Bathroom Shenaningans
(If you missed ACT I: Wam’s Birthday, be sure to read it first)

It's three in the afternoon. I still hadn’t heard from Molly.

I entertain several notions:

A) She’s still sleeping (if we had data on the sleeping habits of persons across every profession, strippers would surely be amongst those who slept the latest, right?).

B) She was walking around the streets of Boulder at 2:30 am last night, drunk and dressed in stripper gear, and the police picked her up for solicitation.

C) She was walking around the streets of Boulder at 2:30 am last night, drunk and dressed in stripper gear, and she was abducted, murdered, or eaten by a criminally depraved pervert or an extremely hungry moose.

D) Something happened to her phone.

E) She hates me.

---

I wait. And I wait. If there’s one thing my conscience doesn’t need, it's another dead stripper.

Finally she sends me a text. I'm honestly relieved that she's alive. There's bad news too, though: Apparently she’s moving to Chicago tomorrow.

Fuck. Last night was my one and only shot at stripper poontang.

I contemplate suicide. Nah. I contemplate Taco Bell. Mmm.

And then Molly sends me another text:

“Tonight’s my last night in town, I want to spend it with you.”

I forgive the missing semi-colon and agree to meet at the Sundown Saloon at 8 pm.

That's two hours from now, though, and I already feel like drinking. I go to Bacaro and sit down at the bar in front of my buddy Beeler—a rookie mistake if ever there was one. When Beeler's pouring, you're lucky to get a splash of Red Bull with your glass of vodka.

I leave Bacaro at 8:15, drunk and cheery and, well, drunk.

I finally reach the ‘Downer. Molly sits at a table drinking PBR with her creepy looking male friend Chris (or something). She asked me earlier if it was okay to invite some other friends (I said "of course.") It’s her last night in town, she should do whatever the hell she wants.

Chris-or-something talks but I really don’t listen. I do watch him speak though because I’m pretty sure he has sharpened teeth. Creepy.

Getting back to Molly, she’s different than I recall.

First, her hair is dyed bright pink (her dark roots indicate it has been this way for some time). Maybe it was the poorly lit strip club, maybe it was the liters of booze running through my veins, but I hadn’t noticed any pink last night.

Second, she’s not as hot as I remember. She’s attractive, sure, but on a scale from one to 10, she’s a seven. Not a nine. (Sevens are still well above my threshold, of course.)

Her two demerits are perhaps blessings in disguise. Molly still intrigues me but she’s no longer a perfect creature to be worshiped or feared. She's simply another girl I want to fuck.

As this epiphany manifests, more stragglers join our (once) small group -- and it’s obvious all these new guys at the table know her only through the strip club.

Before I realize it, there are almost a dozen horny douches surrounding us and I feel like a contestant on Who Wants to Bang a Stripper?. Molly is used to this sort of situation; she takes turns talking to and accepting drinks from each of her desperate suitors.

After about an hour of playing “musical dicks,” I’ve had enough. Besides, the odds of her being on my lap when the music stops are no longer spectacular.

Mercifully, I find an out. Attic Brad and Wheels, two tertiary friends from my days in the service industry, sip whiskey at a nearby table. I excuse myself from Stripperpalooza and bring a pitcher of beer over to my two buds. Seeking less sausage-filled pastures, the three of us soon leave.

Sundown Saloon, Boulder

Just in case you're confused, I made you a map.

By midnight, we are retardedly drunk and heading into the Pearl Street Pub. It’s a brash, annoying bar, but they serve food until the wee hours of the morning. We sip on our beers and Wheels mocks my stripper-naïveté as the annoyingly slow line cook prepares our sandwiches.

Molly arrives as the food is being delivered (her sausage entourage nowhere to be seen). I hit the bar for a fresh round of beers to go with our food and by the time I’ve returned three quarters of my cheese-steak is already gone. Molly licks her fingers with a nervous enthusiasm, as if to say she’s sorry but she can’t afford her own meal. I wonder what she did with the three dollars I stuffed in her panties on Saturday, but decide against asking aloud. “That,” I say instead, “was very uncool.”

Her response: “I was hungry, sorry. Let’s go dance and make-out.” Her apology is inexplicably satisfying.

My disdain for dancing in public is overshadowed by my vow to never disappoint strippers that hope to make out with me. Some crappy bar band plays “Mustang Sally” and I flail around like Janet Reno on ecstasy. Molly doesn’t seem to mind.


(this version of "Mustang Sally" is only slightly worse than the one we danced to)

The song ends and I prop her tiny frame up onto the bar. She shoves her tongue so far down my throat I think maybe she’s looking for the rest of that cheese-steak. We make-out for two or three minutes and I keep telling myself, she doesn’t taste like stale beer and cigarettes, she tastes like glorious wonderful stripper! I slowly slide my right hand up her thigh and beneath her cute yellow sundress. I reach her panties, half expecting to find my singles from last night.

I’m about three seconds from taking a finger hike down into Victory Canyon when Molly pulls back and says, “Slow down. I’m not drunk enough to cheat on my boyfriend back in Chicago.”

God damn it.

Let’s get something straight. I have absolutely no reservations about banging chicks with boyfriends. In fact, there’s a distinct upside (which I won’t get into now). But she should have either 1) opted against jamming her tongue down my throat or 2) never brought him up at all.

My drunken logic tells me she’s more interested in playing with my mind than she is in playing with my cock, so I leave her at the bar (well, on the bar) and seek out my friends in the other room.

On my way back there, I literally run into this plain looking blond woman who is approaching forty.

I’m already in full-blown drunken-horny-hammered mode and I have no reservations about getting straight to the point. The following is an exact transcript of our short conversation.

Approaching Forty: “Hi. I like tall guys.”
Me: “I like fucking in bathrooms.”
Approaching Forty: “Hmm.”
Me: “…”
Approaching Forty: “Do you have any condoms?”
Me: “Nope.”
Approaching Forty: “I have some in my purse. It’s with my date at the front of the bar.”
Me: “Get them.”

Approaching Forty heads to the front to get some condoms. I smile. Drunken reasoning: If you can’t fuck the prom queen, you might as well fuck the lunch lady.

She reappears with her purse. I whisk her to the very back of the bar, toward the bathrooms. As we pass my friends I yell, “Hey Wheels, watch this!” and begin giggling uncontrollably.

I take her into the Men’s room (which was surprisingly clean in retrospect). I want to set her on the sink and fuck her, but she'd rather do it in the handicapped stall. That works too I guess.

Inside the stall I pull down her shorts and panties. She grabs the condom from her purse (a condom, actually; she has enough in there to safely satisfy the entire Roman legion) and rips open the package.

I slide the condom on my dick but something isn't kosher. Shit. It’s one of those free condoms they give out in urban bars. Invariably, they're cheaply made and uncomfortably small. And I’m not being immodest here -- it's not like I'm making my sandwich with six pounds of Genoa salami. These are crappy condoms designed for people with micro-junk.

I keep it on and fuck her from behind anyway, but this thing just barely fits (and I feel like it’s cutting of some circulation). My effort is truly uninspired.

As men wander in and out of the bathroom to piss in the urinals, they clearly see my head above the handicapped stall and our bodies through the cracks in the door. It's honestly all a bit awkward. Whiskey-brain tells me it's a good idea to make conversation with these guys (or at them, as it were); it might put both them and myself at ease.

Various dudes go to and from the urinals as I’m fucking this old woman, and I've decided to chat them up.

Guy number one walks in. “Hey bro, what’s going on?” No response.

Guy number two enters. “Hey man, you used to work at Catacombs, right?” No response.

Numbers one and two wash their hands. “Don’t worry guys; I’m fucking a girl in here, not another dude.” They break into laughter and leave.

After about seven minutes of fucking, this extra-small condom is really irritating me. I pull my dick out, rip off the condom and throw it into the toilet. Approaching Forty barely notices I've stopped.

"Blow me," I say. She obliges but only sucks me off for about 45 seconds before stopping. Apparently the condom left a gross tasting residue on my penis. Whatever.

I leave her in the stall and get another drink. As I exit the bathroom, the ten or so patrons within a 15-foot radius of the door burst into laughter and faux cheer. I'm hammered enough to think it's all hilarious.

Wheels and Attic Brad have a beer waiting for me when I get back to the table. I rehash the bathroom details and we all laugh about it for another fifteen minutes. Eventually, Approaching Forty comes back around and gives me her number before leaving with her boyfriend. I’m drinking Jameson on the rocks now. Sometime later, Molly reenters the picture. Unfortunately, her sausage entourage has nearly tripled.

Molly apologizes for acting “weird” earlier and we talk awhile about movies and music. She has good taste, which is cool, but at this point I’m only interested in her vagina. We make out once or twice more and she even inquires about sleeping at my place. As exciting as that sounds, I can’t seem to convince her that it’s “bed” time. The bars are closing, but she wants to keep drinking with her friends. I’m not about to let the sausages party at my house. And telling Molly this makes her a bit whiny.

Fuck it. Maybe there was a 40% chance I would fuck her after all of that, but I’ll be damned if I was going to play video games in my living room while the stripper fucks two other dudes on my bed. As much as I wanted to cross this one off the bucket list, I wasn’t going to be humiliated like that.

So I wandered off. And then I called Approaching Forty. She met in front of the bar and drove us back to my apartment (drunk driving is so cool, kids). Her clothes were soaking wet and caked in sand. She must have spent the hour or two we were apart at the beach—which is interesting considering we live in a landlocked state.

The two of us get to my room, I find some legitimate condoms, and we engage in fairly vanilla drunken bar-skank sex (my black-out drunk modus operandi typically consists of fucking the girl doggy style while trying hard not to pass out). We bang for 20 minutes. I’m amazed I can still keep hard, but I know I’m way too drunk to ever get off—my sour cream will not be topping her seventy-nine cent taco tonight. Bored now, I take off the condom and throw it to the ground in disgust. “I’m going to sleep,” I announce. She's altogether indifferent.

Fast-forward to this morning. I wake up and am delighted to see that Approaching Forty is already gone. Strangely enough, she left her shirt and her slutty pink bra behind. My brain is still operating at a drunken and diminished capacity, but I still wonder how she made an inconspicuous exit if she was naked from the waist up.

Maybe she had a second shirt hidden in her purse. Maybe her chest is so hairy it looks like a sweater. I don’t know.

Shit. I can’t find last night’s condom. I know it's on my floor around here somewhere.

Fuck my life.