09 August 2007

I was Groped on the Bowery Last night

I know what you're thinking - what the fuck was I doing on the Bowery, right? Seriously, I'm embarrassed. There was an open bar at some Moroccan themed lounge thingy there, what can I say? But back to the more important thing, that being me getting groped. Outside. On the sidewalk. By a woman. That I had met only moments prior to the groping. Now, I'm no prude. Stop your snickering. This was, however, a first for me. Certainly there has been public groping in my history, and even some boobie fondling by ladies, but that was OUTSIDE the shirt. Not flesh on flesh. Hand on tit, if you will.

I stepped out of said Moroccan lounge thingy, accompanied by a Frenchman of whom I'd just made the acquaintance, to join Laura and Teresa and the other two Frenchman for a cigarette. Have you ever heard a French person say cigarette? Tres sexy. Laura was all about making new friends that night (she'd been the initial Frenchmen approacher after they stole our seats), as the group appeared to have grown in size by two swell looking folks that I had been noticing throughout the evening as they seemed to be as out of place as me and my friends. David and Honey (DJ Cutey Honey, if you're nasty) quickly stole the show from the Frenchmen who slinked back inside, the smarmy bastards. Shortly after introductions were made (as in like, 2.7 minutes), Honey invited me to her DJ gig on Saturday and put her number in my phone. Moments, mere seconds, later, she noticed that I needed some "adjusting", and without further ado she stuck her hand down the front of my dress and adjusted each breast so that they sat properly within the seams. "I'm a girl, this is what girls do!" she matter of factly stated. Very sweet of her to take care of me. Sweet like...Honey! Ha! Man that was a good one.

Later that night, after the head Frenchman had rubbed his penis all over me on the dance floor and David had stepped in with his penis to save me, after Washington (an icky, tank topped, tactless, grody man) had thoroughly creeped out every woman in the place, after Honey had played "My Neck, My Back" without my even telling her it's one of my favorite songs EVER, after the Frenchmen left because I didn't want any of their penises, when Laura and I decided to call it a night, David gave us cards with his information, art cards, he's a painter. When he did this, I had a sudden and immediate flashback to 1999.

Freshman year of college. Me and Stella going out to clubs every single night of the week. One night at the Castle, can't remember if it was 80s night or goth night, that's right you fuckers, goth night, I met a fellow named Tony. In the low lighting and smokey atmosphere of the club, I thought Tony was pretty hot. Mind you, I did not drink a drop back then so I was sober as can be. Tony was a punky goth. He had on a shirt that said "Fuck You" or maybe "Fuck Me", it definitely said fuck somewhere. He had on some bondage pants and skinny suspenders. Not the gross baggy raver Hot Topic bondage pants, the tight sexy ones that I'd still rip off a man. I, as it turned out, was wearing a dress or a skirt that had bondage straps on it. It was obvious to me and Stella that I had to strap myself onto him. That's how we met, I hooked one of my straps onto one of his hooks. Tony handed me a card that said his name "Tony blahblah, Fine Artist". In Tampa in 1999, this kind of exchange was not common, the handing out of art cards. I was excited.

I called Tony and we decided to meet, of all places, at a Village Inn. In god knows where, certainly not in Tampa. St. Pete-ish, but somewhere bizarre and kind of gross. Back then I was really terrified of boys, so I'd arranged with Stella for her to come by there on her way home from her boyfriend's place so that I wouldn't have to be alone. And thank dear god almighty that I did. Someone must have slipped a hallucinogen in my water at the club the night I met him because not only was he not hot, he was actually quite unattractive. He lacked any defined chin, giving him a distinct chicken-y look. He was awkward in every way, gangly, the poor boy. And poor me! I managed to survive until Stella got there. She was equally mortified. We made a quick exit soon after, and I never saw Tony, Fine Artist, again.

So now I have David the painter's artist card. He seemed like a pretty nice looking man in the bar and outside, but this time I had some booze in me. Will he turn out to be a chicken man too?

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