Still failing at being a slut.

So, I haven’t posted anything in a long time. I haven’t had anything to write because all I have been doing is watching Psych, working ridiculous hours (at least for someone lazy and with an overgrown sense of entitlement) and partying in a shameful and regrettable manner. This weekend was some kind of military festival, but it failed to be the hottie fest I had anticipated. Day one, truckloads of men in uniform paraded past my place of business in their combat gear and generic action man faces. I was excited. I was hopeful. I was going to get some. Day two, and the young men of war have been absorbed into the city and in their place wander drunk, leery, lumberjack shirted old veterans with beer bellies singing the national anthem and trying to kiss me.

Day three, long shift. People partying outside. Mostly old men, but the odd instance of extreme hotness in uniform driving me out in my skirt to clean the windows of my shop, only to be grabbed by the wrong man altogether. Given an officer’s hat which he insisted had been with him in Afghanistan two weeks ago. I insisted he keep it, because it was sweaty. He was offended. Sold a skirt to one soldier who proceeded to flash everyone around him while his friend bellowed at myself and my coworker “YOU SUCK COCKS” while pointing at us in a drunken rage. “YOU SUCK COCKS. YOUR SISTER SUCKS COCKS”

Day three, finish work and heading to the bus stop. A gorgeous specimen of manhood accosts me and invites me to drink with him and his buddies. Some secret dignified part of me leaps into action and I refuse, only to spend an hour wandering around looking for a taxi because there are no buses going what with the occupation of the city by drunken soldiers.

Day four. Same as the day before, but the uniforms smell a little less fresh. The eyes staring out from under the feathered caps are glazed, red, puffy and confused. The chat up lines are less chivalrous. The requests for kisses are more frequent, and less requests.

Day four, finish work and decide to join the fray for a bit. Call two friends to see if they will wingman up for the occasion. One launches into a diatribe against the military and claims to hate soldiers with a passion. The other invites me to a casual, sober dinner. I refuse and decide it’s time to woman up and be my own wingman. Wander around and have a few plastic cups of wine from street vendors. Eventually attract the attention of a group that isn’t too rowdy or ugly. Well… I’m a little drunk at this point. Join their possee while they compliment me on my dignity and ability to drink and party without getting into a state. They point out a girl sitting on the ground post-vomit, crying and flailing her limbs, and tell me that women shouldnt get into that state. I insist I’m capable of getting into that state, and request more wine. More wine is drunk by all, but they are gentlemen so they let me finish the bottle. We move along, and some groping ensues. I realise I have involuntarily selected one of the group and decide to go with it. It’s been too long. Just get it over with. He declares me to have a great body, to which I reply “No I don’t, I’m really too fat… It’s just a really flattering dress.”

We find our way to some bars and clubs where I proceed to buy them a round of pints of vodka. After clearing up the confusion, realise they wanted vodka with mixers, and a splash of lemonade is added to the drink. They are not impressed. I drink most of the vodka.

Along the way I spill the beans about being married, divorcing, my childhood, my favorite animals, how I think it’s not the length that counts but rather the width, and many other gems of dignified womanhood. At some point I make what I think is a joke about having a load of corpses in my apartment. I’m not sure what that was about, but I didn’t bother to explain the joke. I remember hearing “you’re crazy” a few times. Kept walking. I tell my chosen mate that I’m bringing him back to my place but it’s a bit messy. He seems to want to go to where he is camping in the park. A lot of these guys are camping in the park. I ask if he has his own tent, he says yes. I try to sway him to an apartment with a bed. He isn’t inclined to go somewhere far away in a taxi and leave his friends when he doesn’t know the city. Fair enough, although I thought my tent hook up days were behind me. There is some groping along the way. I discover he’s of the thinner than desirable persuasion. I decide I don’t care.

We arrive at the camp. There are two huge shared tents with camp beds inside. I am puzzled as to where the business is supposed to go down. A paranoia begins to seep into my mind that he wants me to leave. I abruptly leave to get a taxi. I find someone who knows something about the area and tells me to call this number and wait in a certain spot. Taxi doesn’t appear. It’s freezing cold and around 5am. I wander back to the camp site and find they are all in the tents, apparently sleeping. I have no idea what to do or where to go. The park is massive and there is nowhere to get a taxi. I curl up on the bench of the picnic table and sleep. Someone gets up, an older man I don’t know. He wakes me up, makes me a coffee and tells me there is a free bed in the tent. I go inside and curl up on a camp bed and sleep. I wake up at 8am. My guy from the night before sees me and rudely asks what the hell I’m doing still here. I mutter something about no taxis, he walks off. I get up and sit on the bench for a minute, and realise he is totally ignoring me and I don’t entirely remember the end of the night so don’t know what kind of things i might have said or massive flaws I might have displayed. I get up, stagger off and mutter bye, thanks, to the one who made me the coffee. I look for a taxi home, and can’t find one. I walk and walk until I get to my shop. I open up and go upstairs. I find some fabric shoulder bags and lie down with them as a pillow, on the floor. I wake up at 11am. A parade of military folks is under way outside the door of my shop. There is a marching band. I try to vomit a little but nothing. I realise I can’t go home because I have to open the shop at 2pm. There is no going back to sleep now. The band is too loud. I have a coffee and buy some pain killers. The fear creeps in. I become paranoid and delusional. I am convinced that I’m going crazy. I think I might have taken too many pain killers (2) and maybe the side affects could be happening to me, and I could have some really insane reaction to them. I think I’m going to die. I open the shop at 2pm. I close every 20 minutes and go upstairs to try puke. No luck. An old lady tries on everything in the shop and hands it to me all crumpled up to put on the hanger. I blearily gaze at her in hatred and put everything down on the counter to deal with later. She gets the hint eventually and starts putting things back herself. An intense fear steals into my brain, that I might go crazy and gouge out my eyes. Why would I think that? What the fuck is wrong with me? I try to read a book, convinced I’m going psychotic. The book doesn’t remove my fears. I start randomly facebook chatting up anyone I know who’s online, of course not people I normally talk to. I beg them to say something comforting. They help a little bit but I realise I can’t disclose to anyone how truly freaked out I am. I consider calling some kind of hotline and confessing how hung over I am and how I have THE FEAR and wait for someone to come and take me away. I realise a hospital would be horrifying. I’ll stick with work. A woman comes in looking for shoes. I lie and tell her we don’t have her size. LEAVE! LEAVE NOW! I want her to hear my thoughts and go. She manages to find the shoes on display and WHAT LUCK! They are her size. She tries them on and buys them. The marching band is still going past. This woman wants to pay with card. Her husband is outside holding her ice cream and yelling in at her every few minutes, opening the door to do so and filling my tortured ears with the right outside my window marching band that is already too loud with the door closed. I consider confessing to this woman that I am so hung over and will she just make me some soup and I’ll give her all my money, just make me soup and go home, never come back again. I decide not to do so. I stay in work until 7pm and call my boss. I ask if I can go home early, because it’s a disaster and I’ve barely sold anything. (because I’ve been incredibly hostile and useless to all the customers) and he agrees saying “ah we may as well have left the shop closed today”. I want to scream. I shut the shop, leaving clothes and hangers strewn all over, for myself to deal with tomorrow. I walk past the parade for about a mile. The parade will not let me cross the road to where i need to go. I follow it (yes, it’s still on 7 hours later and still there are more regiments marching past each with their own band) and follow it. It never ends. As I get closer to the head of the parade, the people marching past are announced via a very loud speaker. And now for the whatever regiment from wherever! HOORAY! Cheering, music… I can’t get home. I see my group from the night before march past. Can’t tell if the guy is hot or not, too many people.  I remember having taken photos. I look at my photos. OH dear god what was I thinking. I was so far below my standards. No wonder this guy thought I had such a great body. I still don’t understand what happened. Did he think I really had an apartment full of corpses? Why did I say that? Was I a little too forward with my groping? Was it the copious amount of cigarettes I smoked that rendered my breath horrible to a non smoker? Was it something else I said? Why would he even care, I was looking awesome and well out of his league. Oh now I get it, it’s because I’m a horrible egotistical person. I can’t believe I did the walk of shame and I didn’t even get lucky. It’s getting ridiculous now. JANUARY. Do you even remember January? I do. It’s the last time I managed to hoodwink some man into wanting to do sex with me, my personality notwithstanding. I realise if I was a man I’d probably still be a virgin. Or maybe it would be easier if I was a man… No, it wouldn’t.

It’s so insane, how hard can it be? THIS HARD. It’s ridiculous. I also returned to my old coffee shop recently, in the hopes of reigniting some friendly flirtation with my old stalkee, the hot coffee guy. But you know what this is too much of a slow burner. I just want to go out and get this over with and get back in the game. And I realise I just can’t get that drunk any more. It’s not going to fly here. I’m too undignified and ridiculous for these people. They’re too romantic and stuff. I get a few glasses of wine into me and it’s all “I don’t care for romance, I just want a fuck” and then I end up without a fuck, sleeping in a park with my pepper spray clutched in my freezing hands while all around me, hot young army men are sleeping alone in their tents and seriously guys what is wrong with you, I’m so fucking easy it’s unbelievable, I was even going to pay for the taxi back to mine. And then men have the audacity to say it’s easy for women. It’s easy if you don’t have a tendency to find it amusing to talk about rotting corpses in your house, or something. Oh god the shame of it all.

Advertisements

8 responses to “Still failing at being a slut.

  1. There is seriously so many things awesome about this post, that I really can’t wrap my mind around it.

    You have an awesome amount of talent MFO. I’m certainly jealous of your writing abilities.

  2. Pingback: Fucking Italians! Literally, this time. YAY! « More fucking opinions from someone on the internet.

  3. Ahh, see? I woulda missed this morsel if it weren’t for your spiffy new widget whiles!

    Man, was that guy a wucken asshole. You shoulda given him a regimental wedgie (fast and clean, with hospital corners), then stacked the fucker in your apartment with the rest o’ the corpses.

    • He WAS an asshole. In his defence I did give him the impression that I had a pile of corpses in my apartment, but then again, it’s never been a problem with other men. I’m pretty glad I didn’t lure him home though. He was kinda funny lookin… (said like the hooker in Fargo)
      Hilarity on the hospital corners! But a lifetime of fitted sheets has probably ruined me for military hi jinx…

  4. Pingback: The Hunt for Red Cock-something | More fucking opinions from someone on the internet.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s