What do you discuss with your friends over a quiet lunch in a family restaurant? Politics? The weather? Genital piercings? Us too. Or at least that's what we discuss when the German comes to town. I quite nearly choked on a nacho when he said "I got a piercing" because it was clearly not located on his face. Ever hopeful of seeing a man with a belly button ring, I asked about its location. That was the first mistake I made on Saturday.
We returned to Face and Grasshoppah's apartment where the conversation continued. Can you blame me? There was just so much to go over: pain levels, logistical procedure involved, the awkwardness of exposing one's privates to a stranger holding a large sharp object. As soon as my butt hit the sofa, I knew with the conviction of a thousand Catholic priests that I was going to see a penis within the hour. And, naturally, I am always fucking right. Sometimes it's a curse.
Inevitably, the German couldn't help but whip out his wangdoodle to present to the three curious females who wouldn't drop the subject. That was when it became clear that the German had forgotten to mention one important piece of information. It wasn't a piercing. It was two piercings. This led to shrieks of laughter and delight as we asked what in the world would cause our friend to voluntarily stab his shlong. Twice. I never got a sufficient answer to that query because we began brainstorming ways for the German to accidentally show his wiener to the last intended guest of the evening, the Whore (whose moniker may be misleading because the Whore is actually male). The German dismissed the idea of sticking his manhood through the door crack when the bell rang because he was pretty sure that the Whore would slam it shut. Then we got distracted by the bestest game ever: the secret word portion of Pee Wee's playhouse. We settled on the phrase "cock bar" as a sufficient descriptor and resolved to cheer loudly when it came up in conversation. This was the second mistake I made on Saturday.
Fast forward ten ounces of rum later. The Whore was happily settled on the couch with a beer, blissfully unaware of his proximity to a modified member. We had been delicately avoiding the topic but eventually, the pressure became too much and someone managed to drop "cock bar" into a sentence. The four of us cheered while the Whore looked confused. Then the details become fuzzy (mostly I blame the rum) but the end result is that I got a second unsolicited peep show of the German's bedazzled pecker. At the key moment of the lap dance, he spun around to give the Whore a full frontal show which made me laugh so hard I got rum in my nose because I am a goal oriented person and I felt personally fulfilled knowing that the Whore saw it.
Eventually we wandered down the street to a bar shouting "cock bar" along the way and enjoying the disturbed faces of onlookers. At the entrance, I emptied the contents of my purse into Grasshoppah's arms in the search for my wallet (and more importantly my ID without which I could not get past the bouncer) and came up sadly dry. It seems that my third mistake of Saturday involved leaving it somewhere. I had high hopes that it had rolled out of my bag and into the German's car on our way back from lunch so I asked for the keys. Being a very drunk and chivalrous gentleman, he refused to let me walk back through the dark streets alone though I assured him that I could totally fuck mad shit up, so we trekked out together.
Luckily, I was right (sometimes it's not a curse) and we found it sitting in the back seat of his car, so I retrieved it and we headed back. A few moments into our exodus, a gaggle of college girls in hoochie gear and stilettos and sunglasses popped out of an alley way and began walking in front of us. The German was a happy, happy boy to follow behind and I made my fourth mistake: I threatened to hurt him if he whipped out his cock bar to show strange college girls on a public street. He began cheering loudly in honor of the voicing of the secret word and the hoochies turned around to see what the commotion was. I spent the remainder of the walk very concerned for their fragile young minds.
A plate of quesadillas and a few hours later, I caught a cab back to Suburbia where I was pleased as punch to find Beau awake and entertaining some of my favorite guests: Mistress and her Boytoy. We were closing out the evening by viewing Top Gun and discussing the excellent cinematography of everything Tom Cruise has ever done when there came a rapping at my chamber door. It was Angry Landlord giving us the proverbial "Damn kids are making too much racket" shtick. I mumbled the requisite apology while hiccupping and avoiding eye contact before returning to the guests to loudly complain about Angry Landlord who really aught to be grateful that we never throw loud parties or ask him to fix the things he told us he'd fix back in June or complain about his constant use of power tools at 8 AM on a Sunday morning, always pay our rent on time and sometimes even do considerate things (like the time Beau dug out half the driveway for him. OK so I haven't done anything actively considerate but in general, I find being on my best behavior to be a pretty huge fucking favor). And to boot, we weren't playing loud music or stomping around. We were sitting there talking and it's not my fault if Mistress can't control her laughter when I tell a joke. It's also certainly not my fault that the floorboards between our apartments are so thin that I can hear him blow his nose.
The German's got something else for you to blow when you're all done with that, buddy.
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