A History Lesson: Dangerous K and How She Got That Way

The time has come, little ones, to share the story of how I acquired my pseudonym. You’ve probably already guessed the K stands for my first name. Clever girl. Now gather round for the rest.

Once upon a time, I spent a summer studying abroad in Oxford which I still believe to be one of the most beautiful towns on Earth. My scholarly endeavors consisted of two classes that I attended incredibly hung over, a couple of papers that I wrote with double vision, and nearly vomiting on a world renowned professor. Most of my time was spent at a basement club called The Purple Turtle, located down a charming cobble stone street. Inside there were all manner of seedy staples: pleather couches, drunk men in kilts, dance floor with strobe lights, a visible cloud of smoke hanging below the ceiling, etc.

What dive would be complete without the requisite creeps trying to pick you up? I, unlike someone else who shall remain unnamed, never managed to get my claws into a kilted drunk, but I did attract the attention of another English stereotype: a chav. While waiting for a drink one night, I found myself squished next to the bar with one such individual who was sporting the complete uniform of faux-Burberry baseball cap, oversized sports jersey, gold chain, and vigilantly manicured facial hair.

During our wait, we chatted about ourselves: I learned that he was a local DJ of hardcore electronic music and he learned that I was a lingerie model with a thick Italian accent. When our drinks sloshed onto the counter in front of us, he immediately pulled out a wad of cash and insisted on paying for my drink. This was convenient because I was also about to insist he pay for my drink.

Sensing weakness, I continued to prey on this poor young gentleman for the next hour or so. Why yes, I would like another drink. Blink blink blink. I dare say I’m getting quite tipsy now. I’m not used to this strong, virile English cider. Blink blink blink. Why no, I don’t have any cigarettes of my own. Why yes, I’d love to have one of yours. Blink blink blink.

Unfortunately, he had underestimated my tolerance and was eventually surprised to see his wallet contained nothing but a few loose coins, his pack of Mayfairs was empty, and yet I was not yet intoxicated enough to be taken to a dark alley for a quick lay. With a hanging head and drained resources, he made a last ditch effort (after being told that international phone calls to Italy are actually very expensive, but he was welcome to get in touch with my agent if he’d like to take me out to dinner) and handed me a flyer for one of his upcoming shows in which I could get backstage if I told the bouncer I was a personal-nudge-nudge-hiccup-friend of Dangerous J’s.

With supreme timing, our next round of drinks - and two additional shots (men are shameless) - arrived. I carefully folded the flyer and stuck it in my back pocket before thanking him in the full glory of an unmistakable American accent for a wonderful evening. As his eyes grew wider and crossed a bit, I slammed down both shots, lit a Marlboro, and paid for the last round before winking and disappearing back into the crowd.