Being the great lumbering couch ‘tater that I am, I find myself watching a great deal of alarmist news stories about club kids and their various sinful pleasures. While millions of senile geriatrics were watching these depictions of youthful sexual and drugual adventures and thinking, “These unruly young’ns will destroy us all!”, I was watching the scantily clad shenanigans and thinking, “My, but I’d like some of that.” And so, I threw on my favorite Gap outfit and my luck sex havin’ hat, rounded up a few friends and hit the SF club scene.
Shortly after arriving at what would be our first and only destination for the evening, I realized that about 90% of the people in the elephant cock-sized line outside the club could be lumped into one of two categories: trashy eighteen-year-old girls and horny twenty-five-year-old guys. I knew I’d need at least two good drinks to develop and interest in the former and a liter of pure ethanol to develop an interest in the latter, so early on I decided to make a beeline for the bar as soon as we got in the door.
After an only slightly sexual pat-down from the burly boyish bouncer I ditched my underaged companions and approached the purveyor of brain-erasing refreshments. The bartender wanted seven dollars for a lousy Long Island Iced Tea. As he handed it to me I quipped, “for that price there had better be some crack in here.”
“No crack,” he retorted, “but for an extra quarter I’ll blow my load in there for you.”
Never able to turn down a round of banter, I countered, “Ha! Most places you’d have to pay me!” Then I realized that he wasn’t wearing any pants and seemed about to make good on his deal, so I quickly headed upstairs to the observation deck.
From up above I got a reasonable view of the rest of the establishment, and the first thing that caught my eye were two of the aforementioned trashy females, one wearing a cowboy hat and the other one not, rubbing their bottoms together and enjoying their reflections in a nearby giant mirror. A hapless male tried to get in on the action, but was swiftly denied when a third girl joined the other two for a disturbingly suggestive ass-to-cootch stationary conga line. In all the excitement I downed my drink in no time and decided to head down to the madness and see if I couldn’t get me some.
After joining the madding crowd I thought I’d woo the ladies with some funky white boy dance moves, but much to my chagrin I soon found that most girls were either already attached to even seedier fellows than myself or had conglomerated themselves into exclusive all-female faux lesbian dance groups surrounded by eager young men trying to work their way in like greasy sperm attacking a not-quite-underaged ovum. Even in my drunken stupor I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy this spectacle, so I rejoined my companions, who themselves had already tired of the scene and were standing near the door with their arms folded, and headed back toward the east side of the bay with my front-facing tail between my legs. Lousy boxer shorts.
That night I lay in bed cursing the sensationalistic reporters who had fooled me into thinking that nests of readily available debauchery were a short BART ride across the bay, and all I could do to lull myself to sleep was remember all the bottoms, bosoms, and bare backs I had seen, and fantasize that later in the evening, after plenty of alcohol and a shroom or two, the lovely ladies of the club would move past pawing and grinding and realize the splendor of sapphic love that penis-laden lesbians like myself can only dream of.
