My Worst Date Ever 2

We eventually made our excuses and left Fritzi's, either because Linda could tell I was getting plumb walleyed with panic about the whole fucking situation or because Carol was slowly getting drunker and less circumspect about looking at my lap. No, I swear to god, I'm an arrogant son of a bitch a lot of times, but this was the case.

In a way, this is the story of life. Here I'd been, looking to get picked up by 40 year old women married to rich attorneys...and then, there I was. Surrounded by 40 year old paralegals, and I didn't like the feeling one bit. What I was thinking was 2fold. First, life just sucks. There's what you want out of life, what you think would be cool--and invariably, life gives you some sort of fucked up parody of your dream. Every time. The second thing I was thinking was this must be what it's like to be a 22 year old girl in a hell of a lot more of America than Fritzi's, and that if I got out of this alive I should really endeavor to treat women as people.

Which I've had pretty good success with, I'll have you know.

So, onward and upward, to New Orleans Cafe.

The Cafe was sort of a Hipster Mecca during the early 90's here. Everyone who was worth their flannel shirt and/or their cock ring was there, and there regularly. Many of us had jobs, sanctioned by the owner or not, doing some menial task like cooking food. And since the owner wasn't so good at paying his people, that was OK. He was drunk on bad wine most of the time, anyway, and slept on a plywood platform above the storage area in back. The food was good, when you could get it, and when you knew the employees, you could bring your whiskey inside and mix it with Coke.

Sigh...the stories we could tell about that place.

But Linda bought us dinner there--she knew the new manager, and just ran a tab, as many of us did.

After dinner, we went to Null's and smoked another joint. Sometime after 3am, Linda and I walked downstairs and got in the car, where she promptly put her hand on my...uh...lap. We split directly to the house, and to bed.

Off came my shirt and her bikini top (ech). Off came my pants, and her shorts. Well, OK, off came everything. A marathon makeout session ensued, but I found (after the initial rush of passion had subsided a bit) that very little progress was being made towards winning my bet.

Once I began thinking about this, I couldn't stop. It became a sort of duel--I would attempt some sort of maneuver that would melt her remaining resistance, and she would acquiesce, until she seemed to the point of losing control...and then she'd stop, and kind of counterattack.

Don't get me wrong. It was dark, she wasn't talking much, and there are worse ways to spend a Saturday morning than in bed with someone as dirty as Lisa.

But soon enough, the sun was rising--unmistakeably, the sky to the west was lightening. Suddenly, I knew what was up. When she asked me what time it was, I knew for sure. Null had offered her $2.50 not to sleep with me!

And she'd taken it. Where do we go from here? How many times had I been betrayed? What were my obligations to her?

It was all clinched when, once it was plain the sun was up, she began making another attack. Annoyed and confused, I feigned sleep. Well, it wasn't that hard to feign, actually, but she left without a word.

I never paid Wayne his $5.00. I doubt you blame me.