my first time

she was beautiful. blonde, buxom, toothy, and she smelled like a mix between vanilla musk and a new barbie doll. her name was

her name was...

ah. who fucking cares what her name was. as she tossed her boobs around my face we chatted about hair products and what i should see whenever i finally make it to sydney, which is her home town. how did she end up here, stripping in a sleazy club around times square? i don't know. i don't care. i came out of the strip club with a net gain of twelve dollars stuffed into various pockets and a new sense of icky. it was enough to get me home and puking up pink bile into a zabars grocery bag. if that's not the perfect way to leave new york, i'm not sure what is.

this all started in las vegas four months ago. you should assume that if you meet someone in las vegas that you're dealing with a person who enjoys that whole scene. it's like meeting a future spouse in a bar...you can't be all that surprised when, five years and two kids later, their preferred hangout is still a bar. MR BOFA is a loosely related very wealthy younger person who appeared in my life last summer during my cousin's shit show birthday of debauchery twenty one run. when i went to meet MR BOFA (that's what we will call him) and his friend for a drink last night, i should have known it was going to be a long, epic adventure.

we met at a west village bar, a place so trendy the thought pains me to admit i've been there. sometime during my first grey goose on the rocks the topic turned to blondie, a massive stripper very well known in atlanta who will crush beer cans with her planet sized breasts. legendary is the term, i believe. it came out that i had never been to a strip club and MR BOFA, being someone who spends a lot of time in strip clubs, and his friend decided that this needed to be remedied immediately. "sure!" i say, "why not?". i was literally a block from my apartment, and i could have gone home so easily, but in the spirit of adventure, i didn't.

a short cab ride and a stop at a club that was deemed inferior by a passing patron, we ended up just north of times square. five hundred bones later (with the understanding that a bottle of liquor must be purchased) we were seated at a table and my face was a foot away from a stripper's ass. just reach out and grab it! suddenly MR BOFA disappears only to reappear a few minutes later with a stack of single bills, which he hands to me. it's time to get serious. oh how the ladies danced. how they stalked about the stage, leggy and anorexic, looking like giraffes on safari. it was amazing.

some length of time later, though i'm not sure how much as the vodka haze had settled in, i had seen a lot of boobs and coked-out half smiles. the whole show started to seem a bit like an auction with the livestock moving around on stage, pleading to the highest bidder. so distracted was i with this spectacle that i didn't notice the naked woman standing behind me, poised to lead me to a chair where she could push her boobies into my face for the delight and cash of my colleagues. i felt a powdery touch on my hand and lo and behold, there she was. very blonde, very tan, and ready to rock. i don't remember much from the lap dance (it might have technically been two...MR BOFA kept giving her money and it seemed like it lasted forever) aside from recommending her to get a couple of moles on her back checked out. melanoma is scary stuff, after all. i also got a great tip for a deep conditioning mask for my hair. fantastic. i mentioned that i wanted to learn how to do my makeup like hers (i may have been very inebriated, but i could still deliver sarcasm) and much to my surprise and delight i was ushered into the stripper's den. never have i seen myself with so many different shades of purple on one eyelid or such a tan face (similar to a brioche). i am pretty sure that i contracted face AIDS from the experience, but at least it was memorable.

soon after, we stumbled out of the club onto a nearly deserted broadway. i made it back to christopher street, the very sight of the now quiet boots and saddle a comfort. you think that was all great, right? wow, incredible and so new york! no, my friend, the authentic "new york moment" came when i puked my twelve dollar drinks and two hours worth of stripper juice into a zabar's grocery bag. does it get any better? does it?

i don't think so.

so long, new york, and thank you for this memory. it was fantastic, tawdry and totally unforgettable...and i couldn't ask for more.