On The Catwalk

On any given Friday night during this extended lockdown, you can find me drinking alone in my apartment. This might sound pathetic and downright sad, and that's because it is. A far cry from my youth, I stay in and entertain myself via increasingly pitiful means these days.

Among this list: having epic lip-sync battles on Snapchat. Dancing along to choreography from long forgotten 90's pop music videos. Harassing the lead singer of Matchbox Twenty, Rob Thomas on Twitter. Binge watching serial killer documentaries on Netflix with my pet lizard Richid. Or, if I'm feeling particularly lonely I'll blast the same song on repeat until my senile downstairs neighbor calls me up. “Have you been playing Fergalicious for the past hour or so?” To which I reply “of course not”, blaming the bars that have been closed because of the pandemic behind our apartment complex. Then go on to record how many successful plays I got in before I was discovered. (17, beating my previous record held by LL Cool J's Headsprung at 15).

Things weren't always this bad. Having received many concerned messages from fans of the blog, I decided it was time to hear a story where I win. Kind of. Not really. I did get laid though, and that is worth celebrating. Let me take you back to the golden years before I became an antisocial hermit crab.

Living in New Bedford circa 2012-2014 was a blur. They were some of the dirtiest, raunchiest, most disgusting, beautiful, and wonderful years of my life. Prior to this I had been sheltered, living in more suburban areas. What a culture shock it was to live within walking distance from anywhere, let alone bars. Having a tattoo artist who was big on the party scene as a roommate, only served to fuel this wild ride. Being young and social in those days, Friday and Saturday nights were usually spent at the strip club or at various hotspots downtown. I even met DMX on one such occasion, but that’s a story for another time.

Shaving my entire body, slathering on a bucket of lotion and spending hours in the mirror caking on enough makeup to kill a Kardashian were staples before a night of debauchery. My then-bestfriend would meet at my place for pre-game ritual shenanigans, before stumbling our ratchet asses the couple blocks it was to the bar. Historic New Bedford and it's ruthless cobblestone were no match for me or my heels in my 20’s. In those days looking sexy to go slutting took priority over health or safety. As such, you risked rolling an ankle wearing 6 inch zebra stilettos and froze your damn ass off. And you did it all with a smile on your face. Wearing comfortable shoes or a practical jacket that protected you from the elements, was a sign of weakness. You did not show weakness on a night out, you showed cleavage. Lots of it.

Making our way downtown, hauling ass, cuz’ it’s cold out. Da na na na na na, no seriously we made haste. It was a brisk 20 degrees in the dead of January in New England. Yeah we were cold, but we looked so hot. Anxious to get inside where it was warm, we used our celebrity to skip the line being we were such VIP guests. Also, there was no line. Place was dead. Had there been a line though, I'm confident we would have gotten right in. One of us may, or may not have been banging the married bouncer with tribal titty-star tattoos. Our notoriety was not needed, but our entrance was obnoxious all the same.

Taking a load off at the bar to regain feeling in our frost-bitten extremities, we order our usual dumb, fruity drinks with nonsensical names. After downing a few, we make our way to the bathroom to relieve ourselves and engage in our typical bathroom selfie tradition. As females often travel in gaggles, the women's room was a tad "crowded" for our liking. Improvising, we decide to sneak into the men's room, confident there would be no one in there due to the lack of "talent" observed at the bar. Assuming correctly, we were left unbothered for quite a while and might have gotten a "little" carried away.

Dedicated to the shoot pants down and posing, I don't immediately notice that an actual guy has entered this chaos. Approaching cautiously, he utilizes proper restroom etiquette and leaves an empty urinal between us. Much to our disbelief, after draining the ole’ vagina miner he joins in with matched enthusiasm. His initial confusion giving way to our infectious, playful stupidity. Going as far as to give direction for our photoshoot and offering to be our photographer.

Having all but forgotten that we had put in a request with the DJ prior to embarking on these bathroom escapades, we abandon everything without warning when we hear "our song" come on. Bolting out onto the dance floor, we become two Beyonces "single ladying" our way through the crowd. Making the typical spectacle of ourselves with our sick (embarrassing) dance moves. Miraculously, the man we hijacked in the latrine wasn't put off by this and ended up tagging along for the rest of our "girls night".

Pissing the night away like a Chumbawumba song, I made many trips back to that shady men’s room. On one such a bathroom break, "Johnny boy" came to chaperone. With the sound of a muffled, auto-tuned Rhianna vaguely droning-on in the background, we found love in a hopeless place. By “love” I mean we engaged in animalistic doggy, and “in a hopeless place” in one of the grimy stalls in the deserted men's room. It must not have been long (or good) because I don't remember much of it. Then again I was borderline blackout, and this was over a decade ago. I do vaguely recall my bestie who we had abandoned being oblivious to our absence. But then again she was usually clueless. The rest of the night is hazy, probably embarrassing and irrelevant to the rest of the story, so let’s move on.

Unbeknownst to drunk me, the stall stalker had taken my number. Sober me was surprised to hear from him, as I imagined he would always remain a mystifying stranger I fucked in bathroom of a sketchy dive bar. In hindsight, I wish he had. Realizing a "one night stand" was atypical behavior for both of us, we decided to go out a few times and see where it went. I recall him winning me over by sending a very creative and romantic list of all the dates he wanted to take me on. Despite this ability to come up with the most obscure and exciting things to do, he was also someone I could spend hours doing absolutely nothing with. As he was an RA at UMASS Dartmouth, the college down the street from my place, we often did just that in his dorm room. Never did I think I'd find someone who matched my wit and sense of humor, especially considering where it was I found him.

It's no surprise that it didn't take long before I was completely head over heels for this man. Being clingy and co-dependent as we both were in those days, I became a little concerned when he suddenly dropped off the face of the Earth. Non-stop texting for hours and hanging out almost daily turned into him ghosting me during the blizzard Nemo. For those who don't remember, Nemo was a devastating Nor'easter storm that hit early February 2013. With accredited snowfall of up to 40 inches, many people lost power. I chalked his sudden disappearance up to this, as I myself had lost power for a full 7 days.

Anxiously awaiting to hear from what I thought was my boyfriend, I feared the worst. Imagine my surprise when he resurfaced confessing that he had been snowed in with his ex. Having never even heard him mention her during the countless hours we spent talking about everything under the sun, I was caught off guard. Worst case scenario in my mind was a horrendous, painful death. Not the rekindling of an old flame leaving me out in the cold. If the way to my heart was through laughter, this surely was the way to ones downfall. Maleficent wasn't born evil. Terrible betrayal hardened her once pure heart and twisted her into a creature bent on revenge. In the same fashion, I set out to be crowned an evil queen in my own rite.

Sadness and self-pity eventually gave way to a burning anger. Which I’ve found over the years is inherently more useful when it comes to plotting revenge. Being a novice at seeking retribution, the plan was simple. I was going to hook-up with his best friend to make him jealous, and ruin their friendship. It wasn’t even to be a great sacrifice on my part, because his friend was a far hotter military guy. Putting forth minimal effort, I was successful in charming my target and getting him to go out with me.

Clearly G.I. Joe wasn't a "bros before hoes" type. Within a week, he invited me back to his dorm which was conveniently situated next door to the traitor. It was all coming together. Planning on being very dramatic and downright vocal during this revenge bang, my goal was to win an Oscar for best faked orgasm. Needless to say, I was shocked and a little terrified when my acting skills were not required. This guy was an absolute animal. "Fuck me like you hate me" was an understatement. At one point he even strangled me with my own "wild thing" thong he had violently ripped off. Luckily, Victoria's Secret isn't known for the durability in the fabric they use on their undergarments, lest I be dead. The ligature marks left on my neck were so profound, I was fully expecting Marishka Hargitay to come knocking on my door to investigate a crime that was especially heinous. After that night, the only thing more wrecked than my nether regions were those poor little panties. It would seem it wasn’t just me that had a vendetta against his best friend.

Unsurprisingly, a couple weeks after lover boy got back with his ex things fell apart. Everyone knows that taking back an ex is like trying to jam toothpaste back in the tube after you already squeezed it out. It's messy and never works out. It’s better to just throw the whole thing out and never look back. Predictably so, he of course tried to come crawling back to me. Smug as I was, I explained that I had also moved on. Happily I continued, "haven't you heard all the crazy sex your best friend has been having next door?" Sounding deflated he responded with, "yeah what's that have to do with----" cutting off mid-sentence as the realization hit him. That's right, let it marinate. Basking in the glory, my only wish was that this revelation had been in person instead of on the phone. That way I could have licked the tears I knew to be rolling down his face for satisfying sustenance. Incidentally, Major Mayhem got deployed shortly after we started "seeing each other". Luckily for me, I didn’t have to keep risking my life engaging in disturbing murder sex to keep up the facade to make his fuckboy bestie jealous.

I hadn’t spoken to or even thought of either in years when one hit me up, followed by the other shortly thereafter. Suspicious of the sudden shared urge to go out with me, I asked Corporal Carnage if they still talked. Or if he had ever mentioned me at all. He claimed they were never friends again after that incident. I didn't take either up on their offer, so I'll never truly know if it was just a ploy to get back at me. But, judging by how non-chalant Soldier Strangle was when I admitted I had used him to get back at his friend all those years ago. I highly doubt it. He even went so far as to offer "revenge dick services” anytime the need arose. Adding that losing his friend was not actually a loss.

Apparently just as he had done to me, bathroom boy had ghosted his friends many times. The consensus being he was an all-around narcissistic shitbag who deserved every misfortune that came his way. And I had been more than willing to send some his way.❤️