I donned my jacket and hitched a ride over to Shart's place with my roommate, Pledge. Sharts greeted me and then immediately complained about the time I rang all of his neighbors' doorbells at three am on a Sunday so that I could get to his. I told him he didn't have any right to complain because I was ringing him at three am to bring him pussy. Thankless fucker.

Sharts invited me in. Dreamy Roomate was there, and well, it was awkward. Sharts compounded the awkwardness by informing everyone that his plumbing has been slow ever since Tequila dropped a deuce into it. To change the mood, I decided to look over the naughty notes Tequila had left Dreamy Roomate. They were rather humorous and we all agreed that Tequila has very nice handwriting. Once we could laugh about it everything was fine.

We hopped in a cab and headed over to Lincoln Park. I was suddenly very comfortable and had no need for secrets. I admitted to everyone that I had just learned what a "DP" was that afternoon while searching for porn on the Internet. The cab driver's radio was playing "Turn the Lights Down Low," by Bob Marley. The mixture of Bob's velvety vocals and the boy's heady laughter was intoxicating. The lights outside the cab were indeed, down low. They twinkled into little diamonds that in still frame would look like NOVA shots of stars in distant galaxies. It occurred to me that everyone should always love each other. That the universe is a wondrous place of infinite wisdom and order. It also occurred to me that I had just taken a Vicodin, and that was why I was so fucking high.

We arrived at Kincaids, went inside, wandered around with beers for a few minutes and then grabbed a table in the upstairs poolroom. Pledge hit on a few Trixies. They pretended to be interested long enough to get two Blue Moons from him and then left. God I hate Trixies.

We sat and drank and discussed all order of things with very dialated pupils. People traversed up and down the stairs looking for an empty table to take. That was when we saw her, or rather, her two miraculous orbs beckoning us from under a flimsy tank top. She was wearing pink and jeans that seemed to be Ronco shrink-wrapped to her ass. And the breasts, oh they were so close, yet a world away. I knew she was a Trixie. I knew on any other night I couldn't have her. But tonight was different. I sipped my beer and concocted a plan. In my head there was only, "She will be mine. Oh yes, she will be mine."

My usual way of hitting on women involves grabbing them, asking them if they like girls, and kissing them (in no particular order). This technique works very well for lesbians, and not so well with bi-curious or straight girls. Tucker has tried to help me with my approach. He explains it this way:

Two bulls are standing at the top of a hill. One is very old and one is very young. They are gazing down the hill to a herd full of females. The young bull says, "Let's charge down that hill and fuck a cow." The old bull says, "No. Let's walk down that hill and fuck them all."

Instead of bounding over to her like a ravenous sailor on shore-leave and grabbing her breasts with drool dangling from my chin, I had to be calm. This was the kind of girl I needed to walk up to.

I usually lack the neccessary focus required to complete a mission. But that night was different. I stayed shockingly sober. I flirted casually, and was careful not to gawk at her breasts. I let her monopolize the conversation, and to my surprise it worked. She and her friends joined us in the back room. I continued to play my hard-to-get game. She began flirting with a friend of Sharts that I didn't know but wanted to garrote. Sharts told me that his friend hadn't been laid in a year and needed the action. I am a loyal friend first and foremost, so I backed off. It was painful. I began to drink heavily.

This is the point where the details unravel. There was much beer and tequila, and a whole lot of threatening gestures made in the direction of Sharts' friend while he flirted with my woman. And then it happened.

Her friend whispered something into her ear. They were both staring at me. She smiled, got up, walked over to me like a sexy ravenous sailor on shore-leave and kissed me. Next thing I knew we were fucking in the bathroom. Afterward she asked, "Why didn't you just tell me you liked girls?"

We closed the bar down all kissy-faced in a corner. Or maybe it wasn't a corner. I don't know. I just didn't give a crap about anything but her. She took my number, called ten times in the next two days and then never again.

I feel like a piece of meat. And I like it.

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Update
She mentioned to me in the bathroom that she was a stripper. Later I found her pictures, alias, and bio on a website for Exotic Dancers in Chicago. I suppose if I wanted to see her again I could order her sometime. Tell me you wouldn't have garroted Sharts' friend if he tried to steal this woman away from you.

That's what I thought.