I Felta Thigh - May 10, 2005
I had houseguests this weekend. My good friend Hot Gymnast and her fiancée, who has requested that I call him El Presidente in my Blog, came to stay with me while El Presidente and his friends raced sailboats on Lake Michigan. Why "El Presidente?" I'm still trying to figure out where that came from. He is neither Spanish nor the president of anything, but I like him, so whatever. Plus, he's having babies with my best friend, so he can request any name he pleases.
Gymnast, El Presidente and their friend who I will refer to as "Mr. Fister" for reasons that will soon be obvious, flew into O'Hare airport at 8pm on Thursday night. I was late to pick them up because of traffic. Generally I am late because of my shortcomings as a navigator/responsible human being, but this time it really wasn't my fault. While stopped behind a truckload of manure on the freeway, Gymnast harassed me via cell about the time I picked her and El Presidente up from a fishing excursion in Florida, failed to recognize them, mistook them for dirty hippies trying to sell me a veggie taco, cursed and drove past them.
Gymnast was my sister's college roommate. I've known her for ten years, and we're very close. I only know El Presidente from the times she brought him to visit BunnySis and I in Florida. From what I can tell, he's a quality guy, very animated. He reminds me of the giant Yellow Lab puppy that tipped over my Redbull at the Dog Park, lapped up the contents of it, and then proceeded to tear the place apart in joy. He's a big, horny ball of sunshine. And something tells me that carries over into his everyday life as well, like "Sweet! There's donuts in the conference room! High five! Score!" or "Whoo whee! The new cleaning lady's got one helluva rack on her!" He must be a joy to work with.
I didn't know anything about this Mr. Fister. BunnySis mentioned that he was "fun," which is code for "I hit it, and liked it." Oh that naughty BunnySis.
When I finally made it to the Arrivals Terminal, my three guests were there, waiting patiently. We hugged and kissed and I was introduced to Mr. Fister, who seemed to be a very nice boy with good manners, boring even. This is why you should never go on first impressions.
Inside the car, Maxie made her rounds. It was very important for her to get love from each newcomer, sit on every lap and give many kisses. This is when we decided to catch up on each other, get the scoop on gossip and such.
Gymnast: "So, how are you?"
Me: "Good. I'm good. How are you?"
Gymnast: "Great."
Me: "That's good."
Gymnast: "How's the job?"
Me: "Good."
Gymnast: [Sigh] "Good. Good..."
Silence.
El Presidente: "Hey Bunny! Tell us all about the time you fisted that girl and made her bleed!"
Mr. Fister: "Wha?..."
Gymnast: "Huh?..."
I was rather shocked. I didn't think El Presidente could access my Blog, it being considered "tasteless" by WebSense and all. But clearly El Presidente is a discerning critic of literature, and will stop at nothing to read quality stories.
I set about explaining the events of the magical fisting night. Mr. Fister, who had been lured out of his shell with lesbian gore, would stop me to ask questions.
Mr. Fister: "So how far in did the hand go?"
Me: "Um, I don't know. I didn't do the fisting, but her hand was almost totally missing."
Then I would get on with the story.
Mr. Fister: "So how many girls have you fucked?"
Me: "I don't know..."
Then I would get on with the story.
Mr. Fister: "This girl tried to put her thumbs up my butt once."
Me: [Wondering if it was BunnySis] "Oh, really?..."
Then I would get on with the story. Sometimes his questions had nothing to do with my fisting story whatsoever. One of them led to him making a horrifying confession.
Mr. Fister: "I've seen my mom's boobies."
Me: "Stop! You're derailing the story, man!"
At my apartment, Maxie was presented with a bag full of gourmet doggie treats and rawhides. She did her tricks for everyone, the sit, the shake with both paws, the spin left, the spin right, the hop and the kiss. Everyone admitted that she was the cutest dog ever. Clearly, she is.
We unpacked and further discussed sex. Mr. Fister seemed curious about my bisexuality, which confused me at first. Then I remembered that he lives in Rochester, and I'm quite sure there is little or no bisexual activity there. If there is, I couldn't find it. And I spent YEARS looking for it. Email me if you know where it's hiding. I'm curious, and I have to go there for Gymnast's shower this summer.
However annoying his interruptions were, Mr. Fister himself was refreshing. Or, at least, his youthful exuberance was. I hadn't heard anyone refer to a penis as a "wang" in ages. Decades, actually. And when he used "snatch" to reference a vagina, I couldn't help but think I was back in a frat house. And not one of those annoying frats for young Republicans and networkers. Oh no. I was rushing "I Felta Thigh," because they had the hottest "snatch" at their parties. I kept expecting to find an unconscious freshman in my bed, topless and ready to be molested. I fully expected to be farted on and pantsed at any moment.
We set out in search of tacos, liquor and breasts. Mr. Fister kept asking questions about the lovely Gigi, who he had done some research on via my web site while we were at the apartment. I write about her frequently, so this is a common inquiry. I may be starting a "Date Gigi, Date Miss Kitty, or Date Both" section of my web site so that I can get a break from their pesky admirers.
I called Gigi to see if she was interested in meeting Mr. Fister. She told me that she was at a bar in the Rush and Division neighborhood, and as Mr. Fister was very excited to meet her, we all agreed to go there.
On the way, we picked up a friend of Mr. Fister's who I've decided to call "Fonzi" because his demeanor is similar to the TV character's. He looks nothing like the real Fonzi, is more Aryan, VERY Aryan like Hitler's dream child.
Gigi wasn't at the bar when we arrived. I called her several times to see where she had run off to, or rather, who she had run off to (she's quite popular), but her phone was dead. Mr. Fister didn't let the blow-off get him down. Gigi hadn't met him yet, and when she did meet him, she would certainly be charmed by his colorful vernacular, and his "man-gina" trick, during which he pokes a finger into the top of his penis to form a makeshift vagina. How can a girl not be moved? She would want to rush "I Felta Thigh" for sure.
We drank a couple rounds of beer and decided our next plan of attack. I went to the bathroom. A strange girl, who looked vaguely familiar, was tying her shirt back together. She asked, "Do you like girls?," and as I am almost always the aggressor, and am almost always shot down by the obviously straight girls I hit on, I was flabbergasted.
Me: "Um. Yes. I have to go now."
Later, while finishing up our beer and talking about music, the bathroom girl knocked into Fonzi, who was standing next to me and must have looked like my date. She gave him a dirty look, and walked out. I was in backwards world. I was ill prepared to be there. Had I my dyke tool belt with me, she and I would have been fast friends. I guess girl-on girl-action is time and site specific.
We piled into a cab and asked the driver where to go next. He recommended "Joe's Bar," and I seconded because it was close to a strip club. Mr. Fister, who had taken the front seat, had his arm around the driver.
Mr. Fister: "What's your name, buddy?"
Driver: "Harish."
Mr. Fister: "I'm gay."
He began to stroke the back of the cabby's head, which made him recoil.
Driver: "No no! No no no, I no lika dee mens."
There was a Cinco de Mayo thing going on at Joe's Bar, which is more a warehouse of bars that comfortably occupies thousands of horny drunks. DePaul girls were everywhere. Mr. Fister and Fonzi set out into the sea of pussy to hook some. Gymnast, El Presidente and I sat down to a booth and discussed the wedding plans. It was cold in the booth, so I put on the flannel shirt Fonzi had discarded. It was old, with holes in the sleeves and it was fun to wear, like a woobie. Plus, I liked how uncomfortable it made women feel when I winked at them. I was a full on bulldyke in that thing.
The boys returned a half hour into their pussy fishing. They were a little depressed by the big ass of the Chicago girl. I love it, but it's not for everyone, especially the out-of-towners. Mr. Fister seemed depressed, so I did what any proud member of "I Felta Thigh" would for their brethren: I went to get Tequila.
Gymnast: "Oh no."
El Presidente: "No!"
Mr. Fister: "No way. I don't do Tequila."
Me: "Come on, you fucking vaginas. Drink!"
Why do I do it? I mean, why? I don't understand. Here is this liquor I've been burned by so many times, and I keep going back. And did I think this time would be any different? Did I think Tequila would suddenly recognize my commitment to it and treat me with respect? That this time was special? God help me, I'm powerless.
This is the part, obviously, where I begin to scream obscenities, slap straight girls on their asses and demand we all go to the strip club next door because Tequila makes me hornier than a half-jacked-off Mountain Lion, and far less intelligent. Gymnast wisely got us all into a cab. We stopped somewhere to let Fonzi out, and later I was called a "dumbass" for not going with him. Just another example of how poorly Tequila treats me: Go home with the hottie, or go home and play with yourself? It's not a difficult decision to make, like Get a million dollars, or get punched in the crotch? On Tequila, I choose the punch in the crotch.
When we got back to my apartment, the circus began. Mr. Fister became enamored with my Rabbit device. He was playing with the controls excitedly, sticking me with it, poking me in places nowhere near my orifices, and later, places very close to my orifices. I would be almost blacked out, and then, whoosh! Rubber in a spot it's not supposed to be.
Me: "Okay, Mr. Fister! Get the Rabbit out of my butt."
Mr. Fister kept on. I was suddenly reminded of something The Producer mentioned to me about anal sex, how she will only let her boyfriend fuck her in the butt if she can fuck him in his. I decided it was a great time to invent a new "I Felta Thigh" initiation ritual.
Me: "Let's put it in your butt."
Mr. Fister: "Your butt?"
Me: "No, not mine. Yours."
Mr. Fister: "No way. Nothing's going in my butt."
Me: "Come on. It'll be fun." [Rips toy from Mr. Fister's grip] "Just let me get some lube." [Goes to dresser to get Astroglide]
Mr. Fister: "No fucking way!"
Mr. Fister tried to get the Rabbit back, but he didn't understand that there's no getting a sex toy away from The Bunny. Nope.
Mr. Fister: " I AM NOT PUTTING THAT THING IN MY ASS!"
Me: "Well, you can't put it in mine, then."
Mr. Fister: "I'm not putting that in my butt."
Me: [Now very interested in breaking Mr. Fister's butt cherry] "I'll suck your dick if I can put it in your butt.
He outright refused. I will have to ask The Producer how this kind of thing is done.
The next morning, I felt like a can of smashed assholes. I decided to never drink Tequila again, a promise that will last until next weekend.
Gymnast, El Presidente and Mr. Fister went to a Cubs game and did various things to prepare for the race. They were gone for the majority of the day. This left me with ample time to do what I normally do: a few graphic design jobs and ten masturbatory sessions. It was during the last session that I discovered a new free porn site featuring clips of large breasted porn stars. This was the discovery of the month. It has significantly increased my quality of life. NSFW.
Later on that night, El Presidente put into action the part of the "I Felta Thigh" initiation involving farting. I've never before, and likely never after, will smell anything so foul. Get some Beano, motherfucker.
I was awakened at 6am to take the boys to their race. I hadn't seen this hour since 1999, the last time I worked in an office setting. This made me hate them.
However, after dropping the boys off at the Yacht club, Gymnast and I went to the airport to pick up the Maid of Dishonor, BunnySis. This made the early hour tolerable, palatable even. We, along with a Sailor's wife and fellow bridesmaid, went to try on dresses. I tried to talk Gymnast into letting me wear a tool belt down the aisle with my bouquet holstered into hammer holder. She didn't like this idea. When I trip and fall during the middle of her wedding, she'll wish she had listened to me.
We left the bridal shop, and headed down town, where we got hammered, ate desserts and went for manicures. I wrecked mine on a heat lamp, had it fixed, and then wrecked it again. I'm not girly. I just need to accept this.
We went back to my apartment, showered and got ready. BunnySis announced, "I'M HORNY! I'M GOING TO GET LAID! I'LL MEET YOU AT THE BAR!" I called Gigi many times to make sure she would be at the party we were going to, and when I did, I made sure to mention Mr. Fister.
Gigi: "Is he tall?"
Me: "Um. No. But you'll like him. Trust me."
Gigi: "Why?"
Me: "He's naughty. And BunnySis gave him two big thumbs up."
Gigi: "Oh. I like that."
Me: "Yes, he did too."
We waited for the boys to finish their post-race meeting, then headed to Jack Sullivan's for an all-you-can-drink.
Gigi: "Your friend is hot."
Score! I am such a good frat brother.
BunnySis was there in her post coital rosiness. She got me a Guinness from the bar, and I spent most of the night walking around and talking to friends I hadn't seen in months. I met a nice guy named Tucker, I repeat, a nice guy named Tucker, who looked kind of like Wyclef Jean, and had funny jokes. We chatted about music, and an ungodly amount of Guinnesses later, I was on the dance floor by the DJ watching the madness.
It might have been 2am, I wasn't really sure, Guinness and all. Everyone was dancing. I sat back and watched BunnySis; God dammit, she can move. It's breathtaking. Also stunning was Hot Gymnast, who had earned her name that evening by means of a gauzy leopard print thingy.
Random couplings were grinding on the dance floor, BunnySis and Sharts, Miss Kitty and Narcissist, Gigi and a hot little Asian girl, Miss Kitty and Mr. Fister, BunnySis and Mr. Fister, Gigi and Mr. Fister, Gigi and the Asian Girl and Mr. Fister.
I kept thinking, close the deal, dumbass. They all want you, just pick one and get on with it. But nothing really happened. It was strange. I kept trying to hook everyone up, but no one wanted to have sex it. What was going on?
I decided to dance with Nice Tucker. This is when "Bombs over Baghdad" came on, and shit hit the fan. Nice Tucker joked that "Drunk white people dancing is God's gift to black people." And just as I was saying, "Yeah, this song is one of those songs you have to keep your cool during. If you don't, you'll lose control," Narcissist hit the floor. I turned and saw him prostrate and shaking to the beat like a Voodoo priest.
El Presidente rushed up and said, "It's time for tits!" A sentiment I totally agreed with. We separated, and headed over to VIP's. Miss Kitty and Gigi went with me, and we never made it there. Gigi disappeared, and Miss Kitty and I ended up going to my apartment. Gymnast, El Presidente and Mr. Fister arrived later, and try as I might to hook up Miss Kitty and Mr. Fister, I couldn't get it done. What was going on?
The next morning, the boys left for another race. Miss Kitty and I were awakened by a call from Gigi at 9am, who was still drunk and had broken some boy's headboard, sexy fister that she is. As I drove Miss Kitty home, I asked, "Why didn't you hook up with Mr. Fister."
Miss Kitty: "Well all the girls wanted to hook up with him."
Me: "Yeah. I know. My sister was trying too."
Miss Kitty: "She was?"
Me: "Yeah, why?"
Miss Kitty: [Laughing] "She's fucking hilarious! She told us all that he had a tiny penis."
Me: "ALL of you?"
Miss Kitty: "Ask Gigi."
Oh that naughty, conniving, butt thumbing, hilarious BunnySis. She has much to learn before she can be initiated into "I Felta Thigh."
Post Script: That morning, BunnySis called to tell me that she had passed out in the Champagne room of VIP's, drinking champagne with a tit on either cheek. She and Sharts added up their credit card receipts, and the total was $700, a hefty sum considering they barely remember being there. I cannot wait to have this woman with me in Chicago. Good times are ahead, people.
Posted by at 12:09 AM
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