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California Girls
Not overrated...at least when drunk...A few people—actually only one person—asked me why I had to leave New York City in the previous entry. I was done with school for the year…was I perhaps flying to Japan again? Or visiting Montreal? Or traveling to some shithole like Pittsburgh/Texas?
No, no and no.
I packed my bags and moved to California.
Though I love ripping on the West Coast (or anywhere that isn’t called New York), I, like every person below thirty, have a slight infatuation with California. Ask any American where they want to live and the smart ones will list New York City first and somewhere in California second. The retarded ones will mention some random place like Charlotte, North Carolina because of the “rustic, small town, Southern feel but still has a big city vibe”, but while they’re carpooling to the one “rustic, small-town, Southern feel” club their shit city has, their one friend who managed to get out is fucking models in a penthouse suite in Midtown Manhattan or Hollywood Hills.
I’ve lived in New York City for 18 years of my life, so the obsession with it isn’t paramount. I can actually take a step back and sanely
Kentucky and I
A bad combo... consider my financial situation, while John “rustic, small-town, Southern feel” Smith thinks he’s getting a loft on Central West Park West with 6 other friends who all don’t work and bang Jennifer Aniston in the process (citation: Friends).
Though I can rationally work out my situation when it comes to New York City—working my ass off to rent a studio in Brooklyn inhabited by 6 cockroaches and naming my right hand Jenny Angst-inton—my view of California is just like any one else’s on the East Coast. I’ll be swimming in money, immediately become Snoop Dogg’s “nephew”, drive a ‘64 Impala on hydraulics with the top down, do coke with rock ‘n’ roll stars and stuff Katy Perry’s mouth as she sings the hook to that annoying California Girls song.
The problem is…my life is not far off.
True, I’m in NoCal so there are no celebrities I can do coke with. True, I can’t drive so there is no gleaming Low-Low waiting in my garage. And also true Katy Perry has no interest in skinny Asian boys who make her look fat by comparison.
But…I am swimming in money.
I moved to California because I
2 nights worth of Alcohol
Scotch, Gin, Bourbon, Tequila have an internship here during the summer, and I’m taking masters’ courses here in the fall. And my internship pays a fuckload. Note though this is relative. As a student who makes negative 6 figures, any sort of income is a huge raise. Imagine not working and sitting on your ass and trying to raise 5 kids with change dug out of the sofa and then the government miraculously hands you a check every month…same feeling.
You gotta buy rims, motherfucker.
Apparently, my three friends here thought likewise. Two of them I’ve mentioned before (Vams and Missile). The other is also from my program and we’ll deem him Kentucky.
Kentucky is aforementioned John “rustic, small-town, Southern” Smith. From shit-nowhere Kentucky (or rather, some suburb of some city in Kentucky that is obviously important for something no one can remember), he was amazed at Pittsburgh. Lights! Buildings! People! But I guess alcohol is the common denominator and many times me, Vams and Kentucky found ourselves in crazy trouble throughout Pittsburgh.
And now we were on the West Coast with money.
I don’t need an excuse to drink, but I do need one to drink
stupid amounts. And I had one.
You see, I was in love. And my girlfriend had ripped it from me. I needed to forget it by throwing myself into a whirlwind of binge drinking and fucking randoms…Or if history is any indicator (and it usually is quite a good one), just binge drinking.
I enjoy reliving my past relationship as much as I enjoy lathering Extra Strength Bengay on my balls, so I needed to drink stupid amounts on the weekends, and then live in a catatonic, hungover state throughout the rest of the week to forget everything.
But San Jose (the small city I live in), though interesting, is not the best place to drink stupid amounts. That’s because everyone here is stupid, drinks stupid amounts and are ghetto as fuck. I’ve already witnessed 5 fights in 3 weeks and almost got into a huge brawl when me, Kentucky, Vams and Missile faced off against a gang of Mexicans. Not the best place for retarded drunk small Asian boys to go crazy.
So one weekend, me and Kentucky piled into his car and peeled off up Route 101 to San Francisco.
We
arrived ten pm, checked into a motel, downed half a fifth of whiskey and poured the other fifth into a Coca-Cola bottle for the road.
After spending twenty minutes asking random guys on the streets for good bars, we realized we were smack dab in the gay district.
Already ¾ into the fifth, I started screaming shit about faggots in the streets, and Kentucky quickly ushered me into a cab as we sought to find some straight bars/clubs.
We ended up in some nightlife district and headed to a bar. We ordered a beer apiece (while taking furtive sips of the Coke bottle) and started talking to a random guy. Why? Cuz he was with three girls and one of them was eyeing Kentucky.
After ten minutes or so, it was apparent nothing would happen. The two other girls were linebacker size, and though I am a good wingman, trying to keep one guy and two Oprah-sized walruses in check is taxing for anyone. Kentucky gave up and we started talking to the guy, who happened to be a funny Dutchman.
He kept going on about the greatness of the Dutch and how Robben was God and Van Persie was God and Sneijder was God and I kept pointing to his cross and informing him that he was a monotheist and that Japan was going to shit on his team next week.
However, there is a limit to how much I can make fun of the Dutch. Though I have some experience in this field due to my friendship with KVP, once wooden shoes, dykes, looming Katrina-esque levees disasters and ING being close to bankruptcy are covered, there isn’t much to go off on.
To do something, I decided to head to the bathroom.
It was one of those male/female bathrooms, and I waited for whoever was inside to finish. I was shortly joined by an Asian girl.
“Yo, do you know anywhere popping tonight? I’m new to SF.”
She seemed startled I had asked her a question. Or maybe I was talking really loud. I was drunk. I don’t really remember.
“Um…Not sure…”
I wasn’t even paying attention to her response because she was wearing a low-cut V-neck and I was staring at the only C-cup known to slanty-kind.
I pointed to her cleavage and almost said “Nice rack!” but caught myself in time. “Nice ra—neckace!”
She looked down at her necklace (more peeks for me!) and then looked up (quickly focus on her eyes!). “Thanks!”
“Can I have it?”
She raised an eyebrow at my ludicrous question. “No…”
“What if I kiss you for it?”
She was taken aback, but she must’ve been as drunk as I was because she smiled and nodded.
I pushed her against the wall, lifted her face and slammed my lips against her. She shot her tongue into my mouth and through my beer/whiskey breath I could definitely taste her performance-enhancing tequila in this game of tonsil hockey.
We briefly stopped as the bathroom door opened to a shocked guy. He quickly pushed by, but not before shaking his head in mirth.
She placed a finger on my chest. “Nice kissing. You want the necklace?”
I looked down at the necklace, framed by her cleavage.
I lightly grabbed the necklace, pulling her towards me.
I kicked the door open and slammed the two of us into the bathroom wall.
“Fuck yo’ necklace.”
We were making out hard and I finally pushed each other apart so we didn’t die from asphyxiation. I petted the top of her hair. She smiled. I smiled, and then I pushed down with the full might of my slingshot arms (Drunken Gen takes control).
Her knees buckled, then snapped into the tiles and her face screeched into a grimace from the pain. She rubbed her knee…and then made the mistake of looking up. Predatory instinct took over as she remembered a similar situation in her life. I’m on my knees. He’s standing. After giving up a single/double. She instantly focused.
Unbuckle, unzip, pull down pants, pull down boxers and her face lunged forward.
One of the ways I’ve managed to stay alive, unarrested and unmangled after years of retardation are my amazing assessment skills. A girl in this situation would throw her face forward for only one of two reasons. She was going to throw up. Or she was really impressed by my thimble-sized Asian cock and wanted to inhale it.
Considering the only people happy to see my Tylenol-sized Asian cock are virgins, and seeing how quickly she had gotten my member free, her bases had been run through quite a number of times. So she wasn’t frothing at the mouth to have my Chiclet-sized dick nudging the back—err, front—of her throat.
So that means she’s throwing up.
Added to my situation assessment skills are my alarmingly smart reflexes in drunken stupors. These are not mental reflexes, as I hardly ever make the correct decision despite correctly assessing the situation (“Hey, a cop car with the key in the ignition!” “Let’s drive it!”), but physical ones. Throw a punch at me while I’m drunk and I’ll dodge it 90%!o(MISSING)f the time. Throw a song on and I’ll dance to it on beat. But throw me into an Israeli bar and I’ll start zeig heiling.
So while my mind was wondering how good a lubricant bile would be (if it was, I can pull the trigger in the batting cages!) and whether deepthroating was possible while vomiting (I’m trying to push it down while she’s throwing up…it should cancel out!), my feet had quickly swiveled and were racing to the far corner of the bathroom.
Except my assessments and amazing reflexes always forget that one key point. Dodge a punch thrown by a Texan, counter it with a left…
but he’s 6’2”. Fingerbang the naked girl next to you…
but she’s your grandmother. Steal a cop car…but it's a cop car.
In this case, my jeans and boxers were around my ankles.
So instead of sprinting towards freedom and safety like the smart minority, I forgot about the shackles around my feet and I was caught after nary half a step, falling back into it, so I could be abused for two more generations until I became “free” to not vote and not have rights and be a second class citizen until a generation later, fighting for basic rights with protests and marches which actually didn’t do shit for my situation but make it un-PC to be a racist and introduce some marginal affirmative action laws which were put into place for the PC movement but its quite clear no one gives a fuck considering the bursting of the New Orleans levees and the BP oil leak…both of which so aptly described the vomit exploding from her mouth, heading straight at me.
But I’m descendants of ninjas and samurais and Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee and Jet Li are all my cousins. So instead of just letting the projectile vomit fly into my face as I fell, I planted my hand on the floor and threw some freeze/handstand/flip Matrix shit, the lunging head flying past me and half digested dinner splattering behind me.
I crumpled into a heap, smashing my hip into the tiles.
Behind me, I could hear her heaving again.
Well, there goes my first West Coast triple…I struggled up and shrugged. I pulled up my boxers, pulled up my pants, zipped my fly, buckled my pants and checked on her.
She was dry heaving and mumbling spit and snot. She would live. I handed her a roll of toilet paper and patted her on the head.
I unlocked the bathroom and called her friends. They rushed past me and huddled around her, fussing and giving utterly retarded advice (“Just breathe, Jenny.”). I shrugged, walked out, found Kentucky and chugged the rest of my beer.
It wasn’t even 10 yet.
To be continued…
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