Cayote is the Devil’s Wet Dream

The thing I hate about not blogging for a couple of days is the fact that when you finally get down to it, you don’t know where to starts. Too many things have happened between Thursday night through Sunday morning.

I had been planning to play the good girl and stay home last night. After all, there was a swollen lip to tend (very horrid ulcer that singes when you apply salt to it) numerous essays to write, and as always, a great deal of reading to be done. But Daph was going to be modeling at Cayote, and Will had persuaded me to get my ass down the night before when I was shooting with him, and since I hadn’t seen Daph or Coyote’s resident Teddy (the guy who owns the club) for a great long while, I thought, why the hell not.

I’d called up the G-Spot to get him to make the decision for me because I really hate getting groped by men I don’t know and/or am not attracted to, and not being able to chill out in peace. It didn’t matter if he hadn’t wanted to party and would rather I just drop by his place actually, but apparently his goddess was staying over for the week so there was no way he could have taken me home.

Me, ‘Oh, ah, in that case…’

Him, with numerous pretended sobbing sound effect, ‘You just want to use me! All these women, tugging on my pants, hitting on everything inside them (referring to wallet and gun)… I need to start a masculine movement.’

Me, ‘Damn it, no, it’s not what I meant, but it’s just different! I hate going home after I club and ah…, it’s just different.’ I ended rather lamely.

But he’d said he really did feel like going out, so we went. He got there 10 minutes earlier then I, and had already been hit on by two women whom he had a rather derogatory label for, to which I wish I’d remembered. There must have been about 20 women there that were actually customers, and it’s funny because it just goes to show that women really do only pick (on) the same sort of men. But the concept of Cayote works, despite that, because the women are fairly shared by placing them on the bar-top.

There was some sort of bar-top dancing competition which I unwittingly entered, and won. I don’t quite think I deserved it, the girl before me had been doing splits and things, and the first girl was a hired dancer, and she didn’t count. So while there were really four contestants, and I was girl number four, the men on the floor howled in appreciation for the wrong girl. In their drunkenness and the fact that who won didn’t particular matter to them as long as they kept on behaving like sluts and dry fucking the pole, they won me a bottle of good tequila and a chance to win return tickets to New York in the next round. Which might be good for making prior arrangements to whom I might marry in order to procure a green card for discounted tertiary educa… oops. (So I lied when I said I didn’t give a shit about foreign citizenship. But I swear, that honestly is the only reason. For now anyway.)

There was this guy who kept on hitting on me the whole night and I kept on telling him I was with a friend I was seeing, so please leave me alone. He didn’t get the hint, (even when I was holding the G-Spot’s hand!) and blatantly asked me to be his girlfriend for the month that he was in Singapore. He said something about staying in the Fullerton, and that it was such a nice place I wouldn’t mind being locked up with only one occupation –servicing his pillar of male egotism- for a few weeks.

All that really goes to show how I behave at any party where I’m pumped with sufficient alcohol. Generally very badly, exceedingly slutty, and possibly looking like all I cared for in life was to get laid. Interesting. I would love to astro-project and look at how I was on the bar-top, standing in on the floor. I’d probably feel very embarrassed about my own behaviour, I’m sure. Although someone did compliment me on the fact that I danced like I hadn’t any bones in my body.

There was this girl Will introduced me to on the bar-top. She wasn’t very pretty, but what she lacked in looks, she totally made up in reckless boisterity. She actually ate me through my skirt and raised her leg so high over my head I had to return her the favour. And the only thing I was really dunk on at that point in time had been excitement. She made me shoot two vodkas after that and that was when the G-Spot decisively decided I had to be taken home.

I was sure I behaved like a perfect idiot at some point in time. I actually always do at any party, but it doesn’t matter because everyone else is usually in equally bad taste anyway.

Xoxox