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Posts Tagged ‘brighton’

NTKOG #118: The kind of giggly sororstitute who sashays into a casual bar on a Monday night and demands orgasms, sex on the beach(es), redheaded sluts and other mega-questionably crafted cocktails.

I am: a pretty serious boozehound. Go ahead. Smell me. Gin and cigars, sir.

I am not: diabetic. Yet. Try to calibrate my boozin’ to keep me thus.

The Scene: Brighton Beer Garden with the lovely brookem, out for some Monday night cocktails. All first-time blogger meets are — it cannot be denied — supremely first-datey. But after a few seconds of “who are you in real life? what do you do?” back-and-forth monologue, we fall into an easy conversation that drips liberally with TMI.

You know the convo. Guys who couldn’t get the condom on, the perils of breaking in virgins, …crampiness. I fill her in on the joys and perils of taking a blowjob class and we sip for a moment in contemplation.

Later, as we finish our third round and begin to move toward the inevitably homeward barstool shift, I turn to her. “So what NTKOG are we doing tonight?” After only a second, she asks, “Well, speaking of blowjobs, are you the kind of girl who would ever — order a blowjob shot?”

My inner classic cocktail snob recoils. Any mission that sparks this much disgust, though — it’s perfect. We wave the bartender over and when she asks what we’re having next I start with bravado: “Can I get a–” then my vocal chords constrict. Goddamnit, TKOG, channel Cancun, sorority socials, reality TV! “Can I get a … blowjob shot?”

The waitress reassures us that 9pm on a Monday is a perfectly fine time to be ordering shots (enabler!) but the bar doesn’t have whipped cream. What’s in a blowjob? she asks a fellow bartender. “Yeah, we don’t have whipped cream,” the woman smiles. “The cream is the best part of a blowjob.” Uh, agreed?

We brainstorm for a few moments about similarly embarrassing cocktail, when the original bartender suggests a slippery nipple. A moue of approval rises from the chorus. After I send the bartender off to slip up some nipples for us, brookem turns to me: “What’s in a slippery nipple, anyway?” No clue, but I have a gut instinct that it’s the same ingredients as a Cocksucking Cowboy.

This drink would be about perfect, dumped into eight ounces of Ghiradelli hot chocolate.

Two nipples, ripe for the slippin'.

Bailey’s. Butterscotch schnapps. My god, do they sell this in Big Gulp size?! I was, in fact, so enthused by the discovery that I immediately had to share it with someone by finally making good on my threat to send a man a drink. One lone man sat across from us in the sea of couples, so I nodded toward him and asked the bartender to send him one.

Brookem and I were all fluttery feminine optimism for the four point five seconds it took us before she noticed the orphaned beer sitting next to said dude. Oh god, what if I’d sent a drink to a guy with a girlfriend? Was I an attempted homewrecker?! The beer’s owner returned from the restroom and — even worse. The worst, in fact. The guy was super mega cute. I mean, picture Vince Vaughn crossed with Conan O’Brien. Now stop picturing him because he’s MINE ALL MINE.

Bartender ignored my frantic flagging to send the drink to the cuter guy and placed the shot in front of the first guy, nodded over toward me. The guy raised his glass to me; I grimaced. Then he tasted the vaguely alcoholic sugarbomb and it was his turn to grimace. Pale waltzing lord, I managed to send a guy a drink gayer than three dudes hanging out by a wishing well in front of his cute friend. Do I win at dating forever or what? Brookem and I finished up our convo and skrinkered out of there right quick, studiedly avoiding eye contacted with our buttered-up comrade.

The Verdict: So embarrassing drinks, it turns out? Exist for a reason. Cute guys? Um, we already know their purpose. ANY MEETING OF THE TWAIN? No, no, oh my god no.

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NTKOG #105: The kind of rule flouting bladder-centric dude who lets an urgency to pee eradicate the societal construct that is separate-gendered restrooms.

I am: a lady.

I am not: sure what y’all other ladies are doing in there that make our lines so much longer than lines for the men’s room. Seriously, girls.

The Scene: Restrooms up and down this fair city for the past month and a half. If there was a line for the ladies’ only, I dashed into the men’s. And, dude? If it’s a single-occupancy restroom (as is the case in so many of the space-starved commercial lots in this pinched city), there is virtually no difference between the rooms. You can use whichever one you want with literally no repercussions. WHY HAVE WE BEEN WAITING IN LINE WHILE PERFECTLY GOOD RESTROOMS SAT OPEN?! We’re like some primitive bladder-masochism tribe that stands around worshipping the blue and white triangular dress idol. What will future cultures think of us. Honestly.

Non-fortress-style men’s rooms, however, were a bit more difficult a prospect. As moxious as I am, I did my utmost to avoid entering one where a guy was peeing at the time, both out of respect for guys’ privacy and because I didn’t want to catch an eyeful of anyone’s junk. (Figurative eyeful, that is. Although, uh, literal too, now that you mention it.)

However, one night, out with the ladies at a bar in Brighton that skews to the youth demographic, I may have had a drink or two too many, and was emboldened to duck into the men’s room. A dude stood in there, poised to decant over the urinal. He locked eyes with me and barked: “What the fuck are you doing here?!”

Ladies, if ever you get in a similar situation — face burning with embarrassment, social reputation on the line — and are already wearing heels and lots of make-up, allow me to give you the five magic words to instantaneously extricate yourself:

“Pre-op. Wanna feel my genitals?”

I’m all class, y’all.

The Verdict: Chalk another one up for “nobody cares what you do, dumbass,” ’cause, truly, nobody seems to care a whit either way which restroom you use. Unless you’re, y’know, watching them pee or whatever. (Please don’t watch other people pee without their consent. Or if you do, please don’t write about it in the comments section.) Although my days of recreational restroom switching are officially past me, if I’m ever at a restaurant with single-stall restrooms and one of them is open, dude, I’m totally using it, regardless of what the little pictogram on the door sign is wearing.

This would have been more of a TMI Thursday if the guy had actually taken me up on the offer to feel my genitals; nonetheless, I submit it for your approval. Go check out Livit, Luvit for more TMI hilarity! And have you entered to win my iPod Nano giveaway yet?!

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NTKOG #94: The kind of tragic/romantic hobo envier who throws caution to the wind — and saves a couple of bucks — by stowing away on the train.

I am: law-abiding; already in possession of a monthly T pass.

I am not: a modern-day hopalong. Or else I would be publishing my memoirs now. Duh.

The Scene: T stop on the B Line in Brighton, near my house. My commute to current temp job consists of a three-stop T ride (which is actually a nice walk, for people with better time management skills than I) followed by a twenty-minute bus ride. Standing at the stop, I tucked my sacred Monthly Link Pass into a Good Vibrations bag in my purse, grabbed a random old stored value card, and prepared to board.

My brilliant scheme was to board from the middle of the car, hold my totally valueless old card up to confuse the driver, then sit pretty for three stops. First snag in the plan: the train huffed up to my face, but the middle doors didn’t budge. I smacked ’em with my purse, but they sat there, resolute, insurmountable. If anything, smacking them only made them angrier.

“Get up to the front!” growled the driver. Shit. I hopped up in front of her and began pantomiming going through my pockets in search of my hidden T Pass.

“The fare is two dollars!” she bellowed. First one pocket, then the other — I contemplated vaudeville-ishly lifting my fedora to check its lining, but I could actually hear the driver expelling hot air through her nose.

“I’m going to let you out right now,” she menaced, reaching for the lever. Just then, the train started chugging forward. She glared at me as though I were the one driving it. “Fine, but you get out at the next stop.”

To add some credibility to the thing, I continued tearing through my personal effects for the length of the ride, then — afraid of getting fined — prepared to exit through the front door after the train pulled up to the next stop.

“Where you going?” she grimaced. I told her I was getting off, just like she’d asked, and the tension washed out of her cheeks. “Get back on the train, honey. Have a good week.”

I was still smiling by the time I got to the bus stop, and my grin only upped its wattage when I saw the driver: a soft-wrinkled old grandma-type who was all but wearing a sequined cat brooch on her uniform. Absolute cake.

I politely waited for the rest of the (paying) customers to take their places on the bus and, while the bus waited through a long stop sign, stood in front of the driver and began my little pantomime.

“Can’t find your pass, hon?” she asked. I nodded with feigned befuddlement, beginning to nudge toward the aisle. She tilted her head up to me and smiled sweetly:

“Then get off my damn bus.”

Miraculously, my T pass managed to appear before she could physically push me to the street.

The Verdict: Oh hell no. Just purchase your dang subway pass. Much easier on your conscience, your heart, and your atrophied high-school acting muscles.

While I wasn’t busy with my fugitive lifestyle this week, I was writing my Wednesday post for Secret Society of List Addicts about things my Roomba does that make me want to drop it in a bathtub. Check it out!

Also: Dudes, thanks for your dozens of awesome comments on low-budget eating on yesterday’s post! I’m looking forward to trying your cheapo recipes — starting with the huge pot of lentil soup I have simmering in my slow-cooker!

And as a thank-you for being awesome dudes: anyone want a 10% Off coupon for Good Vibrations? Good for in-store or online purchase. Nothing too exciting, but they handed it to me last time I was there (as though I could love their store any more!) and I thought someone a bit less stocked-up than I might want it.

If you’re interested in saving 10% on a vibrating cock ring, or if you just want everyone who reads this to know you’re a frugal friggin’ fornicator, go ahead and leave a comment on this entry by noon tomorrow. I’ll throw the comments on random.org, choose a person, and mail out the coupon tomorrow.

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NTKOG #66: The kind of girl whose personal obligations are significantly more pressing than your own, and so who feels quite at home putting her needs before yours.

I am: a bit less than the average amount of busy and important, on balance.

I am not,: for instance, employed. Or, at present, wearing real pants.

Some Context: I read about a study a few years ago, looking at line-cutting as a social phenomenon, and set in a copy store. There were two phases in the study. First, the experimenter would go to a machine with a line and simple ask to cut in front of the people ahead of him. In the second phase, the experimenter would ask to cut ahead of the people in front of him and then say, by explanation: “I need to copy these papers.” Well, I mean, no shit — everyone at Kinko’s needs to copy papers — but, amazingly, although very few people in the first group let him cut, the second group overwhelmingly allowed Mr. “I Need to Copy” on ahead.

Um, did I need to try this or what?! Usually, though, I have kind of a thing about cutting people in line. But I girded up my loins for three encounters:

The Scene:

Encounter the first: Thursday morning, 10:30am, at the local Stop&Shop. There are only two lines open, so I enter the one where a woman is unloading about three kids’ worth of frozen chicken tenders and pre-cut apple slices. I am carrying a box of cereal, a carton of soy milk, and an Archie comic. Clearly vital purchases, right?

I clear my throat (my heart freezing with fear and self-loathing, natch) and ask her: “Excuse me, can I go in front of you? I need to buy these things?”

Weirdly, she not only says yes, but adds, “I’m sorry!” as though it should have occurred to her to let me go ahead of her in the first place! Because clearly someone who is at home in a Green Day hoodie mid-morning on a Tuesday has some PRETTY URGENT BUSINESS TO GET TO. Like that conference call. With Riverdale.

Encounter the Second: It occurred to me that the last woman may have been so accommodating because she was buying so much more than I was, so I pitted myself against a shopper who was buying less than me. Trader Joe’s in Brookline, a Sunday night, I pop in the store and pick up frozen pizza, chocolate Mochi and a carton of milk. Ahead of me in line, a man is purchasing a bottle of Malbec and parmesan crisps (uh, sir — call me). We wait for a few people to ring up, then shortly before the gentleman puts his belongings on the “next-in-line” ledge, I ask: “Can I go in front of you? I need to buy these things?”

This guy, to his credit, looked skeptically at me (wearing highly respectable black trackpants) and my purchases, but maybe the carton of milk won him over, because he sighed audibly, but jerked his elbow to usher me ahead of him in line. The upshot? My rudeness saved me seconds — maybe even a minute — over the course of my busy and important day.

Encounter the Third: Totally weirded out by the success of this ploy, I decided to pit my final experiment against someone closer to my own insolent age. Indian corner store, across the street from my apartment. I am buying a can of organic soup, while a tall, swaggering guy close to my own age picks up a bag of tortilla chips and a Cherry Coke Zero.

“Excuse me,” I ask, “can I go ahead of you? I need to buy this.

“Yeah, I need to buy this too,” he says, positively spearing me with a look of derision. He turns back to the store owner and asks for a pack of Camel Lights, then mutters under his breath, “Crazy bitch.”

The Verdict: Guys! Never in my life have I been quite so glad to be called a crazy bitch! It’s a sign that at least one person in this whole mixed-up world isn’t TOTALLY BONKERS. It really did seem that most people would have been — although not happy — perfectly willing to let me cut in front of them in line, just for having the stones to ask.

I’m going to go ahead and assume that this is because it’s so rare for people to talk to or make requests of strangers that they assume in order for you to actually cross that magical line of interpersonal conduct, your need must be dire. Even when, in cases like mine, it visibly was not.

TOTALLY INSANE! And a really cool thing to experiment with in human psychology, but totally, totally not that kind of girl. There’s no sense in acting more important than you are, in my mind — especially when it leads to potentially inconveniencing others. I felt pretty bad both times I cut in line and wouldn’t do it again. Although it is a great reminder that if you want something from someone, it never hurts to ask!

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NTKOG #46: The kind of overbearing know-it-all who takes it upon herself to get all Dear Abby on any passerby.

I am: an avid, slavering observer in the grand theatre of life, that much is true. But a participant? Not so much.

I am not: even all that great at giving life advice to myself — let alone a hapless stranger.

The Scene: Friday night, walking from my sister’s place to my own. It is 11pm and I am the only sober person under the age of 28 in Brighton. Which is to say. I am the only sober person in Brighton.

I’m walking fast, music blaring through the ubiq earbuds, when I pass a pizza shack, in front of which two bros (really, verging even on brahs) are leaning, both looking cold, one staring intensely at his iPhone. Suddenly, as I am only a few feet away, the non-phone bro jams his hamfist in the other’s face and shouts:

“DUDE, DON’T FUCKING TEXT HER!!”

So. Obviously this is a thing I must pursue. I turn around and de-bud, and non-phone guy immdiately apologizes, then jokes, “Yeah, I was yelling that at you!” Which confuses me further.

TKOG: But wait, what did you say? Did you just tell him not to fucking text her?
Non-Phone Brah: Oh, no, I said: “You fucking better.”
TKOG: Ohhh, I thought you were coaching him through a bad break-up and I was like, yeah, seriously, don’t text her, dude.
NPB: No, I just wanted my jacket back. He better get it back.
TKOG: So there’s like not even a girl involved? I’m disappointed.
NPB: There actually kind of is. I lent him my jacket last night then he hooked up with this chick and she borrowed it and I want my fucking jacket back.
TKOG: You’re a good friend. Okay, so how are you getting the jacket back?
Phone Guy: I’m texting her to go pick it up.
TKOG: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Dude, don’t fucking text her.
PG: Why not?
TKOG: I mean, it sounds like you’re not like seeing each other. You guys friends? Friends of friends?
PG: She works with my cousin. We’ve hooked up like twice.
TKOG: Okay, and are you planning on hooking up with her again?
PG: Eh.
TKOG: Dude. Dude. You cannot just text her at 11 on a Friday night. She’s got plans with her friends and she’s going to end up getting all cute so you can come over and pick up your friggin’ jacket, because she’ll think you want to hook up, but actually you’re just hanging out with this guy all night.
PG: Seriously?
TKOG: Oh, most seriously. Don’t do it tonight. That’s an asshole move. Text her tomorrow morning and pick it up during the day. Like, seriously.
NPB: But what about my fucking jacket?
TKOG: Uh, yeah, your friend should be paying for rounds until you’re drunk enough that you’re not cold.
PG: That’s kind of funny. That might be good advice.

Then the ill-advised jacket lender asked where I was headed, to which I could only think, um, away from these fratty boys and their debauched weekend of jacket swapping. Obvi.

The Verdict: So, regardless of whether the guys followed my advice — or even whether said advice was actually sound? — this was a pretty funny and enjoyable exchange. I mean, obviously context is key. Couple arguing heatedly outside of Planned Parenthood? Yeah, I’ll skip that drama. Pleasant and fairly sober undergrads shouting at their cell phones? Dude, pretty okay way to pass a few minutes.

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