How Far Would YOU Go To Get Laid? A Poem in A Lot of Verses

One of my favorite ladies, Jas, and I were lunching recently. We work together at the same nightclub, and she mentioned a conversation she'd had with a mutual male coworker. I had been the topic of their talk, so naturally as a middle child I was on the edge of my seat to hear the details. Not because I'm attracted to this particular guy or anything like that; more so I just need to know at all times what people say about me. Anyway, he had told her that he believes "every girl should carry themselves like Elena, because she goes out and gets hers, and is real about it. She should be a role model for women". Well, cheers, lovely words, but sadly its only guy friends who say that. It's never men that I date or am interested in who view me in such a positive light. No, when it comes to guys I may be or am involved with, they just call me a slut. But anyway. This coworker had also said that while most women try to cover up their sexuality and just come off as fake, I'm apparently an inspiration because I straight up don't care what people think and am simply myself. I never need to get wasted before blowing a dude, unless he's ugly or sucks as a human being. But in any case, I'm genuinely able to compartmentalize and am a fan getting mine. Yet maybe sometimes, this is to a fault. I do have a tendency to go above and beyond what mere mortals would consider normal in regards to maintaining an active sex life. So maybe to some, I deserve to be judged. But you know what, its hard enough dealing with all the weird crap that inevitably happens in a casual sex lifestyle. Especially when you're as impulsive as I am, and have no regard or concern for consequences. I flip off double-standards because I have enough problems to deal with thanks to all my poor decision making. This story is a perfect example of "weird crap that inevitably happens" when a gal just wants to get her booty call on. Granted, none of it HAD to happen. I could've not gone, and I had se-ver-ral chances to turn around and just GO HOME. But, I'm not Steve Erkel. I'm me. So, I guess this could also be a "How Horny Are You REALLY?" quiz, but I think the title is pretty fitting. Basically, it was a night like almost any other. I was at work at my club job, and after making eyes with an unbelievably hot guy for about 4 hours of my shift, a girl from his group introduced us and we wound up talking for two hours, until closing. And then we made out, etc., and the rest was, well, history. Perhaps not The Iliad but I'm sure Homer would agree an epic nonetheless:


Without further ado,

"How Far Would You Go To Get Laid? A Poem in A Lot of Verses"


Would you bike 150 blocks
At 4:45am
On a Saturday
After a 7 hour club shift
Which you'd done in 5" heels?
Would you rally your energy
To meet some guy
you had just met two hours earlier
Who,
granted,
Was smoking hot
And had been checking you out
during your shift
But was kiiiiind of a douche
throughout the 2 hour conversation you'd had
But!
Was an AMAZING kisser
No
Seriously
AMAZING
And tall (mmmmm)
with great hands
And had no problem telling you
how hot your body was
Nor with hitting the emergency stop button in the elevator
just so he could get
those gorgeous hands
all over you
All
Over

But you have no cell phone
because you're in between plans
and getting your new one tomorrow.
So he gives you his address
And you both promise
to follow through
You, to bike there
Him, to stay conscious

But even if you go
You can't call upon arrival
Or
If the buzzer isn't working
Or
If it's one of those weird ass intercoms
Or
If he falls asleep
because you won't even be there until at least 5:15 a.m., you can't call to wake him up
Or
If you get the address mixed up
Or
If he gave you the wrong address
Or
If you get lost...
You'll still have no phone
And then
You'll be FUCKED

But forget all that.

You brush all that aside and go, and get there easily enough
But then once you arrive
you realize
it's... The Projects.
And you can't find the building
Because none of them have numbers
And as a small white girl
There is no way you're dismounting to peruse around a Projects complex.
Oh
And did I mention
it's the dead of winter?
Soooo, 20 degrees out
Plus wind chill.
Would you even bother to try and figure it out,
or head home?

Okay, so you stay.
Now you're at
the supposed destination,
corner of 97th street & 3rd avenue
But
You can't find the damn building
And your horniness starts to dwindle
As panic sets in
Because you're realizing that your bike ride
Your rallied efforts
might have all been for naught.
You might have to turn around
And bike the two hours back home
Because again,
No phone
No one around to ask
No building numbers
And you're fucking freezing
And hungry
But luckily, don't have to pee.
So, that silver lining
might carry you through

Then lo!
there's a guy walking up 3rd avenue
You ask him where 230 is
He says, "Oh, just stay on 3rd ave
and take it
All the way down"

Hmmm. All the way down? You think,
That seems....
Wrong
I mean,
I definitely remember he said the place was on 97th and 3rd
it has to be around here,
very close to where I am currently standing...

But you trust this stranger's word
And start walking
down 3rd avenue
pushing your insanely heavy bike alongside you
You reach 98th street
but
it just doesn't feel right
You turn back
to re-ask the guy,
(who is now a good 20 feet behind you)
(he's a slow walker, damn)
"Sorry, which way is 230?"
And he says,
"You mean 230th street, right?"

Uhhhhh.

No.

I didn't.

I would not be walking
and pushing my bike
instead of riding it
if I was on 97th street
and needed to be on 230th.

I'd be killing myself.

So you turn around
and head back to 97th.

You are now close to tears
Mostly out of frustration
But also fatigue, because damn girl,
You bike everywhere.
But then
You see two cops
in front of a college dorm
(that apparently exists there)
And you figure,
who better to ask?

They say
what you've been hoping
isn't the reality

That building number 230 is
...dum dum dum...
INSIDE the projects.

But you think,
dude was white
Like, whiiiite,
and rich-looking!
From Westchester!
I'm not racist but
he was not exactly hood-rat mmmkay?

So I ask,
kinda rhetorically,
if they'd advise me to just go home
if it really is in The Projects.

"Well...yeah."

Would you STILL continue
to try and get laid at this point,
or throw in the towel?

If you gave up, you are not me.

But if you're a horny idiot
whose vaginal urges
Cannot be silenced
aka me
Oh yeah you stayed!

Because I had come too damn far at this point.

And I was looking forward to crawling into a warm bed
With a hot guy
And passing the fuck out.

But, gotta get there first.

Okay.

Breathe.

Long story short,
One of the cops offers
to drive alongside you
to check for the building numbers
You cruise down 97th street together, heading east
Him in his car
You on your bike,
legs reaching a point of complete mutiny,
And there it was!
A new building
totally hidden by other construction
that you'd completely miss
if you weren't looking very carefully

You lock up your bike
The cop waits
until you are safely inside
Intercom = normal
Buzzer = working
Apartment number = correct
Boy = still awake, and VERY happy to see you
You = finally indoors, and ready for sex,

Or death.
Not sure.

Still thinking about it.

Finally, in the duplex apartment
its dark, except the kitchen.
Boy tells you to keep quiet
(There's a dog)
(Oh and like 5 people passed out in the living room)
He leads you to the kitchen,
which is not its own room
just at the end of the living room.
So really,
You pretty much just walked about five feet to the left.
He offers you
some sparkling cider crap
that might have been Kombucha
(from the Projects to sipping Kombucha out of wine glasses. Where the fuck am I?)

You converse for a bit
And as he pulls you to him, you make out and he starts to undress you.
He is totally
unable to comprehend
why you have
eighty layers of clothes on
and
why they are all sweaty

BITCH, I JUST BIKED 150 BLOCKS
AND IT'S 20 DEGREES OUT

Ugh.

He continues to question
your layers and your sweaty state
every single time
he removes another article of clothing.
So after the fifth time he asks the same thing,
you give him the same answer
somehow managing to still keep it laugh-y and cute
But on the inside
you're seething
because
Shit's gettin' tired son
Either jizz in the pot or pass out, come on

Speaking of passing out,
You inquire about sleeping arrangements
His answer?
"Oh, I'm not sure yet"

You're not sure yet?

Umm, it's 6:00 in the morning.
If you don't know now, then when?

Because I don't do
this "up in the air, we'll figure it out later" bullshit
when it comes to sleeping.
Call me stuck up, call me high maintenance
but if I'm doing you
the favor of doing you
I expect a goddamn bed.

Not a kitchen floor.

I'm not a 20 year old frat boy.

And you kinda made it seem like this was your apartment

Not the girl's from the group you'd been hanging with

Hmmmm.

Who really invites someone
To come home with them
when it's not their crib
And they are most likely sleeping on a spare patch of rug?

What is this?

A Grimm's fucking fairy tale?

Am I some orphan character, a pauper creation from the brain of Hans Christian Andersen,
That sleeps in the ashes and sells match sticks?

While you may not be those things,

If you are me,

You don't say, "PEACE."

You make out with him.

And then when your final bottom layer is removed
You are too sober
To ignore any longer
that you are in a very well-lit kitchen
And the five people in the darkened audience
aka, the living room
Could wake up at any time
And may in fact already BE awake, or never have fallen asleep,
But it's way too awkward now to reveal that information
to the two morons shamelessly getting busy
in a kitchen.
So, couch person, you stay quiet and still as possible
With your eyes clenched
(Or not, if you're into voyeurism)
And figure, eh, you'll make fun of your friend the next day

Sigh.

So, after voicing your concern of being literally butt-naked
in clear sight of anyone who cared to see
He offers the very classy option
Of adjourning to the bathroom
Which did have the amenities of a washer and dryer
So there was that

Well. Yet another point where you could fold your hand
Get dressed
and get out
So how badly do you want to get laid?

Apparently, badly enough that you're totes ok using a toilet for leverage.
(Dude really was tall.)
You and he are in there
for about an hour
And do the damn thing.
Which was,
all things considered,
Not too terrible
(At least your butt cheeks have warmed up by now)

Then it's over,
and you guys indulge
in some rather charming pillow talk for about half an hour
Him, sitting on the bathtub ledge
You, on the toilet

Somehow, you are now wide-awake.
Maybe some of you would see this
as a terrible thing
an inconvenience
a dread of knowing that all that lies in your immediate future
is a sleepless, uncomfortable few hours pretending you're passed out until you "wake up" to go to brunch looking only slightly better than a hag's bowel movement.
Oh
and you have your contacts in
and no solution is anywhere in this apartment.
(So much for amenities.)

But no. If you're like me, you are amped.
You're wide awake bitch.
You got yours.
And now you get to get outta there.
And so you tell him
that you are going to head home.

He looks disappointed, but really
is more amazed that you're seriously about to bike
all the way back to Brooklyn.
Now.
In the cold.
After already biking to work, then working, then biking to him,
and then fucking for an hour.
Well.
He clearly knows nothing about you.
In an attempt to convince you to stay,
He offers you a chair to sleep in
No, not your own chair
A single armchair
to share WITH HIM
not a loveseat
not a wide seat
a fucking goddamned chair
You mentally slap your forehead
And smile at him, politely declining yet another delightful offer
But
You put his mind at ease
and you tell him "Oh its okay, don't worry, I'll take the train"
and give him something to do
by asking him to check train times.

And then he takes a picture of you in your 800 layers of clothing
which even at 7:32 a.m.,
with makeup long gone,
you still manage to look cute
(That's how Brooklyn do)

So, how far would you go? Maybe the distances I travelled that night are too far for some, yes. Even Homer is probably going "God-dayum!" from beyond the grave. Helen may have been the face that launched 1,000 ships, but I'm the bottle girl that burned 1,000 calories. So if there's ever any doubt, at least you can smile knowing that your still-toned butt will thank you in 30 years.