Strippers. ::Patsy proudly stands up and starts a slow clap while nodding vigorously in approval:: After this weekend, I just gotta give it up to strippers who can work a pole. It’s not what you’re thinking; I didn’t go to Score’s and get a killer lap dance this weekend (but there’s always next weekend). However I did do some stripping of my own this weekend. Well, not really, but I did work a pole. Friday night Serena, Blair and I were on the N train headed to Union Square to have drinks with a friend. Recently three strippers have been doing “performance art” by working the poles on the N train. When we found ourselves in an empty subway compartment, Blair channeled the strength of the strippers and starting spinning around the poles at a really impressive rate. As we approached the Manhattan Bridge, I decided to make my dream of spinning around a pole like a stripper while riding the subway over the Manhattan Bridge become a reality. Like most dreams I develop ten minutes before acting on them, it did not end well. Turns out properly spinning on a pole is really fucking hard. You have to have a lot of upper body strength and strong abs. The only time I work my arms is to bring whatever cocktail I’m drinking to my mouth. And the last time I did a crunch was when I laid down and realized my ipod was at the foot of my bed. But, I had a dream to fulfill damnit, so I got some pointers from Serena the stripper (you have to lift yourself up with your upper body, control the release slowly and cross your legs as you spin down) and attacked the pole a few times before going over the Manhattan Bridge. And when I say attacked, I really mean attacked. I sort of just ran and flew myself at the pole, spun once really fast and landed on my ass. Over and over again. Across the Manhattan Bridge. I kid you not, this happened Friday night, it’s Tuesday morning and I am still feeling it. My arms are killing me, my back is killing me and my abs feel like they’re on fire. This proves a few things: 1.) Strippers deserve our respect 2.) Carmen Electra’s “Strippaerobics” might be a late addition to my Christmukkah list and finally 3.) mother fucker I’m out of shape.
If I were to write a self-help book. It would be called How to Make Awkward Work for You. I’m sort of awkward and I am pretty socially inappropriate (for example: actual conversation taken from the subway this morning:
Me: I want to become a high class dominatrix and I’m dead serious.
Serena: Go for it.
Me: I can’t think of anything better than dressing in a hot outfit, whipping some guy with a riding crop and peacing out.
Serena: Oh, so you wouldn’t have sex with them?
Me, screaming: I’M NOT A PROSTITUTE!!!!! ::notices everyone is looking at me::
Serena: Patsy, I am returning your gifts and getting you social graces for Christmas.
However, I kind of make my awkwardness work for me. Friends have told me that my awkwardness is charming and instantly puts people at ease. But being this socially inept and awkward has other bonuses, as I found out Saturday night.
As I said in my last post, when I’m at a party, my standard icebreaker is to ask someone the story of losing their virginity. I cannot recommend this enough. Now you can’t just show up at a party and dive straight into hymen talk. You have to wait until people are nice and toasty and then go for it. Saturday night Serena, Blair and I went to my friend from college’s Politically Correct Holiday Party. (This has nothing to do with anything, but there was this guy there who looked JUST like David Boreanaz (of Buffy, Angel and Bones fame) and it was freaking me out the entire time. I tried to hit on him, and my sexy intro ended up with us making a bet to see who could pee their pants for the longest. We didn’t actually try. But either way, that’s not sexy.) Anyway, at the end of the party I found myself with in a corner with a few people including a drunk and rowdy boy. So, away with my new icebreaker I went. He lost his virginity when he was in 11th grade to a random slutty girl at a party and she got blood all over his shirt. “Wow, you must have a big dick,” I innocently responded. “Yea. You wanna see it?” And I did. I will never pass up the opportunity to see someone’s dick and if that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right. So we went to the bathroom (although I explicitly prefaced this with “You’re a good kid and you went to the University of Maryland so I gotta respect you, but although we are going to the bathroom together, I have to be upfront and tell you that I am not going to blow you, jerk you off, make out with you or let you touch any part of my person.” So in we went. The kid was not lying. He had a massive, massive wang. And that’s in regards to both girth and length. So there I am, standing with a drunk kid, pants and black silk boxers at his ankles, having an honest to God intelligent conversation about condoms, love and the merits of long term relationships. Good kid. Although he did ask if he could “at least lick my tit and give him a tug” (response: punching him slightly above the dick) before we both walked out of the bathroom together looking like those people who just hooked up in the bathroom at that party. I decided the best way to remedy this was to turn red and yell “IT’S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!” over and over again which apparently made me look even more guilty. Wouldn’t it have been easier if I could have just handed them my book How to Make Awkward Work for You to them and ask them to turn to chapter 23?
And to end this sexually charged post, I have to mention something that happened yesterday at work. With the five seconds I had to spare, I went on facebook because I saw that my friend who we shall call "Chuck Bass" had posted something on my wall. By “my friend,” I also mean I’ve never met him, but he’s best friends with Serena from college and I have an odd fascination with him that he doesn’t get creeped out by, which I appreciate. The following is what Chuck posted on my wall:
for some reason, this song just reminds me of you (and by you, I mean my crazy, hypersexualized version of you that I jerk it to every day..umm..just kidding!)
“How sweet of Chuck to think of me!” I thought to myself. So I turned up my computer and clicked the link. Guess what the song is called? Smell Yo Dick. Now the song didn’t play too long before I quickly pressed pause so the bible-thumping editorial assistant corner-caddy from me didn’t get offended by my musical choices yet again. However Anne The Evil Copy Editor was dropping something off in my box (that’s what she said) just in time to see “Smell Yo Dick” in large yellow letters on my computer screen as I panicked to mute it. Now, I haven’t gotten a chance to listen to the full song, but from the title I think I get the gist. Chuck, what in the sweet name of hell makes you think of me when you hear “Smell Yo Dick?” Is it because I frequently send you hand written notes with a single pink rose that says, “My Chuck, I would love to smell yo dick?” If so, THAT WAS METAPHORICAL!
Sha la la!