It was Monday night and I was dutifully at the office trying to get through my stack of fan mail. You people probably think that it must be all fun and games reading love letters and gifts from drooling freaks and losers from all over the world: Well, it's not when I'm recovering from my usual four day zapoi. Are you shocked that an activity that would bring pure vanity-filled bliss to any other girl brings me pure pain? Well, I'm not your average girl and it's on Mondays like these I curse god for skewing me too much towards the heterosexual side of the spectrum.
I was looking at mounds of pictures of balls, dicks, sixpacks and headshots and also trying also trying to pick one of the club review requests that came in, when Frank, a lame self-proclaimed entertainment guru, walked through the door with a couple of Stary Melnik beers. As per his usual behavior, Frank started mouthing off about his weekend exploits and drops a name of a club I've never heard before, PROGNOZ POGODI. Supposedly, this is the sickest club in Moscow for "picking up chicks that straddle the point between drunk gopnik girls from deep inside zhopa and completely tappable studentki," to use Frank's exact words.
As we polished off our beers, he forbid me to ever write about it. He wanted time to thoroughly enjoy this dive before flocks of expats overtook it. Big mistake! He should've known better.
Jump cut to five days later: I was going in to pick up on those girly straddlers myself.
I had no problem getting in past the black suited goons, but then the girl who called herself a manager tried to stop me. Ha! She parted with a lowly bow the second I flashed my eXile credentials. Honored at my visit, are you?
The place was real dive. I was there at exactly midnight and there were about thirty wasted girls dancing on a non-existent dance floor next to a tiny bar and a 1980's projection screen.
Frank was in place downing 40 ruble drinks and was so excited to see me that he tripped and fell, breaking a full mug of beer he bought for me. That's the kind of embarrassment that I like. We had a good number of rounds and with the pre-party that my friend Allie threw for my upcoming lesbo pickup, I was completely trashed in no time.
Gotta say, as I write this, I'm pretty pissed. Not at myself, but at the alcohol. It's like the most interesting parts of my club reviews always get booze erased. So with all this build up, I remember almost nothing of what happened next. That sucks, more for me than for you, trust me. How is my writing career going totake off, when I can't commit my rocking experiences to memory, let alone to to paper?
It's sad. When I woke up, I remembered zilch of what Frank told me the next day. Supposedly I started getting freaky with the sluttiest looking group of girls and had the entire club looking on as had my hands down one of the girls' pants, totally feeling up on her breasts. She was wasted too and we got crazier and crazier. Supposedly we were even spilling beer all over our chests and cleaning it off with our tongues! But Frank started getting nervous on my behalf. I was getting out of control. At some point I must have asked this girl to go home with me and she must have said something that upset me, because Frank recalls me yelling at the top of my lungs as I was carried out kicking and screaming out of the club, "What? Me pay to sleep with you, you fucking skank. You bitch. You'd have to pay me to sleep with you!"
Funny? No, it's sad. Why I was so militant? My parents just deposited a nice fat check into my bank account. I would've and should've taken her up on her offer. God damn it! I'd swear I'd never drink again, but that just wouldn't be true, now would it?