An Average Night Out
Me, but mainly my tits, are walking down main street again.
Already drunk from trying to feel confident, my feet lead me down the familiar path to the same bars where men in identical striped polos will each take turns hurling pennies at me.
In my tight top, tight skirt, tight skin, and tight shoes I can feel my feet begin to go necrotic. I wonder if I will be able to drunkenly run away from my friends when my ankle bones are the only thing holding me up.
Fashion is pain, pain is glory.
In our gaggle of perfectly preened prey, the girls and I fail the Bechdel test. While we patiently wait for the sign to turn to walk, we catch the attention of each single and married man in a 20 foot radius. They drop their jaws in unison and start salivating at the thought of soft meat on rough hands.
But I am fresh fish just off the market.
So when the nice home grown man in the truck yells at me, I turn my head 360 degrees and get on all fours. I bark and froth at the mouth until he finally realizes I’m a bitch, tucks his tail between his legs and runs the red light.
The girls strut across the street so I dust myself off, and reapply my two faced lip injection lip gloss in dick sucker red.
I check my reflection in the camera of my phone.
Just as I suspected, my makeup covers my entire face.
I chose a simple look for tonight: blowjob eyeliner on blowjob eyes right above my blowjob lips. Not that it would matter anyway, no one can remember the color of my irises or notices that my nose grows and shrinks every time I pretend to be interested in what a man is saying.
By the time I lower my phone we’re already in line and pushing our way to the front.
Not making eye contact, the bouncer determines from the weight of my tits that I am the correct age to enter and I am ushered through the door. He doesn’t notice my purse full of mini bottles and one left over turkey leg I brought from home in case I got hungry.
As we make our way to the bar, the bright lights and tired remixes of early 2000s hits begin to bore tiny holes in my brain where the hive mind may take root.
I begin to gyrate, twist, bend and break to the sounds of inebriated conversations intermingled with We Found Love by Rihanna. Captivated by the sounds of my bones snapping, some poor unsuspecting finance major takes interest and scrabbles his way to me.
I always notice the receding hairline first, the merging eyebrows second, and the rosacea last.
Can I buy you a drink?
Funny, he didn’t ask for my name.
Sure, I like what every white girl likes but with an extra shot please.
Like a dog in heat he pushes through the crowd, periodically stopping to hump someone’s leg or an unsuspecting barstool. As he waits to catch the attention of the bartender, I walk away from the counter and replace myself with a 3d printed latex real feel doll replica.
Now sitting in the corner, I watch as he clamors on about cryptocurrency and market disruptions as vodka cranberries pile up in front of my replacement like a roofie filled hoard of good-time promises.
Once I’m sure he hasn’t noticed the switch, I return to the throbbing mass of skin by the DJ booth. It isn’t long until another finance major finds me.
Can I buy you a drink?
Funny, he didn’t ask for my name.
But instead of replying, I simply unhinge my jaw and like a snake swallow him whole. There is no evidence of my crime other than the sloshing of blood and vodka in my stomach.
Fuck. My skirt is fitting a little too tight now and I’ve lost the attention of other potential suitors. I grab my friend quickly, rush to the bathroom, and throw his bones into the toilet.
Before exiting the stall, the girls and I take turns watching each other molt and cram our excess skin into the brown paper bags in the trash can that no one ever uses for tampons. We reapply our makeup in the graffiti stained mirror, pop our eyeballs back into place, and make sure our skirts are short enough.
Then we’re back to prowling, stalking the predators with our third row of teeth fully extended.
Five more shots
Five more horrible remixes
Five more victims
Five more trips to the toilet
Five more trips back to the bar
Now it’s last call, and the girls and I all have bright red glowing eyes. Not that anyone would notice them beneath the blowjob eyeliner and above the blowjob lips.
Satiated, we make the trip back home and fail the Bechdel test again
And again
And again.
-D.V
