The Good Reverend gives the lowdown on a recent laydown.
Recently, I've been cruising Craig's List and lurking on the "personals"
boards. Things have been really anti-yuppie lately, so I felt compelled to
share my own story.
I used to have a grudge against Marina girls, for all the usual reasons.
Then I had a great encounter with one that changed my life.
She was tripping her brains out on too much X one night at 1015 Folsom. I
knew this when she came over and started petting my velvet top, but she told
me anyway. Normally, I wouldn't go for her type: vanilla, dishwater blonde,
wearing the same black synthetic pants, black top, and short black boots as
90% of the girls on the #30 do every day. But I was drunk, she was ready,
and that was that.
She took me back to her place on Fillmore, and refused to let me leave the
next morning. The sex had been better than I'd expected (who knew?), but
the generic Ikea decor of her place kinda scared me. I was struggling to
get my pants on when she suggested we go to sushi for brunch. (Okay, so I'm
a sucker for good fish.)
At Ace Wasabi's, she couldn't shut up about how much fun the previous night
had been. I wondered how long it had been since she'd had a guy go down on
her. After she paid the bill, she asked if I wanted to do some blow.
You've just got to love non-stop girls.
Her coke was pretty decent and I was suddenly attracted to her again.
Contrary to her morning blabbering, the coke seemed to chill her out just
enough for me to be around. It wasn't long before we were back at her place
with a fresh box of condoms.
Near the end of her eight ball, I began to get concerned about dehydration
and went to get a drink from the fridge. Her roommate was in the kitchen,
peeling an apple. "So you're the one behind all the noise. If it didn't
sound like Jenn was having so much fun, I'd be mad at you for keeping me up
all last night." Before I could respond, Jenn came in and offered me to her
roomie, without so much as asking me if I'd mind.
And so marked the dawn of my existence as a "Marina guy". The girls don't
mind my cyberpunk look, and I don't mind their cookie-cutter clone approach
to life. The sex is plentiful, my room is pretty big, and they do more
drugs than Timothy Leary at Hunter Thompson's 50th birthday party. The best
part is that I get ferried around in a convertible Beemer while coifed white
boys pull up next to us and wonder how a guy like me ever landed a babe like