ANGEL HAZE IS A BAD BITCH.
this right here makes me want to double dutch with razor blades on a hot summer day in the BK.
only this. all day.
“What’s the catch? Where is he?”
I knew something was up when my friend invited me and our other girlfriend to a free dinner downtown this past week. Knowing her, her slave (she’s a dominatrix, remember?) was lurking somewhere getting his rocks off watching us eat. (Which I was okay with, as long as he paid the bill at the end.)
But no catch! He wasn’t even in the restaurant. He was down the street, waiting patiently for his master to let him know that he could come pay the bill. Knowing that she, and her 2 girlfriends were ordering, with reckless abandon, every single thing off the menu.
To me, it felt just like a regular girls night out! After stuffing our faces full of melt in your mouth sushi, we were hankering for a little dessert, so she summoned her slave to deliver us macaroons from the french patisserie across the street. This would be the first time I would see him! It was that same weird feeling as when you meet your friend’s new boyfriend for the first time, and you’ve already discussed what he’s like in bed, his penis size, all his most personal and most secret details… you know already. Like, “Honey… I know what you look like naked and what your moves are already. But nice to meet you. Shall we get a drink and chat about that annoying guy at your office?”
My chest tightened and I held my breath as this white haired man (late 50s maybe?) in a dark blue windbreaker, approached, head down, gaze averted, holding the pink pastry gift box in both hands, like a child offering his report card to his tiger mother. He looked like so many of my friends’ dads.
“Pay the bill loser. Come here.” (SLAP! RIGHT ACROSS THE FACE!)
I’ve never seen anybody slap someone in the face in a nice restaurant like the one we were in before so I was slack jawed and wide eyed.
After he paid the bill, he didn’t say a word to any of us and left. I wondered, “Did anybody else in the restaurant see? What did they think? What did our sweet petite Asian waitress think?” All those thoughts quickly vanished as I bit into the pillowy sweet pistachio macaroon, dusted with gold.
“I could get used to this,” I mused to myself. And you know what? I probably would do this again. Pleasure for me (noms!) + Pleasure for him (paying for girls’ dinners + jerking off later?) Hey — I never said real life was pretty.
Waves — Joey Bada$$
can’t wait for 1999 to drop. so dope.
Holy shit this is a new chapter in my young life. This is almost as momentous as when I got my period for the first time when I was in the 5th grade (early bloomer, yeah, TMI blahblahblah..), and I had to call my friend crying over loss of my youth, because I had to cancel our ice skating play date.
THE NEW CHAPTER: I officially have to start looking at men’s ring fingers. Shit motherfucker, this weekend was a test for me, and also another reminder as to why I am terrified of commitment. Because men are triflin’.
MARRIED GUY #1 - you kissed me. you shamelessly flirted with me. and then I saw the ring on your finger and the photos of your kids, and I Houdini-ed out of there.
MARRIED GUY #2 - we talked for a long time - so engaging. This was not shameless flirtation by any means, but I was still bummed to find that ring on your finger and when you said, “MY WIFE…” WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING SITTING IN MY LIVING ROOM AT 1 IN THE MORNING WHEN YOU’RE MARRIED?
DIVORCED GUY - Yeah. You’re divorced. Is this supposed to be some sort of consolation prize, Universe?
THIS GUY IS THE WORST