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Chasing The Party Girl

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It should come as no surprise that I’m not really rolling in trim over here. I like to think I do alright for myself — given my basic lack of good looks and charm — but I’m certainly not doggy paddling around in the deep end of poon lagoon hanging on to funbags as a flotation device by any means. I’m more standing at a comfortable knee-high level, holding a beer, throwing out a few bait lines and waiting to see if anyone bites. So recently, when I was approached by an above-average looking girl, all I thought about was keeping it together, tucking my half-chub away, and capitalizing on this unusual occurrence.

Now, I had my eye on this little dime for quite some time. First of all, she had a phenomenal sense of humor. A girl who can make me genuinely laugh that I still want to have sex with? Rare, I know. People focus on attractive girls because they’re hot, without any expectations or requirements to laugh along the way. That’s consistently why the funniest girls tend to look like the gargoyles perched atop of Notre Dame. If your body isn’t getting the job done, you need to find another way to be appealing, and contribute to society. Hot girls just spout off about their “fluency in sarcasm” and call it a day, while everyone else needs to speak actual words with some meaning behind them.

In addition to her humor, this girl was straight stacked. She had a perfectly sculpted ass, was naturally blessed in the chest, and had those toned thighs I can’t get enough of. Under normal, or even comfortable circumstances, this wouldn’t even be a question and I wouldn’t be writing this column.

But, as I have come to discover, these are not normal circumstances. You see, this girl is a party girl. And not in a “Let’s get drunk every night this week” type of way, or even in an “I’m skipping class to go to a three-day outdoor music festival” type of way. No, this girl is more of a “Let’s get blasted on cocktails of dangerous narcotics and be emotionally unpredictable for a few weeks” type of chick.

The reason she approached me was to extend an invitation to a dubstep-filled, nearly nude, trance-inducing electronic rave. But, perhaps obviously, this experience was not about enjoying the music. Instead, she sold me on the event by promising me the chance to partake in some products that are typically a little above my pay grade, if you catch my drift.

Now, I have no problem with taking a few additive substances here and there to help enjoy the moment. If you’re going offer me something I can swig, smoke or snort, I’m likely down. But these party girl products that I was offered leave me feeling like I just crossed a line into being “that guy.”

The problem really lies herein: How hard am I willing to go to sacrifice my body, mind, and possibly soul for the opportunity to bone. There’s a zero percent chance that any girl tripping balls that hard will be interested in hooking up with someone who’s not also tripping those same balls. Accepting the invite is essentially a tacit agreement that I’ll get fucked up enough in her eyes to be worthy of a hookup. A house divided against itself cannot stand, and a differentially drugged couple will not bone.

Her blatant disregard for anything resembling physical safety was disturbing. Not only what she was taking, but how she was mixing it, was unsettling. And her description of the comedown left something to be desired. But damn it, was she a looker.

And so I was faced with a modern day dilemma. Do I chase the party girl? Do I follow her down the rabbit hole of drugged euphoria in hopes of hooking up? And most importantly, how crazy is this chick? I feel like I may actually lose my penis in this one, and that terrifies me in a weirdly excited kind of way.

The thing about party girls is that they’re fleeting. They’ll appear in your life for a few wild nights, realize you were just in it for the mind-bending sexual sensations, and move on to find their real pill-popping prince charming. If you think you’re going to be hitting that on the reg, you may as well not even try, because you’ll look like a love-choked loser.

But in the end, I couldn’t quit on that body. Like any sexual explorer, I felt a deep need to know what that experience was like, to plant my flag in beaches unknown, and to tell my future grandkids a wildly inappropriate story about the time Grandpa lost his mind for three days. So I put a strange substance in my mouth, danced like a zombie for a few hours, and got real weird in between the sheets. I got the best of the party girl, and like any good chase, I was left exhausted and short on bodily fluids. Now I’ve been there, done that. I may have lost one head, but certainly gained in the other.

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