there was blood everywhere.
my liver, in attempt to escape the prison of my body, had fashioned itself a shiv made from cirrhosis scar tissue and the crystals formed when alcohol mixed with advil. the poor organ wanted out, bad.
luckily, the thought of leaving a comfortable ménage à trois with my kidneys, combined with my sincere begging and pleading, helped convince her to give me another shot.
off to buy some new sheets and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
what a mess.
at least that's what i imagine would have happened if my liver had opposable thumbs.
it all started innocently enough last saturday morning with bottomless mimosas at 11 a.m. it was "girl's weekend" with our visiting friend Nora* from Boston* (*you know who you are).
from pizza and champagne to pedicures and beer, the day was off to a roaring success.
as our male roommates have mentioned many times over the past few weeks, "you women sure know how to talk."
it's true.
Amy, Nora, and i drank, ate, and talked our way across NW DC for eight hours.
around 7 o'clock, over beer and oysters at Harry's in Dupont, the talk turned (back) to s-e-x. namely how yours truly isn't getting any.
"well, let's go to a strip club!" Nora says. "it's sexy, it's safe, it's interesting. it's the loophole of monogamy!"
the theory goes: since i am affection-starved and can only hug Amy so many times before she becomes uncomfortable, i should supplement my needs through purchasing.
need a hug? go get a massage.
need a cry? go rent a sad movie.
need an active listener? go see a counselor.
need some attention? get a pedicure or see a hairstylist full of flattery.
so, when it comes to the intimate, strippers are as close to acceptable as i am going to get. or so goes the argument.
(what about the part where i'm not gay? not to worry, these ladies are hot enough that it's not so much about the gender as it is about the gyration. how do they do that? wow.)
off we go on a daylight sojourn to DC's finest full-nude establishment. oh, the decisions we make when we've been out in the sun too long.
as promised, the ladies were gorgeous, but the beer was $7 a bottle, and there are no lap dances in the District. (the girls did enjoy chatting with us instead of the creepy fat guy eating a steak across the room, though).
it was quite an interesting experience. yep, there is some sex on sale at Camelot on M Street, and like Playboy and porn, it can fill a certain void in a person's life when called upon.
but i'm not sure it satisfied my core problem: i miss my husband.
although i understand the commodification of certain types of attention (foot rub? yes, please!), i think i'm going to have to add intimacy to the list of things that money just can't buy.
my liver, in attempt to escape the prison of my body, had fashioned itself a shiv made from cirrhosis scar tissue and the crystals formed when alcohol mixed with advil. the poor organ wanted out, bad.
luckily, the thought of leaving a comfortable ménage à trois with my kidneys, combined with my sincere begging and pleading, helped convince her to give me another shot.
off to buy some new sheets and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
what a mess.
at least that's what i imagine would have happened if my liver had opposable thumbs.
it all started innocently enough last saturday morning with bottomless mimosas at 11 a.m. it was "girl's weekend" with our visiting friend Nora* from Boston* (*you know who you are).
from pizza and champagne to pedicures and beer, the day was off to a roaring success.
as our male roommates have mentioned many times over the past few weeks, "you women sure know how to talk."
it's true.
Amy, Nora, and i drank, ate, and talked our way across NW DC for eight hours.
around 7 o'clock, over beer and oysters at Harry's in Dupont, the talk turned (back) to s-e-x. namely how yours truly isn't getting any.
"well, let's go to a strip club!" Nora says. "it's sexy, it's safe, it's interesting. it's the loophole of monogamy!"
the theory goes: since i am affection-starved and can only hug Amy so many times before she becomes uncomfortable, i should supplement my needs through purchasing.
need a hug? go get a massage.
need a cry? go rent a sad movie.
need an active listener? go see a counselor.
need some attention? get a pedicure or see a hairstylist full of flattery.
so, when it comes to the intimate, strippers are as close to acceptable as i am going to get. or so goes the argument.
(what about the part where i'm not gay? not to worry, these ladies are hot enough that it's not so much about the gender as it is about the gyration. how do they do that? wow.)
off we go on a daylight sojourn to DC's finest full-nude establishment. oh, the decisions we make when we've been out in the sun too long.
as promised, the ladies were gorgeous, but the beer was $7 a bottle, and there are no lap dances in the District. (the girls did enjoy chatting with us instead of the creepy fat guy eating a steak across the room, though).
it was quite an interesting experience. yep, there is some sex on sale at Camelot on M Street, and like Playboy and porn, it can fill a certain void in a person's life when called upon.
but i'm not sure it satisfied my core problem: i miss my husband.
although i understand the commodification of certain types of attention (foot rub? yes, please!), i think i'm going to have to add intimacy to the list of things that money just can't buy.
