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Keeping it TREAL

by | January 14, 2010 | In Editorial, Funny

Shit I think my best drunken sex story took place up by Northwestern.

But before I start, this never happened, I wasn’t there, and if you know anybody who thinks they might have suffered due to this event, just tell them I channeled psychically it all via the Prophet Marvos from the Isle of Lemuria.

Which is true.

Anyway, one of my boy’s had a good friend called Chance who is a master at macking girls. I mean, it’s ridiculous. Whenever I heard tell of a party via Chance, I knew it was a good thing to try and get my ass to, even if it meant an hour and a half on the El or whatever. Why?

Chance got so many broads horny there was hope of catching collateral booty.

Looking back, though, I think Chance didn’t even make it to this one. There was a period he didn’t like coming out if me and a few others were gonna be there, seeing how as we would fill any idle moment between hovering around the keg and looking for booty with stuffing our pockets full of the other kind of booty, doing indoor graffiti (very avant garde), pouring the contents of people’s refrigerators into people’s toasters, stealing more stuff, peeing into the trashcan next to the toilet, etc. We were kind of like… I don’t know… mean fellers I guess really is all you can say. Chance, in spite of his adamantine game, probably found being held responsible for the actions of a herd of urukai in saggy jeans a bit of a cockblock.

So anyway me and like seven of so friends roll up to an apartment complex not far from NU, and full of NU students, somewhere in the middle of south-central Evanston, before it turns into all houses. Students are everywhere looking nice and preppy like NU students do, and here we roll up looking like scumfucks, thinking like scumfucks, already drunk like scumfucks, and basically looking for a rush of either adrenaline or sexual hormones to top the night off.

Excitment addiction in your early twenties makes you do a lot of dumb shit.

We head up the stairs to the first jump off we see sign of and are quickly enthused by its amazingly good ratio of females to males. Though we were generally homophobic enough to do everybody a favor and toss a keg cup of Coors on whatever gay couples decided the dancefloor was a great place to start making out at any given party, the fact that most of the guys there were obviously on what WHPK’s 3-5am jazz guy who switches off with Lionel with the video zine called the “Homosexual Agenda” certainly stood in our favor. Looking back, musta been a drama club party. Girls everywhere, no jocks invited, and a bunch of gay guys uninterested in the ample 18-to-22-year-old vagina.

Somehow, our humble attire betrayed us for the scoundrels we were, and we were within minutes herded together on the porch and asked to leave. We weren’t all that faded yet, and what’re you gonna do, stomp out the flambos who’ve gotten the nerve to ask you to bounce in front of a bunch of girls?

Even goons have standards.

Besides, there was another party elsewhere in the complex.

So we calumped down the stairs in our untied, scuffed-up Timberlands and walked around the building to the next, much bigger jump-off. That boy was packed with all sorts of chums of the metrosexual hairstyling variety, lots of “I am somewhat good at circular objects while I stand inside of a rectangle and also I benchpress, so therefore,

“I am a Tough Guy, please notice my pectorals how theye stretch this polo shirt with a moose logo on the lapel”

jock busters, and of course, the women who love them. Luckily enough, the lights were low, the music loud, and the people many, so we managed to find our ways in relatively unnoticed.

Parties like that are nothing like boring, and my crew was nothing if not a bunch of Merry Fun Makers. After probably getting denied en masse by girls who don’t find ink-stained jeans and hobo-stubble all that attractive, we started turning our minds to other mischief. And drinking more. I don’t remember how exactly shit went down, but the jocks in charge of the party were somehow using these blue walkie talkies, and somehow my boy Mahfuz had ended up with two of them.

In his pockets.

Of course, when a couple of NU dudes started demanding their walkie talkies, he denied that there could possibly be walkie talkies in his pockets.

Pretty soon there were six or seven people standing behind Mahfuz to attest to this fact, and a gathering crowd of bench-pressers to disagree.

I’ve always had a little creep to me, as they say in the Wire, and sneaky fuck that I am (for example, when fights popped off, I never ever ever got in the argument beforehand, and would just walk around quietly to stand behind the enemy, and just start hitting them from there when it started) I thought that it was a g-r-r-eat time to start playing one of my favorite games ever, “how many 750ml bottles can a man awkwardly stuff into his jeans?

Answer: one bottle of champagne, one bottle of Grey Goose, and some other shit I can’t remember what it is, but it had alcohol in it.

No exagerration, I got binge drunk well over 1,000 times in my day, and played this game probably damn near fifty times. Always having free liquor at the crib helped me maintain my, er, habit. And save money for important stuff, like, well, clown, records, and Pockets calzones.

I kinda miss those days when I thought that that shit was the utter pinnacle of living, the point of life in a nutshell, that I and a few other motherfuckers with Mobb Deep in their headphones like

Yo Dunn Prodigy is Talking to ME, I’m the ONE!

are the only ones who know the ledge about life. Shit was very simplicated back then.

So anyway, I return to the argument and inform the fellas that I have ensured our avenue to further drunkenness and we turn polite and allow ourselves to be herded out by the Testerone Power Carb Super Gain 5500 Powder Chug Club. Back in the parking lot, just as tension begins to settle, my boy Mahfuz produces the walkie talkies, gives an awful laugh, and smashes them on the asphalt.

I don’t really remember what happened next, but I know we got chased by a horde and then a very muscular Asian gym rat in a tight grey t-shirt got hit a lot of times, and then we weren’t being chased.

Next thing I know we’re charging up the stairs to the first party and excitedly, I mean grinning like kids who’ve just gotten As on the long division test, excitedly banging on the door.

Some very well-groomed or other male opens the door and frowns.

We smile more.

“Guys, we told you to leave, there’s not enough liquor, this is just a small party for friends. Ugh.”

But look what we’ve got! GREY GOOSE!


My friend starts speaking, in an excetionally polite voice: “nah, for real man, we felt really bad about how we were behaving before. We shouldn’t have come into your party uninvited like that. It was wrong. After we left, we stood outside for awhile, just talking about that, and we realized we should make amends. So we went to the liquor store to buy this bottle to give to you guys. You don’t even have to let us in or anything. It’ just a gift. I hope you have a good night.”

The guy’s eyes almost watered with the humanity of it all. He accepted and then cradled the bottle thoughtfully for a moment, then burst into a smile and threw the door open, “Come ON IN!”

Shit, so next thing I know I produce my bottle of bubbly from one of my voluminous magic pockets and walk in doing my Puff Daddy dance. ‘Twas great. And let me add a digression about the Puff Daddy dance. It was Only Right (quoth Ras Kass, nevermore) that I should thusly waltz into a party, as my first display of this jaunty strut came with me walking similarly ceremoniously out of another one, some years before.

The circumstances were simple. One of my boys came up from Memphis for a visit during the summer and while him and another friend were at the bus stop they met some Mexican U of Chicago grad student who liked them and invited them to a party. Later that night I met up with my boys and we got, not surprisingly, drunk and then rocked as fuck off of this incredibly cheap clown I and another had just bought to flip, not really knowing its quality (we knew it would be bad, but we wanted to know how bad. After I sold my half I never sold again, but when some guy came looking for clown from me months later I was like, “that clown I sold you, it was awful. Admit it it was awful. Why are you even talking to me.” All I heard in reply: “drought”). So yeah, first we end up so high that I’m sitting in my living room in my red Molemen T which Verbal threw into the crowd (it smelled like him, not that I know what Verbal smells like otherwise, only met him (er you, if you’re reading this) once, but I knew what that shirt smelled like till I washed it a few times) at this LUW benefit show with Cache and Braids and some guy who was even kinda famous and where I met Roper, but that’s another digression. But yeah, I rocked that boy for a minute, and nothing like a Molemen shirt to help you to make you some Chicago rapnerd friends, I met V-Funk ’cause of his, as I saw him walking down 60th Street one day in a brown one and I was like, “Ahoy, fellow rapnerd! Do you want to mind-meld for awhile?” “And he was like, “no, you’re weird.”

But we went and got cherry cokes and talked about which was better, City Limits or Ritual, for like an hour, while playing Yahtzee.

Or was it footsies?

Probably both.

Aight, enough name dropping.

But I just want you people to know I’m not a cop.

Like 3rd.

(Sorry for the above, V-Funk, should you ever read it. Hope life is treating you famously, though).

So shit yeah, I only brought up the fucking red shirt because I have a photo from that night of me in it pulled halfway up my face on ninja mode trying to run away from my shitty drunk high as well as my screaming female half-Japanese half-white Confederate (seriously) crazy roommate who chose it as the night to tell me how much she hated my sense of humor, which was basically, I tell her a lie only a gullible retard would believe, she believes it, then I laugh for awhile.

Probably I was a shitty roommate. I vomited a lot in the toilet that summer.

So yeah, my boy from Memphis shows up and we go off to the Mexican grad student’s party. We show up, and it’s like 20 people. One or two women (including the girl my friends me) and a bunch of guys, all Latin American, all U of C grad students.

The girl looked very surprised that my friends actually showed up at all, and even more surprised that their numbers had grown. And probably worried about how hard of a time we were having keeping our eyes open and standing straight up.

In a bizarre twist, all of the grad students end up sitting in a massive circle on the floor talking about something Very Important to the Whole Wide World, while me and my boys stand in the kitchen. Memory fails me as to what very unimportant thing we were talking about exactly was, but let’s imagine that we were debating, which was better, City Limits or Ritual.

At some point I look into the living room at this huge circle of people in their mid-to-late-twenties and early-thirties and decide that the solution to the ennui they’re clearly suffering from lies with me.

So I just walk up to the edge of the circle, find the girl from the busstop, and sit behind her.

Then I open my legs, put them around her, and just scoot forward until I’m completely All Up On Her Shit

, as they say, like spooning sitting up, and feeling on her thighs.

No no, don’t mind me, my smile say, I shan’t dare to interrupt your conversation. I just wish to sit her and have a wee listen, a fly on the wall, don’t you see, continue continue. Just pretend I’m not here.

I was actually a little scared to be honest, ’cause there were so many men in guayaveras greater than me in both age and stature, but I think they were far more terrified by my audacity than anything.

My Audacity… Of Hope.

Which reminds me of how I got evicted from Barack Obama’s condominium complex in Hyde Park, but we can talk about that another time.

I notice, at hand, a bottle of Jose Cuervo 30 years or whatever the fuck it’s called, and pick it up admiringly as a chorus of accents starts asking me, literally beseaching me, to just leave.

I look at them, dewey-eyed and graceful, a glimmering lip pouty as a puppy dog, verily sniffing, “well, if I go, c-c-, c-c, c-can I have… this?”

“Yes yes yes, you can have the tequila, please just go, just go, okay!”

And I leap to my feet, and before you know it my Puffy Daddy exit dance is born and immortalized amongst my small band of rascals.

But let us fastforward a few years, back to NU, where I am similarly bouncing my way into the Drama Club Party.

First thing I noticed is four girls standing facing each other, fucking enchanted, I mean gotdamn mesmerized by my Audacious, Presidential presence. My confidence on ten (hell, my confidence was Keeping It 100 that day, gotdamn it, and let us all Keep It 100 for the duration of this meeting, mmm, nnkay?), I strutted up to them, announced (as this was not really a question),


and then popped the cork victoriously, spewing a metaphorical stream of white foam all over the fair maidens’ shoes.

Cups were fetched, friends (of mine) were ignored, greetings were exchanged, and labia were moistened.

Mine, especially.

Soon it was clear I could get the illest broad of the Broady Bunch so I focused my Lazer Mack Beam on her facial clitoris reflexology point (by my reflexology chart if you don’t believe me just $9.99, and then turn to rue on the very day when you find out I am making this bullshit up and you get in trouble for Lazer-eying too many bitches) and she swooned.


The party didn’t last much longer and we actually made a peaceful and harmonious exit that would have made the Great Helmsman Mao Zedong himself smile a socialist smile (he brushes we Darlie, I heard don’tchaknow). Outside, my boys all figured out how the fuck they were getting back to various waystations on the South Side while I sad on the side of an elevated flowerbed cooing into the ear of the girl, drinking out of the third, not-to-be-name-cause-I-already-said-already-I-forgot-what-it-was bottle, and envisioning my passionate love make I would soon give her.

Unfortunately, her friend was nearby.

Fortunately, so was one of mine, Mahfuz in fact, and he agreed to come with us to an afterparty at their house. Everybody else bounced and somehow next thing I remember (teleportation, perhaps? If only V-Funk would have been willing to mind meld with me, I would know these things) I’m in the kitchen of a house rented by all these students, making out with the chick.

As Mahfuz said the next day, she was beautiful. And she was. Half-white, half-black, from Texas, she had a great face, cute freckles, and a nice smile.

Her friend was the spitting image of Ruff Ruff McGruff the Crime Dog, and she wanted to kiss.

With old girl on my lap, one of my last memories from this scene is looking into Mahfuz’s terrified and yet kind of happy eyes as he was pushed up against the oven with McGruff’s sloppy tongue in his mouth, taking one for the team like no man has done before or since.

Another teleportation later and I’m now in old girl’s apartment (I keep wanting to type her name, but must not) pulling her sweaty panties off and oggling her naked body.

Not only was she possessed of a beautiful face, but also many skills.

Such as…

Dressing so as to hide a very large, round, rotund, swollen, possibly baby-containing belly.

Oh, and lots of pubic hair, but that’s usually a surprise anywhere north of the Tropics where women are not legally forced by the Bikini Mullah to wear bikinis at all times.

The Audacity of Hope of the Bikini Mullah.

We must elect him next time.


a big belly can be quickly overlooked, especially when you’re a guy who lost his virginity to an obese chick

because he used to hold out waiting for love, then decided that was stupid and virginity was stretching on a little bit longer than he’d expected, so then said, “fuck it, I’m getting it over with” one night while getting a handjob from a largesse on the stairway in during an apartment party, and took it the next step.

Not that I am that kind of guy, but since you might be, I just wanted to add that paragraph so you’d understand better, cause you know like communication is full of many barriers and that’s why there’s war and shit, which there wouldn’t be, if’n we only had the Bikini Mullah to rule us. Gently, ever so gentle, that Bikini Mullah. What a guy.


So I stick it in, push her legs up, and get going and the sex is pretty good, no complaints, but damn if we’re not drunk to a possibly-unhealthy degree and neither of us has the wits to do much more than rut, and it’s not even all that fun ’cause the room’s fucking spinning, and next thing I know she suddenly runs dry as a Dry Gulch (to be said in a hobo accent).

I asked her what was wrong, she replied she didn’t know (I’ve heard this can be a symptom of being mad mad drunk, I guess), but fuck it, I’m rezourceful, so

I hock a loogee, spit it into my palm, and then put it where the sun don’t shine.

Zippo, we’re back at it.

I sort of close my eyes and try to enjoy the centrifuge and next thing I know I look down and this broad is damn near snoring. Passed the fuck out.

I try to wake her up a bit, but nothing. Nada. Not a think.

Feeling sorta like a necrophiliac or some shit, I pull out and stand there disturbed, wondering if maybe she’s dying from alcohol poisoning or some shit.

I mean, I’m not Big Brock McCock or anything, but I like to think I am at least noticed, even a little bit, when I’m in there, and I’m pretty sure if I was getting pounded I’d motherfucking notice and have at least a leeeeeettle bit of trouble sleeping, but she was lights the fuck out.

Confident she wasn’t dying, I threw on my clothes, grabbed my shit, and walked out to the Purple Line. I figured it’d be going soon enough.

A few blocks away I make a terrible, awful, no good, very bad realization.

My beloved grey with red cursive lettering Ecko hoodie (back when they made em simple and not fucking catatonic ridiculous designs with too much fake graffiti and comic books and shit) was somewhere in her housey house.


I actually had her number by then, but surprise surprise, nobody picked up.

I retraced my steps and hit the buzzer. For a long time.

Not a fucking peep upstairs.

As any scumbag knows, many Chicago (and Evanston, by extension) apartment building doors can be kicked easily open when you need in. For a long time, I had a kick instead of a key to one of my buildings.

This was not, sadly, such a building, and I stood there kicking the shit out of the door till it finally swung open with a Frankenstein creak.

Happily ho, nobody had stirred since my egress and my ingress to her apartment was unimpeded. The door was still ajar, just as I had politely left it. In her room, the lucky lady was snoring peacefully, and there was my Ecko hoodie draped on the chair.

The only real love I knew at the time, my hoodie.

I threw her out just a few months ago, actually. I realized a sloppy, everything-stained hoodie from 2002 being worn by a 26-year-old man in 2010 is a no-go, even in China. Maybe especially in China. I’m not sure.

Anyway, I was all good to go when I noticed something. I was fucking hungry. Thank goodness gracious, the woman had thought ahead just in case of an eventuality of this very sort: she had a KITCHEN, with my name on it!

I went in. Freezer? Check. Door? Check. Opens? Check. Food? Check. Lean Cuisine? Chickity-chickity-check-yoself!

I stuck one of them boys in the microwave, tucked my nappy into the neck of my hoodie, and sat to a delicious meal.

Ten minutes later I was again ready to go, but damn… hunger not satisfied. FUCK.

Wait a second.

More Lean Cuisine? Yes! So tasty, so nutrimental. Godoafgaoghagh. Num. I was halfway through putting that boy down when suddenly a very disturbed looking face pokes into the kitchen. Some girl.

“Um, who the hell are you?”

“I know your roommate.”

“Those are my Lean Cuisines.”



“Well, they taste really good. Want me to make you one?”

“Whatever. No.”

She went to the fridge, grabbed some shit, and made herself scarce.

Finally it was time to leave, but fortunately I remembered I still had chores left to do. Ah yes, the good-old purse search. Money? Nah. BMW clicker and key? That’ll do. I checked the time… Hour or two till the Purple Line runs. Fuck. Can I get home a little tiny bit more quickly, perhaps, in a 325? Hmm, I guess.

I had been stymied in my first drunken attempt to steal a BMW years ago (I was in a garage in Glencoe in the car. It had a key. I opened the automatic door and started the car. Oh. There was a Range Rover blocking it in. Fucking rich people, able to afford to build walls out of cars to protect their cars, and more walls of cars to protect their inner walls of cars. mean fellers), so this was a good chance for that word we all know the Bikini Mullah loves to hear at Butt Mass: Redemption (peep signs and reflect, pee… Nah, wait, I will not insult Cap D like that. Did I mention that City Limits has Redemption? How can you not looove that joint, dude! Dude!? Are you even listening? Want to underground cypher mind-meld for awhile? Oh, oh yes, oh yes indeed. Oh. I feel you. I fucking feel you man. SAIGON IS SUCH A BEAST!)

Woah, I gotta chill out on the digressions. I am revealing far too much.

The sun not yet arisen and the air a frosty chill against my chapped skin, I proceded to systematically and methodically pace the streets of every nearby block clicking the clicker next to ever BMW in sight. There were a lot of blocks. A lot of BMWs. I mean… a LOT of BMWs. Damn. Somehow, perhaps because my guardian angel was smiling on me that night, I never managed to find the right car. So I did the right thing, tossed the key into a contsruction site (they’ll know what to do with it), and left three consecutive, epic drunken voice mail messages on my boy’s phone. These were perhaps the finest art I ever created, saved for months, but sadly lost. I would be famous today for those messages were they released to the public. Their loss was a shame for the race. TMR.

Well, I’m guessing I slept my way through the various stages of the Purple, Red, and Green and eventually returned to my quotidian existence, happy to forget most of the night, or at least the dry giner part of it. And that was pretty much that, or should have been, until one day I’m on Facebook not long after and I see a message from a not-friend with a familiar name reading, and I kid you not,

“Hi, you might remember me. Please don’t think I usually do stuff like that, because I never have one night stands. I don’t remember. Did we have sex the other night? Did you use a condom?

Oh, and my roommate said you ate her Lean Cuisines.”


Shout-outs to those I hazily believe were in attendace: Fuz, Time Rock, Chance Rock, B-Cuz, Azote, Sam, Caso, Skech, Brian, various other rippity-rapular nicknames, Jay-Z, Bikini Mullah.


One Response »

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