Thursday, March 17, 2005

No more pashing

As I sat in the back seat of the car exerting my will to hold down the triple distilled contents of my stomach, the Lebanese food and Mexican Liquer, the gin, the wine, the vodka, the late night club sandwich and the beer and every other evil fucking thing that I had so sassily inserted into myself the night I held my dog eared head out the window as we drove through bright, too bright, Sydney like the Redsetter I sometimes am, drooling at other cars and leaving a saliva trail behind us so that like Hansel and Gretel I, or the Woodsman's daughter or whoever the fuck did it, would be able to find my way gingerly back to the Hotel from whence I came.

And just as I thought I had made it back and solids were okay to think about and maybe, just maybe, I would come through...our beautiful curly haired driver suggested to me that perhaps I was feeling green due to the amount of tongues that had been in my mouth the previous two nights.

That image, that tongue-mouth-fucking-touch me i'm pissed-festy image...was like thinking of running water when you need to pee. I tried, I desperately tried not, tequila, mouths...


About 14 hours earlier as I snorted cocaine off the hotel table and got dressed singing "I'M A MAAAAN, YES I AM, YES I AM..." like a naive fool, everything seemed ok. Actually no it didn't, I completely lie. I was hungover as fuck then too, but it's amazing how quickly you forget that when you have a big line of coke and watch hairy-bopping-man-ass porn while someone sucks your cock. I felt a volcano load better then I assure you. I even happily walked in my boxer shorts up the corridor to retrieve some Ice, winking and smiling at the other guests who desperately tried to appear liberated. Fuck 'em, I was happy and feeling that warmth that only a cocaine-hangover combination can give.

So I went, we went, off to dinner to meet a woman whose mind has been my cerebral viagra for the last few months and there she was and we handed her a book a McSweeny's book and I took my top off after dinner and declared, 'I'M dessert!" and then...and then...

What the fuck do you think happened after that?

Pash party.

Alice, the hotness, would have none of the Pash Party which was a shame but the combined sexuality of her, her and her was almost more than enough to satisfy me. Almost. It wasn't until the Tequila wore off and I came to my senses in a toilet cubicle fucking one of those people while the other two tongue kissed and fingered themselves in front of us that I started to realise that this was no ordinary night. I don't name names, suffice to say I've learnt alot about female bloggers. They turn to the computer for a reason, and it's not "intellectual" stimulation. Trust me, I'm psychic.

So, later that night, after the pashing, after the tequila, after late night back in the room sex and coke and alcohol, I again fast forward my brain without knowing and come to my senses. Except this time, I'm standing in the corridor outside the hotel room AGAIN in a pair of boxer shorts. Dirty ones. In case you were wondering. Except this time, I'm not so happy about it, this time the confident boy has been replaced by a melted face who the fuck am I boy and knocking on the door wakes up everyone in the hotel except the one person who's asleep in there, snoring and dreaming of Australian Idol (probably someone singing Knock Knock Knock on Wood) and after half an hour I realise that she's not going to wake up.



I REALLY need to pee. I need to pee...I need to pee NOW. So I race clutching my cock up and down the corridor but they don't have public toilets in a fucking hotel.

I see a fire escape. Open the door and in my alcoholically challenged state of mong club, I decide that I will run down the stairs to the ground floor where surely they'll have a toilet, a relief hole if you will. So, still clutching my cock, pinching it for dear life as my stream of thought flows only in one direction, I leap, four steps at a time down, down from the 12th Floor until I reach the anonymous door with the G branded on it in a typical Marriott font and I push, push, push but like a one way crush it doesn't respond at all. Just knocks me back, my advances...

It's starting to hurt now.

I race back up the stairs but this time I stop on every floor and BANG BANG BANG on the doors, the Fire Escape door as if a passing guest will hear me and decide to take it upon themselves to open an unopenable door with a strange knocking seeping from behind it, and no-one opens and no-one comes and I'm in a fucking stairwell, in my fucking boxer shorts with my cock in my hand and I'm gripping it so tight my face is probably turning blue until i just can't fucking wait ANYMORE.

So I piss...EVERYWHERE, all over that fucking stairwell and it's one of those Niagra fuckers which makes me think of where they got the title for those blue erection pills from because fuck me, that piss went all fucking night long...

And just as it's finishing and the puddle could be the pool the door opens and I meet the cleaner and she looks me up and down and she looks at the puddle behind me and I've still got scrawled across my chest in texta from the night before Pirates Rock with a skull-flower around my nipple, and what else can I do? I smile. I smile what I think is my devastatingly charming smile but really my face is liquid and my eyes point every compass point and I'm standing in a puddle of piss and I could have a ten foot long cock and coke bottle glasses and I still would not be looking either hot or sophisticated.

But like I always do, I move on and she's quickly forgotten. I walk into the lift in my undies, go down to the ground floor, casually approach reception and am escorted back to the room and let in where I find Sleeping Beauty doing what she does.

Well, it's Mardi Gras right? So we wake up and it's man-ass porn and lesbians eating each other's elbows on a fucking ferrari again.

R-rated porn sucks.

Sydney fucking ruled.

Bye Forever.

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