March 25, 2018 The Proper 2:30 p.m. drink: “Gold Rush” Topic: Hells Angel Hookup
I was just telling the bartender, a great new chick from the east coast—and you know I love those—that I 99% of my time alone so when I find myself in a party situation, especially one where I’m not driving, I tend to go off the rails. Such was the case on this recent fated evening on March 17th. The night of the Hells Angels 70thAnniversary party in San Bernardino: the birthplace of the Hells Angels. The plan was set in motion months ago. In fact, I made the motel reservations one afternoon while I was buzzed at this very same bar. It’s not my goal to get so nuts when I do, but with the Adderall, the frank, the open bar and prospects pouring huge shots, well, mama got shit-housed.
I reserved two “rooms” at the Wigwam Motel. One hut for my best friendand a tee pee with two beds for me and my plus one (actually, I was his plus one). I wasn’t sure if we’d fool around but either way, I prefer sleeping in my own bed
[Continued writing on March 27, 2018 at the V Room in Long Beach 12:03 p.m. drink: greyhound]
The party was a blast. I drank way too much. And I didn’t eat when everyone else did. I’m not a big buffet person, plus, I wasn’t hungry if you catch my drift. Instead, as Erin just reminded me, I was lying on my date’s Harley while she woofed down a hamburger and short ribs. An HA buddy at the round table scared the ever loving shit out of me by saying, “Sita, you better get off that bike.” My life flashed before me. Then he started giggling. “Fucker! I knew this was ___’s bike. You scared the shit out of me!”. The table erupted. Lots of shenanigans ensued, including Erin and I having drawn out video/Boomerang sessions in the bathrooms (not giving a fuck about the lines).
I barely remember leaving. It’s real fuzzy. The motel was only three miles from the clubhouse. Again, arriving is foggy, but what I recall clearly is puking. A lot. No doubt I stuck my finger down my throat due to the spins. Classic Sita. My poor date had to listen. The bathroom door was decently thick and he wasn’t sober either, but still, those teepee’s are small and the bathroom entry sat between the two double beds. I remember ripping the cheap fake gold necklaces off of my neck because they were in the way of my vomit. I bought them for the party, but whatever. All’s fair in the war on alcohol. I was too fucked up to take them off the regular way. After I had nothing else to bring up, I crawled into the empty bed with just a T-shirt. Truth talk: sometimes when I vomit violently, this liquid pours down my legs from my pussy. It’s not urine, I don’t think, it doesn’t smell like pee, I think it’s that stored crap that spews out when a chick squirts. In a way, I’m happy to get it out. How long has it been there?
Ok. So I’m in the second bed, dying, cold but too lazy and fucked sideways to dig through my shit to find my PJ’s. Then Sid my date comes over. What did he say? Something funny.
“You really party ‘till you puke.”
“I’m world class.”
We laughed. He cuddled up. I gave him guff. This cuddling turned into a seriously hilarious middle-aged, no kissing, no moister, dick not fully hard hookup. My period had semi started that day so I wouldn’t let him go down on me. Not to mention what had just happened down there not but ten minutes earlier. I may have sink washed. May have. The no kissing was for obviously reasons. The good news is, we were laughing our asses off. I don’t remember what the fuck we were talking about—maybe he does—but thank god he wasn’t taking it seriously. I don’t think he even made it inside me. We were on our sides. My head was pounding and my skin was like felt.
“Get on top” he said.
“No fucking way” I said while cracking up.
He laughed and said, “We’re both lazy.”
He got on top for about thirty seconds. My body wasn’t having any of it—my pussy was closed for business. I must have said as much because the next thing I remember is him lying on his back and me facing away again. My hand was on his dong, but my attempt was lackluster. I may have gotten him close at one point but I gave up.
“Honey, I’m gonna have to raincheck this.” He laughed.
I got up and did something in the bathroom. Who knows what. Pee, wash my hands, brush my teeth, I guess. When I came out, I crawled into the bed he was originally in and shut the Sita show down. My head felt like kicking mules. I fell in and out of the worst sleep. The room was freezing in the wee hours. The blankets were barely a thing. I tried to wrestle the old as fuck heater at one point and dug up my pajama bottoms as the early light seeped through the small windows. Still no underwear. That mission would require eyesight and a will to live. Neither of which were available.
I don’t think either of us got any real R.E.M sleep. When it was clear a new day was starting, all I wanted was to be alone. My cramps were coming in with a vengeance, it felt like my uterus was dropping out of my body. Adding insult to this death, I had to go to the bathroom (not the first date kind) and puke again. Such a sexy beast, huh?
I heard him stirring. I peeked over and saw that he was on his phone. Good.
“Morning” he said, sweetly.
“Good morning” I croaked.
“How ya doin’?”
“I’ve been better. I’m having cramps the size of Kansas.”
“Anything I can do?”
“A new body and full lobotomy would help.”
He laughed. He has a great laugh. We had talked about breakfast but no way in fuck was I making that.
“Honey, I’m in no shape to make breakfast…”
“I sort of gathered…I’m texting the others.”
I mumbled something to the effect of ‘sounds good, please get the fuck out of here, pronto’. He got up and dressed on the slow. I’m sure he was hurting, too. He kissed me on the cheek and made his departure. I waited five minutes to make sure he didn’t forget anything and then high-tailed it to the bathroom to do many things. I spent the next two hours toggling between the bathroom and the bed.
I had taken two Motrin for my cramps but thirty minutes later as I was simultaneously barfing into a trashcan and other fun stuff, the acidic liquid pouring from my face was electric blue. I had a moment of panicked contemplation. Was I drugged last night? It took a while for the blue coated period pills to dawn on me. So much for that pain relief. I was not in a good way. Not by a long shot and I had to check out and drive the two plus hour drive home. I was fucked.
My best friend Erin dropped by as they were on their way out. I reiterated the issue with rarely being around other human beings: the steam I blow off turns into a train wreck pretty damn quick. I was hanging on by a thread. She handed over my mini speakers and the bottle of bourbon I had left in her room. I almost upchucked just looking at it. I left it in the room. I managed to call the front desk and ask for a late checkout, but I left before noon anyway. It was going to be a full twenty-four-hours before I felt better and I wanted to be in my own bed. I placed a plastic bag in the passenger seat of my car in case I needed to boot while driving. I didn’t, but only by a cunt hair.