Hatin Ass Bitch ~ Guest Post by Alix

It wouldn’t be Saturday afternoon if I weren’t lying in bed with my cat, having been woken up three hours ago by my hangover, brain swimming in last night’s UV vodka (cake flavor), contemplating masturbating or going outside for a cigarette but honestly too lazy and unmotivated to do either. I told Pilar this was my current state and I’d try to write her a guest post some other time, but she said I should go for it because sometimes hungover writing is awesome, so I am. Pro tip: always at least consider doing what Pilar tells you to do. She is a loyal friend, a powerful ally, and a down-ass bitch.

In considering which of my many Oakland ~sexcapades~ to lovingly detail for this blog, I returned to the virtual scene of my crimes: a TextEdit document buried in the nether reaches of my laptop’s memory that contains a list of all the people I’ve gotten to third base or beyond with, and pictures of the cuter ones. A little weird? Yes. But at least I always have an accurate count of my “number” (even if I don’t remember all of their names), and during dry spells I can look back and congratulate myself on the hotties I have banged. It’s easy to get lost in reverie (or revulsion) while looking back at this list, so I try not to do it too often. I will say that my hotness average has increased hugely since I started respecting myself a little more and stopped going home with the first less-than-hideous lame-ass who bought me a drink at the Ruby Room on any given night.

Well I mean, here’s the thing: I don’t have the most amazing body in Oakland’s grimy-glam party circuit, and I’m way too earnest to seem cool and mysterious. Still, over the last two years, I’ve solidified my personal style and started being comfortable in my own skin—even when I’m in a workout slump or I can’t get my hair to do anything remotely cute. To be honest, most of the people I find really sexy are people who are comfortable with themselves, relatively honest about who they are and what they’re like. When you spend a lot of time at bars and dance parties, you encounter a TON of people who are completely full of shit. Whether they’re lying to themselves or only to other people makes no difference. I hate fakers. Faults are fine; I mean, faults are human, and god forbid I ever meet anyone who’s actually flawless because that’s almost worse. But being dishonest about your faults is pretty weak. You’re an alcoholic? Okay. So’s my grandfather, and he’s all right. You’re still hung up on your ex? Almost all of us have been, at one point or another. You like to sleep around? For christ’s sake, that’s not even a fucking fault! But if it’s, like, against your moral code or whatever, that’s still no excuse to lie to yourself (or to other people—especially sex partners, whose health can be impacted by whom you’ve ~bumped uglies~ with). 

I digress. Point being, ever since I stopped hating myself, I started having way better sex with way hotter people. But I’m going to tell a funny story instead of a really sexy one—if you want erotica, go check out the Harry Potter fanfiction I posted on Livejournal when I was 16. 

Since this happened a few weeks ago, it’s rapidly become one of my favorite anecdotes from my life, ever. I mean, it’s seriously the most ridiculous drama-filled encounter I’ve ever had as an adult. So basically, I was hanging out shooting a video for this Oakland band, a lot of you probably know them if you read Pilar’s blog regularly but I thought I’d leave names out of this because it’s getting posted on the internet—if you know me IRL feel free to ask. smile Anyway, we spend all day drinking whiskey, and then the band orders pizza for everyone. We all decide to take some benzos since our homies are selling them. I pop a klonopin, which I haven’t done recreationally in forever, and I remind myself that I need to remember to get a new prescription. Then someone starts talking about whip-its, and a group of us decide we desperately need to do some. So we make one of our friends drive us to Puff N’ Stuff on Foothill and 40th, but they’re closed. So we decide to stay in East Oakland, where some members of the group live, and a few of us walk to the corner store where I buy a jug of Carlo Rossi and pay for some whipped cream canisters with my EBT. We suck what little nitrous we can get out of the canisters, and then the party kind of dies. So it’s just me and one guy, a guy I’ve been crushing on all summer (although hopefully I didn’t mention that to him, but who knows because benzos). We’re outside smoking a cigarette—Newport menthols, 100s, god, Oakland has given me some nasty habits—drinking the Rossi, and talking about our lives(?) when he starts to tell me I have beautiful feet, sorry if that’s weird. I thank him and say no, I used to do foot fetish modeling and it’s totally not weird, I have nice feet. Haha.

I guess at some point I mention that since I don’t have my bike it’d be easier for me to crash there and go home before work in the morning, so he starts to get a couch ready for me to sleep on. I say something like he’s welcome to stay, and we each pop half a xanax and start fooling around. I guess we start taking our clothes off, and honestly my memory gets a little dreamy/hazy around this point until all of a sudden there is something wet dripping down our heads. I’m pretty out of it, and it takes me a second to realize what has happened. But it slowly dawns on me that the girl who is subletting/ sharing(?) this guy’s room has dumped the jug of wine on us. She starts yelling that he’s just doing this to get back at her, and I think at some point it clicks that they used to date, which I’m not sure I had realized before. She says I’m a fat ugly slut with a weird face and goes into the bedroom and starts throwing all his stuff out into the hallway. At first I’m too shocked to do anything but scramble for my underwear and leggings, then I laugh, and then, in my benzo-addled confusion, I just start crying. I vaguely remember asking her in the middle of their little domestic dispute if it makes her feel better that I’m crying and covered in my own wine. She says that yes, it does. Pettily, I think that she is a dumb bitch, and ‘fat’ being her go-to insult says way more about her own insecurities than it does about me, given that she’s bigger than I am. (Not that it matters.) The guy, super apologetic, calls me a cab and insists on paying for it. I go home feeling pretty shitty and my brain is all cloudy, but on my walk to work the next morning (having taken another half a klonopin for my nerves) I suddenly start cracking up, thinking about what a weird night it was. I mean, were there hidden cameras somewhere? Was I on a reality TV show? Did this girl understand that the words ‘fat’ and ‘slut’ have all but lost their power to hurt me, ‘ugly’ is in the eye of the beholder, and my ‘weird face’ is part of my charm? 

Questions for the ages. For now, I’m just waiting for the day when I see her out at a party or a show and can laugh in her face. What a fucking idiot.