My Drug Dealer There he is, with his gun in his bag and his dick in his pants. But pretty soon his dick won’t be in his pants anymore, and neither will those drug baggies; pretty soon they’ll be in the same place, all up in me. This will either be directly twenty minutes before or twenty minutes after he tells me that his dad just got out of prison. Either, way, it will directly precede him jetting off as soon as we’re done here to wash, rinse and repeat with some other hipster girl who lives a few blocks away. I don’t mind, mostly because I’m high, and also because I like fucking, and also because by the time he leaves I will be thoroughly sick of watching whatever new ratchet hip hop is coming out of Chicago on today’s videos on WSHH. So long as he doesn’t leave his crack stash at my house, it’s all gravy.
Everybody’s Anarchist Friend She’s the one that can always be relied upon to inform you of your current opinion on world politics, gender theory, trans activism, sex workers’ rights and Black Live Matters. She’s like a personal update of what’s en vogue for political opinions, and she will readily and loudly correct you or any other passer by as to what is politically correct and okay to say around other people. Always the first person to text during any sort of protest, or, if there’s no protest or riot happening, also a good person to text so you can find where all the raging gender queer, sex positive warehouse bangers pop off at 3 am.
The DJ Because someone has to love music, so it might as well be him because it looks like the rest of us aren’t loving music hard enough. Or, at least we’re not loving music hard enough to dedicate ourselves to booking DJ gigs, photoshopping a few flyers, and sending a mass text out out 121 to come to a shit bar on Friday night at 10pm to listen to the same songs we’ve been listening for the past three weeks or the past thirteen years so we can pay to get drunk with our friends. He always has an opinion on vinyl, which is usually always changing to be slightly more au courant than the opinion on vinyl you have cultivated after listening to twelve other DJs expound on the subject matter. That’s fine because eventually during one of these sweaty late night DJ sets you will get a free drink that consists of well tequila and an old lime. Worth it.
Yet Another Graff Writer If ‘graff writer’ is the crime that he most heavily identifies with, then, news flash, he’s not a real criminal, but still gets a gold star for trying. As a quintessential fuck boy, your this week’s graff writer will be good for disappointing sex and aimless conversations about pointless art, which is fine because sometimes that’s all we need.
This Weekend’s Bartender Also known as the chick whose moods oscillate between two polar extremes: drunk and grumpy. When not drunk, grumpy is to be expected. When drunk, perhaps she will still be grumpy, but drunk will at least take the edge off of it. This weekend’s bartender will always think that she’s somehow contributing something significant to the local community, but what is a bartender if not a person who didn’t have the chops to sell something as risque as cocaine or a failed stripper who settled for the small bucks in exchange for not getting touched by strange men.
Thots Galore Thots always travel in packs, and mostly it’s because there’s strength in numbers. One thot on her own is not worth a lot, but three or four of them will get them in the door. The combined paucity in character of the thots galore will be compensated for by sheer volume, and if you happen to be at a party, thots galore are required attire for keeping shit lit.
The Drunk Couple You know the ones: this is the couple that thinks that everyone else is jealous of their relationship, but they’re too drunk to notice that everyone is, in fact, extremely irritated by it. You will always find them at the bar together, or, on the off chance that they’re fighting, you’ll find one of them there alone but talking solely about their missing other half as obnoxiously, loudly and selfishly as possible. Perhaps it’s endearing to know that two people who are so readily dedicated to alcohol have also found solace in each other, but it’s also a relief to know that they have found each other to fuck and are no longer a part of the rampant cess/dating pool that seems to infect Oakland so steadily.
The Gay Black Friend, Also Known as Brontez. Brontez is, in and of himself, an archetype. He is an archetype that all other gay black friends are based upon, as well as other gay friends, and also some black friends. He’s overarching in his dedication to sluttery, artistry, intoxication and ability to be loud and seen by everyone even in this crowded, dark bar. I’m pretty sure everyone has a Brontez story, and anyone who doesn’t probably isn’t from here or very interesting at all.
Pseudo Artsy Transplant Also known as someone who thinks that street art is cool and listens to music that they discovered on the Internet and not 106.1 KMEL or WSHH. This is the person who was sold the dream of Oakland because of some quippy article on some hipster website, and now this person is here because this is where other people are so why not. Also known as the person who is driving my rent up and driving me out, but that’s fine because I’m going to trash talk and mean mug as hard as I can until the day I leave. Might slash some tires, too, but even if I do no one will be the wiser.