Posted By Kyle Ritter on July 30, 2005, 10:07 am

Whiskey and Friend Sex

Gina Jameson and I spent a sappy evening bitching about our respective woes in the sex and romance department. Her tale of woe was a standard break up, mine was a twisted triangle of love, deceit, passion, and murder. Well, except for the love, deceit, passion and murder part. I changed my mind, maybe there was passion and love in there, but what the fuck do I know? There wasn't any deceit or murder, so that makes the story kinda dull.

Once properly lubed with makey make and Jameson's (and by the way, employees of the Horse Brass Pub, I thoroughly encourage you to study my one and only absolute rule about serving me drinks), Gina blurted out the oft quoted line from When Harry Met Sally: Men and women can't be friends, because the sex part always gets in the way.

I started considering this for a moment. Pretend there are 3 girls and 1 guy that always hang out together, get drunk together, and sleep in the same bed. At the surface, it's there is just a platonic appreciation for each other. But wait, there are biological and chemical forces at work here, and the micro social order is already breaking down.

As tragically vomitious as romantic comedies are, this sounds like another treatment being pitched to some cheesedick Hollywood exec, only this time, it's real.

Waking up cold and alone in an attic, shivering for lack of blanket, pillow, and warm body, I began mentally reviewing the nights conversations.. In a sense, I was seeking answers for the unanswerable. As much as I wanted to hop in bed with the two beauties sleeping downstairs, as I had done many, many, many times before, I hopped on a bus headed to the one place that might give me some answers: SE 82nd Ave.

Although it was only 7:00 am, I assumed that there would be some hooker with a real go get'em attitude, peddling her ass to make a buck. I pulled 40 bucks out of the ATM and started walking the street, in search of some form of a reciprocated relationship.

Prositutes are simple. Think about it. You pay $XXX, and you can get a blowjob, get laid, whack off while a hooker stands on a base of tab and pees on a squirrel, or what ever your little peenor desires. Basically, you know what your are getting, it's comfortable and secure, and aside from a few pesky STDs, very little messy aftermath.

Trying taking a girl out that you dig sometime. Sometimes you pay $XXX for drinks, dinner, cab, etc. Maybe you have some stimulating conversation. But there is no guarantee. What it comes down to is that it's a gamble that will punish your wallet, fuck with your head, and lead you full circle back to where you started.

I tell you, I strolled along 82nd, finally found a young ass peddling lass, who alas, ended up being an undercover police decoy. After being cuffed and fined and charged with soliciting a prostitute, they didn't have any room at the jail, so they sent me on my way. I tell you, this weekend, I can't win.

When I got home, I started thinking about the When Harry Met Sally line that Gina quoted last night. Since I did not find any answers in a crack hoe's warm embrace, I turned to Google, which has all the answers. Typing in "Women and men can't be friends...", I was discovered the most scientific, rational explanation I could find: The Ladder Theory.

For one of the few times in my life, I had got my ass beat in this round of the reproductive game. After years and years of careless detached fucking, casually squishing hearts as I stalked the forest in search of my next chew toy, I had been delivered a Kiss of Death, and reduced to nothing but an intellectual whore and a cuddle bitch. Yet, due to the dynamic forces of nature and multiple parties involved in this little romantic comedy of ours, I too had inadvertantly planted a Kiss of Death firmly on the cheek of a perfectly wonderful woman, who according to the ladder theory, was my female intellectual whore.

This whole little twist makes me wonder: Did I actually lose the round, or did it end in stalemate? And at the end of this movie, what will be the denouement? Will everything work out wonderfully with a truly nausiating line like "Well, after 87 minutes of coming forth about caring and sharing and our feelings, can we all agree that we will just be friends and be happy for one another?" In the real world, this line is horseshit and doesn't work, but in our little romantic comedy, is this the inevitable destination?

After digesting all of this information, I began feeling mighty proud about my accomplishments and discoveries for the day. The very conclusive answer that I have come to is that I should return to one night stands and meaningless sex, while eliminating all other forms of female influence on my life.

All in all, a pretty nice day, aside from the fact that my mugshot will now be plastered all over the internet and I'll be labeled desperate fucker willing to pay money to fuck disease addled crack whores. I swear the bitch didn't look like a cop.

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