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The Biggest Success From Blogging


“Hang out with me at my sister’s place in Silver Lake”, Katie insisted over the phone. I wanted to say no, but I really didn’t have anything else to do. Every time I go out with Katie, a major hottie, everyone assumes I’m her boyfriend; or I have to make small talk with some douchey guy trying to pick her up. “Sure” I said, deciding this was better than meeting my guy friends at T.G.I Friday’s and listening to them drone on about their fantasy football draft picks.


She took me to a blog party. Seriously, it was an L.A. party–with a DJ–for some chick named Alexi who gives out dating advice. Katie was a big fan. With just a few people hanging around the center of an outside mall at 9:30, the “party” was the equivalent to a bunch of ninth graders hanging outside a McDonald’s. Alexi was there, the writer. She was cute. I joked with Katie’s sister, telling her that I hoped one day OurThursday would surpass the success of this girl’s blog and she would be attending my party. “Then she’d be all over me.” I explained. Katie’s sister laughed and told me “Writing blogs is never gonna get you laid, Brian!”


We left after ten and went to a bar – a place called Sunset Terrace off the strip that had an indoor smoking section. I immediately eyed a pair of cute blondes standing next to a booth and asked them for a light (I had one in my pocket). “What the fuck do we look like? Girls you can just mooch from?” One reacted, flicking her wrist, indicating for me to “Shoo”. As I began to turn around she grabbed my arm, told me she was kidding, and held up a candle swiped from a nearby table.


The two girls, who I later found out were roommates, were in the middle of a heated debate about their friend Karen. “She’s dating this guy who never comes around, and the one time he did, he just kept to himself. He never made an effort to get to know any of us. . . isn’t that fucked up? the candle thief asked.


“Totally,” I agreed. I gestured to her shorter friend wearing shiny lip gloss. “I mean, hypothetically, if you and I were dating, and this was the first time you introduced me to your friends, I’d spend all my time talking with them trying to make a good impression. You’d hardly see me.” I explained. She smiled, possibly considering the thought of us together. Then the taller one brought up her boyfriend, helping me decide which one to go for–Shiny Lips. Amidst our conversation, I noticed another girl sitting in a booth next to us listening intently. She turned around and chimed in with her opinion, restating the lameness of Karen’s boyfriend. Then her friends all turned around to share the exact same opinion. Now surrounded by a bunch of hot chicks, I suddenly had options.


Just as abruptly as the group conversation started, it ended. No one gave a shit about Karen’s boyfriend anymore, and the girls from the booth turned back around. Then some artsy hipster with sleeve tattoosswooped in on the two blondes. I stood alone, holding my empty drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. I flicked it on the ground (I mean, I found an ashtray and placed it in there), then went into the next room where the bar was. Unknowingly, I’d become somewhat of a celebrity. “Dude, who were all those girls you were talking to? They were hot!” Katie’s douchey guy asked. “Just some chicks” I casually replied. “I asked them for a lighter, even though I have one” I told him, pulling out the Zippo in my pocket, beaming with pride over my successful ruse. “I come here all the time but I can never pull any chicks, they all seem so stuck up,” another random douche groaned.


Not wanting to jinx any future chances of talking to more girls by talking about the girls I’d already talked to, I excused myself and went to the bar. I switched from the usual Stella to a Jack-and-Coke, symbolizing my recent transformation within. A new drink for a new man. When I turned around I was face to face with a tall, dark haired beauty wearing a short white dress and slutty eyeliner. She was stunningly gorgeous, at least a nine. I clinked my glass against her martini, smiled, said, “cheers”, then walked away taking a sip. Five minutes later she came up and asked me my name. I was on fire. Guys watched jealously as I chatted it up with this fashion model. Hopefully it inspired them, as it usually does me, seeing a dork with a girl way out of his league. I never get bitter, I always think, “If he can do it, I can do it.” And here I was, doing it. She leaned over, holding her glass next to her mouth as if it were a sound-proof forcefield, then whispered, “I hate going out around here, it’s always the same boring scene every night.”  I quickly averted my gaze from her chest to the bar, nodding in confirmation. She scanned the room, complaining about the caliber of men in Hollywood. I took the opportunity to stare at her amazing rack.


After talking for five minutes she excused herself to go “find her friends”. I returned to the table where Katie and her friends sat, now a legend. I was better at picking up chicks than that “Mystery” fruitcake who hosted the VH-1 show The Pickup Artist. And I was doing it without the cheesy hat and goggles gimmick, just my lucky euro jacket. I downed the rest of my drink and sauntered back to the bar for another.


I took an empty seat next to the actor who played Bud Bundy on Married With Children. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” I asked, embarrassed when I figured it out. He ignored my question and looked around the room for someone who actually remembered him. His weathered face hidden behind his light brown fedora was hard to recognize. Since I’d already made an ass of myself, I motioned for Katie to come by and take a picture of us. He disappeared after this, leaving a vacant seat beside mine. A few minutes later, Shiny Lips sat down next to me.


“Where’s your friend?” I asked, turning slightly to face her.


“I dunno, that’s a good question. She might be back at our apartment. . . I think I got ditched,” she responded, swiveling herself closer. Our knees interlocked between the limited space. I knew this was it – a move had to be made. I grazed my hand against her leg, then went in 90% and waited. She went in the last 10. Thanks, Hitch. We made out like teenagers.


We left the bar to a more secluded location near the back and continued to suck face. Sometime after last call, things got hazy. I can’t remember how I proposed this, but I managed to talk her into getting a cab and taking me back to her apartment (mine was over 30 minutes away). Ignoring the bombardment of calls flooding in from Katie and her sister, we escaped.


We made out the entire ride, occasionally breaking for her to give directions. Turning down the final street, I got a terrible feeling in my stomach (fear, not too much alcohol consumption). “Do you have any cash?” I asked, knowing that if we had to search for an ATM it would kill the momentum.


“No, you don’t?” she shot back, sounding annoyed.


I looked through my wallet, only to find Euros I’d forgot to convert after my recent “holiday”. I knew I’d fuck this up, because well, I always fuck it up. The cab fare was $12 and I had a 50 Euro, equal to around $75. “Hey dude, I don’t have any dollar bills but I have this” I said anxiously, holding out my foreign currency. “It’s worth like 75 bucks, man.” He looked at it carefully. “That’s like five times the fare,” I added. He snatched the bill from my hand, and Shiny Lips and I got out, mood still in tact. Or so I thought.


She stopped in front of her building, strangely hesitant. She dug through her purse and pulled out her cell phone, avoiding eye contact. I watched the cab drive away, leaving me stranded on the quietest street in Los Angeles. I foolishlycommented on the nice weather, realizing we were strangers again. It never occurred to me until just now as I’m writing this essay, but maybe she was creeped out by the fact that I shelled out 75 bucks to get into her apartment sooner. I always thought it made me look cool paying with Euro’s, but now it sounds kinda, desperate. We sat on the curb and talked about feelings. She was reluctant to let me inside. We started making out again, which was as exciting as going on one of those crappy carnival rides when you’re at Six Flags. We stopped kissing and went back to talking. We’d been on the curb over twenty minutes. Something was wrong.


She told me about her night before Sunset Terrace, so I told her about the blog party. I hesitated for a second, then dove in. “Actually, I have my own blog. . . I mean, my friends and I have a blog we started called OurThursday. We’re having a party/ live reading for it next Saturday. My buddy Luke is building a makeshift stage in his backyard and getting his Dad to set up a professional PA system. All of the authors are going to read stories out loud. Should be pretty fun, you should come,” I suggested, pulling up the home page on my phone to show her.


She seemed genuinely intrigued. “What kind of stories are these? That’s really cool. Can you read me one now?” she asked.


Excited, and no longer thinking about sex, I scrolled through my archive trying to pick out a good one. I went with “An Uncomfortable Haircut” since I planned on reading it at the party and had been rehearsing it earlier. The practice failed me as soon as I began. I mixed sentences and slurred together words, sounding drunker than I thought I was. I stumbled through paragraphs I’d read hundreds of times before. Paragraphs I wrote. By the time I got half way through, I’d heard nothing but a few weak chuckles I assumed were fake. I read faster, trying to get the debacle over with. I moved quickly through the jokes so there wouldn’t be that awkward silence when she didn’t laugh. The words of Katie’s sister rang through my head, “You’ll never get laid writing blogs, Brian!” I knew I’d destroyed any chance of ever seeing the inside of that apartment. At last, when I finished, I put the phone down, a broken and defeated man.


“That was great! I really enjoyed it! Very well written!” she commended. I squinted curiously, trying to tell if she was serious.


“Really? I kinda felt like I fucked it up a bit” I replied, shocked at her emphatic response.


“No, I loved it! Do you have another one you can read?”


I scrolled through the rest of my blogs, still trying to figure out if this chick was putting me on. “You seriously wanna sit through another eight minutes of me reading?”I asked. “Yep.” she confirmed. For the second story, I went with “My Night as a Mermaid”. By the soft glow of my cell phone screen, I shared with her the romantic tale of the time I dressed up as a chick for Halloween and unsuccessfully tried to fuck other chicks. When it was over, she stood up, grabbed my arm, and led me through the front door of her complex.



“I think my roommate is home,” she said, implying there might be a threesome. She pushed the “up” arrow for the elevator and we waited impatiently. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the door and saw a young Harrison Ford winking back at me, like that scene in 500 Days of Summer. “My room is a mess” she warned. I don’t know why girls always give this precaution. Unless your place has rats living inside month-old pizza boxes like the girl Ross dated on Friends, we don’t give a shit. Even then, we don’t give a shit. Ross is just a pussy.


We snuck through the silent apartment down the hallway to her “messy” bedroom. She shut me out to “clean things up real quick”. I pulled out the condom buried in my wallet, still a little bummed that it survived three weeks in Europe. I placed it in my front left pocket and stuffed my phone and wallet in my right, creating an unbelievable bulge. This ensured no wasted time rummaging through my jeans later. She cautiously opened the door, revealing her spotless room.


My editor (Dave Glenn) bitched at me for “leaving out all the juicy details” in the first draft of this story. Since I do not have the luxury of writing under an alias that my friends, family, and co-workers do not recognize, like the endearingly sleazy Dave Glenn, I will spare you these. I’m not going to say anything about her oddly small fake breasts that made me wonder if her boobs were reeeaally small before, or if she was just worried they might get saggy later. I’m not going to mention the sound of the bed post clanging against the wall, or that I tried to make it louder so her roommate would get jealous. I’m going to skip over the part where I fantasized about her roommate opening the door to complain about the noise, then spontaneously deciding to join in. Such details would be gratuitous.


The next morning wasn’t awkward. Actually, it’s never awkward. I can’t understand why people have such a problem with this. Stop whining and have more sex. Since we already used my one condom we did um, other stuff. Afterwards, we layed in bed and talked about dreams, hopes, goals, aspirations, and all the other pointless shit that fills guys heads when we’re not horny anymore. I enjoyed her company. This had potential. She got out her laptop and searched for “Brian Pratt” on facebook, but had a hard time finding me among the hundreds of others. Since I have a crappy generic name, we logged out of her page and into mine. I found her instantly and sent her the friend request. I also gave her my business card.


Katie finally called around noon. It took all the self-control I could muster not to answer the phone like the skinny guy from Road Trip and yell out “WOOOOOOOO!” or “Guess who got laid last night!” When I asked my soon-to-be facebook friend what her cross streets were, I stupidly realized she lived next door to my old apartment. I sat on my old street for 45 fucking minutes and never noticed. Before walking out of her immaculately clean room, I suggested she give me hernumber. “It’s 3–she started. “Okay, that’s enough, I can just guess the rest,” I blurted out, thinking I was funny and knowing I could get it later via facebook. I left with no goodbye-kiss.


It’s been four months and I’m still waiting for her to approve my friend request. She’s never called, text, emailed, or attempted to contact me in any way. After days of constantly checking, I sent her a message. It was breezy, something like “It was nice meeting you, hope you’re having a good week, maybe you should approve my friend request?” Facebook has this really irritating feature of still giving you updates on your “pending” friends. Annoyingly, it shows me every time she adds someone new to her ever-growing list of over 800 people.


I later told my friend Deborah, an expert on female sexuality, about the denied friend request to get her take on it. She thought about it for a while, then saidmatter-of-factly,“Funky Spunk.”


“What?” I asked.


“Your spunk,” she answered, surprised, as if explaining the obvious. “Maybe it’s funky. You said she gave you a blowjob in the morning, so maybe she didn’t like the taste of your spunk . . . Funky Spunk.”


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