You really do have to love the South

By Caity, A&M's favorite lesbian softball player


Firstly, I co-sign this sentence. “Fuck you I know I haven’t written in a while. Get over it.”

Secondly, a few things have happened since the last time we spoke:

Number 1:
I got a back alley massage that sent me into what I like to call "deep eval." This is where I sit down, pour myself a very stiff Kettle and tonic and evaluate where exactly it all went wrong. At what point, I wonder, did I set myself on the path to a $35 trial massage from "The Rub Club?" A massage that included a soundtrack provided by what I have to assume were 250 pound epileptics attempting to tap dance in the studio above this hell hole come massage parlor. A few things would have tipped most people off to the fact that this situation would not end well (namely, that it was in my neighborhood, which is very--I think "transitional" is currently the polite term), but I had legitimate neck pain and work at a non-profit, so I was willing to take a chance. Granted, my judgment has not been the best in the past when it comes to massages, so I might have taken that into consideration as well.

(Once, on a layover, I got an airport massage during which the strapping young man administering it got so close to knowing me Biblically I felt I should have shared a cigarette with him afterward. When I realized where he was headed, I initially panicked and wasted a good five minutes of what can only be described as heavy petting trying to figure out a way to politely ask him to remove his person from mine, before I started thinking clearly and realized he was hot and I was in the middle of an epic dry spell. I've never been afraid of some strange, so why the hell not, right? No? That's just me? Anyway, just as I was warming to the idea the little tease pulled out--I mean back. Moral of the story: Any 60 minute rub down is better than no 60 minute rub down in my book. Or so I thought.)

Then I met the woman I like to refer to as THIS BITCH. As in, "THIS BITCH came at me with some half-assed moves she learned off the 90 minute instructional video they showed her in the break room and 50 thread count sheets." I've gone entire weeks eating nothing but Ramen Noodles and the Wendy's $.99 menu, but my skin has not felt the touch of anything fewer than a 500 thread count since middle school. Well, that is if you leave aside an unfortunate evening spent in an Asheville, NC Best Western that included me passed out cuddling a bottle of Maker's Mark, two of my best friends having "the quietest sex ever" in the neighboring bed, and a dress I'll never wear again. But that's another post.


Number 2:
I joined my neighborhood softball team (Allie and Poodle, fuck both of you and your lesbian jokes in advance) with the hope of meeting a few of my fellow Atlantans, and perhaps having a few of the more attractive ones penetrate me. Things have not gone as planned. I'm not sure what I expected, but old, married and/or gay was not it. Thus far, the closest I've come is a drunken post-game conversation with my ex that included the phrase, "So, are we going to play footsie all night, or are we going to go home and have sex?" And that, my friends, was probably the classiest part of the evening. Upon hearing this story, one of my oldest, dearest friends put it best when she said, "There are, like, 2 million men in Atlanta. Only half of them have seen you naked. There's really no need for repeats at this hour." Real talk.


Number 3:
I went to my first gay strip club. I spent a good bit of time post-college squatting on my number one gay's couch in the Castro, so this may come as a surprise to many of you. (And by many, I obviously mean the 15 strong readership of A&M--Hi, Mom!) It was Pride Week in Atlanta, and a friend of mine suggested we make a pilgrimage to a classy little establishment called Swingin' Richards. Now, when I was in San Fransisco my laundromat was called the Sit 'n' Spin, and I would sit at the bar of Moby Dick's on the daily and slam cosmos with the biggest bears and bitchiest power bottoms the city had to offer, but none of it prepared me for Swingin' Richards. There's something about walking into a place and having one's first image be of an elderly gentleman being repeatedly, willingly and joyfully mushroom tagged in the face that one cannot prepare for. My favorite part, however, was the fact that on several occasions they edited the curse words out of the ghetto beats that provided the mood music to this little pageant.


You really do have to love the south.




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