Last night I went to a fancy, upscale party.
It was weird to even get invited in the first place. I went because I like the people I work with more closely at the company that organized the event. We got a good vibe going, and I was sure that vibe would translate to a good time Friday evening..
But when I actually got to the venue and found hundreds of foppish folks in there, all huddled in their glittery craze, things got even weirder for me.
I felt out of my element. Or, to be exact, my head felt out of its element; its element being, shit, not that.
But my dick, which also has a vote in all things concerning me, was all pleased to find–I kid you not–some of the finest-looking women I’ve ever seen in there. And I’m not talking about the hostesses, all plastic and shit, like a Chinese kid made them in a Shenzhen factory.
So there was this dissonance I had. I am uneasy around rich people showing off their money, let me put it in this most delicate of ways, and there was plenty of that. Only thing missing was a fucking chocolate fountain.
The folks that do the hard work there day to day, that actually produce the things that sell and make the money, the workers, they really looked pushed to the side during the event. No surprise and yet I was surprised.
But I am not uneasy around rich men’s women, those poor souls deluded into thinking money can buy meaning. Not that they seem to need much meaning, and kudos to them for their healthy if misguided simple-mindedness. In any case, my dick was with them, if not in body, then in its thoughts. Its healthy, dirty thoughts.
It was only when I, a non-drinker, had a good amount of booze poured in me that the conflict was smoothed out. Like when you bring two good but quarrelling friends to the table to sit down and talk shit out. In result, I even managed to have some fun.
All in all, I still think this shit ought to be forbidden. It’s just that, me having sobered up, my dick and my head are once again in stark disagreement on it.
Because I am a dickhead.