San Francisco Sexual Adventures Part One – Aster’s Blonde of Glory, Margaritas, Sake Bombs, and Capone’s Vow of Abstinence
“Hey, I think this is for you.” I handed Aster my phone with a text message. He’d lost his phone when he left it in a cab, so all the girls he met were texting my phone instead.
“Who’s it from?”
“It says ‘hey it’s awkward Vida’. Oh – it’s from the Blonde of Glory!”
Aster met this girl in Vegas. 6 foot tall, blonde, model good looks. Complete nerd.
He was texting me for an hour to try to get me to come in and talk to the cute friend so he wouldn’t have to juggle both of them – trying to make out with the Blonde of Glory without making the friend feel neglected. He realised the next day that he’d been sending texts to my Australian number for an hour, instead of my American number, so I never received the messages. Eventually the friend got bored of it, and dragged Awkward Vida away. Aster didn’t pull.
For the four hours we hung out at Spearmint Rhino, I would hear Aster say the words “Blonde of Glory” about fifty seven times, in a drunken slur, like a heartbroken sailor.
Now we were at the Monarch Hotel in San Francisco. As we checked in, I noticed the sign next to the counter, stating that this building contains trace chemicals that are known in the state of California to cause birth defects. The room was nice though.
It was in a scummy area, about nine blocks from Union Square. We went down to the deli to get a lox bagel, and as we were walking, a hobo-shop quartet broke out in a hymn on the footpath next to us.
As we were eating, I got a text from Taylor: “Hey you guys should come meet us at 6 at tortillia heights”.
When we got there, Taylor and her friend Jaime had two jugs of margaritas in front of them, and a plate of tortilla chips.
“Hey! Good to see you!” Hugs all round.
Taylor was a sweet-looking blonde American girl, with her hair back and folded up with a clip. She was hot, in a girl-next-door type way.
“We’re just waiting till Capone gets here, then we’ll head to Kitaro for sushi and sake bombs.”
We ordered another two jug of margaritas.
“Salt?” said the waiter.
“What?” said I.
“Do you want me to salt your glass?”
“Oh yeah, sure.”
You have to keep turning the glass, to drink the salt, to offset the sweet taste of the margarita.
“So how was your first time in Vegas?”
I said “Man, the first three days felt like three weeks. I don’t think I’ve ever had so much stimulation in such a short time.”
Aster chimed in: “Yes, I felt a bit disenchanted after the first week. Lost a bit of faith in humanity, actually.”
Jaime said “Wait – how long did you guys stay there?”
“Two weeks.” Eyes popping.
“They’re friends with Jack,” said Taylor. Jackson is Spesh’s real name. Well, not his real name, but the real name for the purpose of this story.
“Oh, you’re friends with Mr. Vegas.”
“Hah Mr. Vegas,” I said. “Kind of fitting that Mr. Vegas should be an Englishman. He really should have a monocle and a top hat just to make the picture complete.”
“And his face on top of a casino,” said Aster.
Capone walked in and hugged Taylor and wished her a happy birthday, and introduced herself. Felicity Capone was a dark brunette, with flowing straight hair and hoop earrings. Slightly overweight, olive skin, and not shy at all.
“Oh – you guys have to see the poster we made for Taylor as a birthday present,” said Jaime. Capone continued “Oh yeah – we made her this poster, with all the guys she’s hooked up with, and gave them funny nicknames. Like there was this guy Shaun – he was really short.”
Shaun “I like eating you out because I’m already at the right level for your crotch” Brenton.
Jaime was cute too, impossibly cute, with a really smooth complexion – which I guessed, from the way she spoke, must have come from not thinking things through too deeply. She was fun, but she had a boyfriend.
We got to Kitaro. No one was really hungry. We ordered four longnecks of cider, and four flasks of hot sake.
The sake bomb is something of an anomaly. Half as deadly as a Jagerbomb. Ten times as deadly as straight beer or cider.
To do a sake bomb properly, you pour the cider or beer into the glass, put your chopsticks on top of the glass, parallel. Then you place your eggcup of sake on top of the chopsticks, and bang the table until the chopsticks give way. It depth charges, and you down it. With cider, it tastes something like a warm Dr. Pepper. With beer, it tastes something like shit. However, the novelty of “making your drink yourself” gives it a certain charm, like breaking up your wasabi into your soy sauce for sushi, or rolling your own cigarette. Also, the thrill of spilling warm cider on your pants makes it all the more exciting.
Capone set her hands down on the table, her fingers interlocked. “So. Aster. When was the last time you went on a date?”
“I haven’t. I don’t really do that. If I had to guess, I’d say, six years ago.”
“What? Why not?”
“I just don’t do that sort of thing. Doesn’t hold a lot of appeal for me really.”
“I’m going to take you on a date.”
“Okay, let’s go on a date.” They shook on it, like it was a bet.
Capone looked me down and up, then looked Aster up and down. She asked me “So, tell me, what’s your magic number?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m guessing you’ve probably had sex with about six girls. And you’ve had sex with about thirteen.” I was thirteen, and Aster was six. We both chuckled, guy-coding.
“Why are you asking us this?”
“Hm… I think it says a lot about a person. You can tell what a person is like by asking their magic number. It’s like a little insight into their soul that reveals their hidden desires.”
“Really. You don’t say,” I said. “So how many people have you had sex with?’
“One.”
We laughed. “That was kind of sneaky, placing us on six and thirteen when you’re on one.”
“Yes it was. But I got to know your magic number.”
We laughed again. “No you didn’t. We didn’t tell you.”
“Oh… That’s right, you didn’t.”
Capone related a whole bunch of complex rationalisations about why she never had sex any more. For two hours. He should have just grabbed her and made out with her.
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