Abestia

So before my friend Sandy realized she’s an alcoholic and before Hellfire, the sex/fetish club in the “meat-packing district”, became an Italian restaurant, she and I enjoyed frequenting said shady club. 

One particular night, while I was home from college for Thanksgiving, Sandy called to ask if I wanted to go to a diner.  “Sure” I say because I’m looking for a quiet night out with one of my favorite people.  As we drive away from my house, she informs me with a cynical chuckle that we are not in fact going to a diner, but instead will be paying Hellfire a visit.  At this point, I wish I had reconsidered the pink and purple turtleneck sweater I’m wearing.  As you can imagine, black leather and bondage gear are more the norm at a place like Hellfire. 

I am silently cursing Sandy the whole way into the city. 

After we get there, it’s about an hour of the usual turning down offers from pant-less freaks for foot massages or requests for me to watch them play with themselves.  Really? I’m wearing a fucking pink and purple turtleneck! 

This got old so we decided to go home with two men who seemed normal by comparison.  Honestly, my only two memories after entering the house was the photo of the guy’s 12-year-old son on the mantle and the words Sandy said to me as she was enjoying her oral sex way more than I was enjoying mine…”Try my guy! He’s a voracious pussy-eater!”.  Sometime soon after, Sandy and I excused ourselves and went outside for a cig and to confer about what the hell we were doing.  We decided we didn’t want to be there anymore but didn’t think it’d be as easy as going back in and saying “thanks, see ya”, so instead we snuck back in and gathered our things, took $40 out of one of the guys’ wallets and ran.  And ran and ran until we hit our favorite diner, Arthur’s, on 12^th Street, where we had breakfast…on them.