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By The Betches on

 

If you’ve ever experienced a NYE in New York, this will all sound pretty familiar to you. My bros and I were looking for something to do, and our options looked grim. In New York and other cities, NYE is referred to as “amateur hour”, but the reality is even graver than that. NYE is a time for the huddled masses to dress up, feel important, and pay several hundred dollars to enter an overcrowded “lounge” that would normally be beyond their means to enjoy watered down rail drinks and a champagne toast at midnight. We wanted absolutely nothing to do with that bullshit. Besides, I was actually living in Connecticut at the time, and while it has its own bro-y/betchy sensibility, the thought of being lumped in with the rest of the bridge and tunnel crowd was frankly disgusting.

So, after a flurry of desperation creativity, we settled on Brooklyn, which is never under any circumstance a decision I advise you to make, not for going out, housing, or anything else. Once we settled on our destination, we began the pregame as usual, only with a little flair since this was, after all, a special occasion. By flair, I’m referring to on-command drug delivery, which is awesome. In fact, having an 8-ball delivered to your door is such a convenience that Seamless Web is seriously missing out by not tapping into the market. Uh, hi, yeah I’d like a large pepperoni pizza with extra, uh…. Cocaine? We drank, we bumped (both at home and in the back of the cab), and after a gregarious dinner at the simultaneously over- and underrated ‘inoteca, we made what for all we know would be our last foray out of the city.

Our destination was the Brooklyn Bowl, which to that point I’d only heard mentioned in a Jay-Z song, I think. For the uninitiated, the venue is so named not because of it’s shape or because they serve bowls of noodles (though they might), but because there is literally a functional bowling alley within it. Once we got there, there was talk of “lines” and “advance tickets”, two terms outside the realm of bro parlance. After generously yet discreetly greasing the doorman’s palm (this is when my bros were big-ballin’ lawyers and not internet “entrepreneurs”), we hurried past the shivering great unwashed, thankfully without touching any of them.

Inside, the Brooklyn Bowl on NYE was a Shangri-La for bros. There was, in fact, bowling, along with a huge dance floor just peppered with women. Q-Tip was the DJ, and the main guy from Entourage was there. The rest of the guys were skinny, scruffy hipsters, so the only things between us and the ladies were them and a celebrity who at that point was best known for having a really smelly crotch. Best of all,  instead of some frou-frous champagne toast, they offered up tequila shots at midnight. Plus, we were hitting candyland so hard you’d have thought we had the idea for the board game stolen from us. It was shaping up to be a good night.

Unfortunately, things tumbled (because ‘spiraled’ would denote elegance and restraint) out of control quickly. Our supplies ran out. Q-Tip, for whatever reason, refused to perform both “Vivrant Thing” and “Breathe and Stop”, which honestly we were looking forward to all night. Worst of all, Adrien Grenier split. If a short, smelly-crotched B-list celebrity from a show no one really watches doesn’t think he’s in a “target rich” environment, you’re in trouble. Still, it was too late to go anywhere else, so we had to make do.

Because there’s nothing more embarrassing than going out on NYE and returning home alone, we worked the dancefloor like panhandlers the day after tax refund checks get handed out. I’ll be honest, living in Connecticut takes a toll on your drinking ability. They have some of the most arcane drinking laws in the country, like not selling alcohol in stores after 9PM. Bars close at 1AM on weekdays and 2AM on weekends. In short, it’s like living in Nazi Germany. So as best I can recall, I spied a blond girl with some kind of frilly shitwad of a party favor on her head. Eloquent as ever, I believe my line was “you look ridiculous”. Just like that, cupid had spoken.

What happened after that is a blur. I know we were in a cab for a while. I know she had some nose candy, which I thought was thoughtful of her. Once we got back to her place, I can’t really tell you what went down. Did we hook up? Maybe. Brooklyn Lager and cocaine, though fantastic party fuel, don’t make for good boner fuel. My guess is that we talked for a while (about God only know what), touched each other in some places, and passed out. Hard.

When I woke up the next morning, several things were going on. Most significantly, it felt as though a tiny crew of Chilean miners were trapped inside my head and were doing their best to chisel their way out. Secondly, the thing in bed next to me was not what anyone would refer to as “petite”. Equally pressing and infinitely more frightening was what I saw when I looked up at her headboard. Arranged neatly in size order was a row of … things. I’d seen dildos before, because apparently girls use them to help achieve something called “orgasm”, whatever the fuck that is. But these were not dildos. It was way worse than that. These were butt plugs. Like, half a dozen of them, the biggest of which was the diameter of one of those Mag Light flashlights that police officers carry/beat “Occupy” protestors with. So many thoughts flashed through my head? What if, because I was too fucked up to bang, she butt-plugged me out of vengeance? What if I butt-plugged her? A quick assessment ensured me that my anal virginity was intact, at least as far as I could tell. We smoked a bowl (to relieve the hangover) and left.

In the end, I got several things out of the experience: A memorable NYE, about four snackers from the KFC on 2nd ave (she paid), and the enduring nickname of “butt plug” from my bros.

Should old acquaintances be forgot indeed.

Dear Butt Plug,

My response to you was almost going to be 'TL;DR' but as a betch, I decided to let you embarrass yourself and concentrate on your superfluous and misused vocabulary courtesy of thesaurus.com which strung together in a story that confirmed my original assumption of you not being of the hetero sexuality.

I’m concerned with your ability to not only identify a buttplug with such ease, butt (pun intended) also your inability to tell if you’ve been anal probed or not. Perhaps they were Russian stacking dolls or a series of Jeff Koons sculptures, because if they were plugs, why would they be aligned so neatly? Talk about anal retentive…

To me, it sounds like you were more butthurt (okay, I’ll stop) about Adrian Grenier not wanting to suck your dick in the bathroom or Q not being on your tip. Brooklyn Bowl is notoriously male oriented, and a dance floor “peppered” with women would imply that there was just a few. You’ve never given a woman an “orgasm” and you even woke up to little men on the brain.

My assessment of the situation is that it is unlikely that neither of you had been involved in anal play, because Cocaine and KFC is a lethal combo on the colon and there would have most likely been some evidence of a shitty situation.

5 Comments TALK SHIT!
  1. Nicole says:

    no one goes to brooklyn bowl to pick up women. fun place but only to go with a group of friends to bowl and listen to hipster bands…

    Posted on Reply
  2. Anon says:

    lawling so hard at all of these puns. esp the one at the end. great advice betch!!

    Posted on Reply
  3. Confused Betch. says:

    Wtf is this post? Why is it on this site?

    Posted on Reply
  4. Amy says:

    Try a plug from celebrity-plugs.com. You’re welcome

    Posted on Reply
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