I had put on my new pair of Miu Miu shoes and felt like being cruel while looking pretty, so I went to the bar before heading out to a friend’s birthday party. I used to do this every weekend: get really dressed up and act like a bitch in public just for kicks. I don’t do it so much anymore – I’m less of a lion and more of a domesticated house cat these days. Which is fine, but every once in a while I get the urge.
I used to do this all the time, so it should feel natural for me. As I sat there in all my refinement, done up in furs and rhinestones. I looked around the bar and realized: there’s no one here that I want to fuck. Or even flirt with. I think it has something to do with my newly bolstered self esteem – *somebody* out there has been hammering it into my head that I should only be fucking 9s and 10s, and he’s right. I should only be fucking 9s and 10s. I’m too hot for anything less than a 7. But the problem with that is: god, I’m so fucking lazy. Where do the 9s and 10s hang out at these days? I’ve been getting slurry drunk in Oakland, and, let me tell you, it is slim pickings out there.
I was ready to leave the bar. There was nothing for me there. So we cabbed it over to our friend’s birthday party in West Oakland. As we wound our way through the Lower Bottoms, a pang of nostalgia filled the bottom of my stomach. You know, those memories of back in the day when I was a real scum bag, biking around in thrift store prom dresses with a pint of Ancient Age in my back pocket. Man, those were the days. Back when I used to get fucking wasted til 5am on a regular basis. There’s something about the alcoholic hue of those memories that always makes me think that everyone there was more beautiful than perhaps they actually were.
As we walked into the party at the respectable hour of 10pm, I wondered, is this going to be like back in the day? When everyone looked good and I wanted to fuck them all? Is this where my 9 or 10 has been hiding?
After being there for thirty minutes, I realized: no. No, this is not where my 9 or 10 has been hiding. In fact, all I see are 7s and below. (For the men, at least. The women are always beautiful.) Fuck! What a waste of my time. Sure, I like hanging out with my friends, but here I am, in Miu Miu shoes and fox fur, drinking wine from a coffee cup while standing in a back yard in West Oakland. Seriously? Am I still doing this? This was fun five years ago, but now I’m starting to realize that everyone here is five years older than they used to be but they don’t seem to know it quite yet. Fuck. This isn’t my scene. This isn’t my crowd. These aren’t my people. Sure, maybe they used to be my people, but…I think I may have outgrown this. It’s time for me to go…where? Another bar? Back home? Out of the Bay Area entirely? What the fuck am I even doing with my life?
I used to tell myself that the reason I fucked 6s, 7s and 8s was because there weren’t very many 9s and 10s out there if you like fucking straight cis men. Women are so much more attractive than men so of course the attractive level-coupling is skewed so that more attractive women fuck less attractive men. But, you know what? Fuck that. I’m over it. Sex isn’t in short supply. I’m not going to starve if I pass on the 6s, 7s and 8s of the world.
Or, at least, that’s what I tell myself as I quietly ignore the fact that I might have hit my wall of discontent here in the Bay Area. But more on that later.