Who the hell is Chelsea?

Brunch?  Maracas?  45 minutes from now? 

Fucking Urban Sprawl!  She knew I couldn’t turn down that offer.  I met up with her and her two out-of-town friends (whom I had been introduced to the night before) at the aforementioned venue about 45 minutes before last call for the open drinks on a Saturday.

Convo, convo, wuh oh oh, on to Pieces we go.  Luckily Urban Sprawl’s friends refrained from the unlimited drinks because they hopped in their car back to that city that Harvard’s not in.  We arrived at Pieces to find 5-foot 8x6 behind the bar.  He was shrieking all kinds of obscenities in delight (“AAAA! Single Bottom on the loose!  Who wants another drink!”) and telling us to “say when” while he poured the liquor. 

For some reason, I had it stuck in my mind that we needed to go to the Eagle that weekend.  Urban Sprawl couldn’t deal, but a couple of the other girls had met us at Pieces. 

“Oo!  We should totally go!  I have to go home first, though.  I wanna get my leash.”

Who invited her?

Med School Mess, Bottomless Pitt and I made our way over to Secret, which is free before 11 (who knew!).  And whom do I see across the bar?  The Great White Hype, that’s who.  You mean the Great White Hype with whom you had quite the flirty text volley a few months ago and then got too “busy” to meet up?  That’s the one.  You mean the Great White Hype that whom, a couple of weeks prior to the night in question, you texted twice and who gave you no response?  Damn, dude, I think they get the point!

Anyway, the Great White Hype is there, and I hate him because he’s just as hot as before.  Then “Single Ladies” comes on.  And I can’t not do the dance to “Single Ladies” when the Ivy League Crew is around.  Did I mention I'm wearing Uggs (okay, they were a knock-off brand, but the point remains the same)?  Did I also mention I’m (mostly) a top?  Yeah, he’s never gonna talk to me again.  But when I go over to talk to him, he's very nice and even introduces me to his two (black [of course]) friends.  Bastard.

Stop snickering about that mostly-top thing. 

Speaking of guys D. Kareem may or may not be crushing on, I was very surprised to see Chelsea Rover at Secret!  Especially since I think I may have made an ass of myself the last time I saw him.

“Chelsea, hey!  How’s it going?”

“Who the hell is Chelsea?”

“You are, right?  Didn’t we meet each other through—“

“Urban Sprawl.”

“Oh.  Right.  Shit, you’re totally Random Oracle.”  I proceed to rattle off facts about him in a lame attempt to redeem myself.

“Yeah…”

I really need to not mix up the tall Asian crushes in my life; there really aren’t that many.

Soon thereafter, we had had our fill of Secret.  Oh, looky there: the Eagle’s only 1 block away.  Tada.

Destiny’s Child (Med School Mess, Bottomless Pitt, and I) walks into the Eagle topless, and I’m still wearing my Uggs.  But it’s butch b/c I took off my shirt (right?!).  Oh my god.  I thought she was joking about the leash.  I don’t remember anyone talking to (or groping) any of us.  Wait, that’s not true. 

Bottomless Pitt has recently decided that she wants to make cowboy boots her thing.  [Insert passive-aggressive comment about copying me here].  Anyway, she’s wearing her jeans tucked into her black cowboy boots, and there’s this guy in his underwear beside an elevated chair.  He grabs Bottomless Pitt with a “nice shoes” and beckons him onto the chair.  What followed was a theatrical display of erotic foot worship mixed with shoe shining.  Nothing that surprising as far as the Eagle goes, but it was certainly a sight to see. 

Did I mention there was a posting on my Facebook wall the next morning?

Great to see you last night. ♥ Chelsea.

Shit.

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