Friday, April 15, 2011

Cure for Coulrophobia? Fuck a clown.

Settling in for the night with a glass of wine and one of my favorite cheesey B movies from my childhood, Killer Klowns from Outer Space.

I really should text that guy from Ohio I met over Halloween weekend last year while bar hopping with some buddies.  I was dressed as a Christian who doesn't acknowledge pagan holidays, i.e. no costume.  I'm at Hydrate getting my round of drinks at the bar when I turn around and literally bounce my head off this guy's chest.  I look up at the full masked and gloved Killer Klown from Outer Space.  I yelped like a school girl and rushed away from the terrifying sight.  Later that night at another bar, I'm walking out the bathroom and again come face to chest with it.  He extends a clawed cartoonishly large hand and I can hear the muffled "hello" from behind the mask.  I'm about to run back into the bathroom when he pulls off the mask and I see a slightly freckled, chisel-faced, corn fed farm boy.  Fucking hot.  He introduces himself and offers to buy me a drink to make up for scaring me again.  I accept.  We end up at a party his friend's, who he's in town visiting, are throwing in their condo overlooking Boystown.  His friends aren't having me.  It's obvious they were expecting more attention from the hot farmboy.  Sensing the tension he invites me back to his hotel room in downtown where we raided the mini bar. It was hot.  We flip flop fucked like animals and took shots in between, sometimes during, until we collapsed into a sweaty heap and passed out limbs interlocked but not exactly holding.  We woke up the next morning, ordered room service and made plans to meet later at the parade.  I meant to write him as soon as I arrived at the parade.  But then the Puerto Rican kid in the baseball uniform caught my eye.

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