Lou’s very own money shot.

It’s very rare to have an evening out on the town culminate in a way that encapsulates your entire night with just one action, but that’s what happened to me this weekend when someone threw a kebab at me from a moving cab or maybe it was a cup of day old semen or as my friend suggested who was also on the receiving end of whatever liquid we ended up covered in, it could’ve been Yakult – it was really rather hard to tell at 3am in the morning and I really wasn’t nearly as well versed in flung foodstuffs or bodily liquids as I thought I was and in the year that I turn 30 my lack of experience in that area has no doubt begun to cause me concern.

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The day itself didn’t start out that bad; I woke up at least and I’ve heard from some that’s a pretty good start. I was somewhat tired given a raging party next door had kept me up until 8am and I had somewhat indulged it when trying to slam the front door a few times loudly as code for ‘shut the fuck up’ at around 5am has resulted in me accepting an invitation from an ostensibly nice young man to come over and have a drink or to paraphrase – ‘here have a sip of my long neck’ and ‘hey boys, told you I could round up another girl’ and then turning to me ‘you don’t have kids do you, I’m just not that into fertile women’ – well at least a refreshing change from ‘I’m just not that into you…’

The bar had officially been set for the day to come and so when I found myself laughing so hard I cried while watching of all shows ‘Sex in the City’ (I need to point out at this point I’m the woman who on national radio called for a global boycott of the movie version and tried to make moves to set up a not-for-profit organisation to educate women around the world against the bullshit ideals that the film perpetuated)  as the character of Carrie rolled over in bed after the guy she’d just shagged told her he was in therapy because he loses interest in women once he sleeps with them and she declared she was in therapy because she picks the wrong men and spilt scolding hot coffee all over my new bra that I’d just put on and ended up suffering from 2nd degree burns on one of my nipples I thought to myself ‘…and you thought you’d get no action this weekend Lou, oh how foolish of you!’

After finding some sort of balm to stop the peeling (well at least stave it off for a few more hours) I rushed off to my friends farewell drinks at a nearby pub. Ok, so I shouldn’t have ordered the vegan burger (there is really only so much pattie a girl can handle) but perhaps also I shouldn’t have ended up sitting opposite a girl I only knew because she’d been the one an attachment of mine had been shagging when he was apparently seeing me and we’d never officially been introduced (I hear that complicates the whole cheating process and I mean who needs complicated these days…?). It wasn’t all that bad; there was heaps to read on the back of the toilet door I hid behind (I mean I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in how Mary managed to get it in so far…) and then of course there was the guy at the bar I was dying to speak with after he opened with the line ‘hey I’ve got some Ice in the car, wanna have some and then you and I can fuck for 5 hours?’…well you’ve got to give him credit, at least he was specific. Basically it turned out I had very little time to catch up with her and trade familiar tales about how when he wasn’t drunk he was asleep, but hey there’s always next time right?

Leaving behind ‘ice guy’ and the ‘other woman’ was hard, but I managed to drag myself away (in an attempt to prove to myself I’m not a masochist – just between you and I I’m losing the battle) and I ended up meeting up with some new friends of mine and was whisked away to a bar that was scattered predominantly with women and the occasional man wearing tucked in denim and drinking cider and found myself involved in what I thought was an engrossing discussion on gender roles in today’s society when I noticed the girl I was chatting with was texting her boyfriend a rescue note, yes, a note that opened with ‘Help – I’m stuck talking to Lou Sanz!’ – yep, it was official I’d reached the climax of my evening – I mean I couldn’t have asked for more fun and better company had I stabbed myself in the vagina with that rusted old tennis racket I’d been meaning to use again and it was then my nipple began to itch and I realised I’d left my balm at home (just as an aside, moisturised lipstick does not work as an anti-inflammatory on nipples, no matter how hard you rub it in, nor does it get you off in a pub toilet in the early hours of the morning – but at least I tried and that in itself screams volumes).

And so it was, it was time to call it a night, to cut my losses and just go home – back to comfort of Law and Order reruns and moments of disabling self-realisation with the help of Sex and the City and as a wave of contentment washed over me, well it was perfectly timed to coincide with a garden variety cock spanker tossing a kebab, semen, maybe even Yakult at me – and before you say it, yes, I’m well aware of how great it is to be me, especially when the cab driver tells you you smell and insists on driving you home with the windows down but not even that’s enough to stop him from dry heaving into his mouth at every traffic light – needless to say I will go out again next week cause after all isn’t that what prescription medication is for, fuck I hope so.

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