Join me as I wave goodbye to what was a pathetic solo existence. Yeah, no tears here. Not yet at least, because it ain’t over until…fuck it, roll the tape.
My favorite time of the year is one when I can be as big of an asshole as I choose. Granted, that’s everyday, with the exception of my birthday, when I typically like to reflect on things. Well, luckily for me, my personality presents many opportunities for this to happen, namely title defenses. Two weeks ago, I was set to defend my title at Moulin Rouge, the social dance party. I go through my usual rounds of preparation: wardrobe, wig, football socks, big title belt. I went with the whole red and black theme, with a little bit of tan because damn it, it matched my wig. I arrive at the party with my entourage, and I’m giving directions. Out of nowhere, a random blonde in red approaches me and verbally assaults me in front of my minions. How dare she! I am the Shaman of Sexy (yes, it said so on my shirt), and I did not deserve that. It was pretty funny, as she caught me with my pants down; I wasn’t prepared to defend myself against a random stranger. She was infuriated that I didn’t remember her name, and well, the 10/25 rule holds up. See, I dance often…I remember 10% of the girls’ names I dance with, and 25% of the faces. If you ask for any more, you’re being needy. After fifteen minutes, I just blew her off and went inside to run my party. I did notice she was attractive, though…
I landed a dance with her, where I turned the interrogation on her. She told me she was single, which was important because if she would have mentioned she was taken, I was gone. I got her number, and called her later on that evening, thinking she was another girl I liked. Text messages and calls later, I take her out the following Tuesday to a salsa club. The drive was awkward, as we were flanked by salsa performers. However, alone, we were on fire. She asked me whether I was a virgin in public. She disputed my Shaman of Sexy claim. She basically went on a tear in front of my colleagues and stripped the ego away to nothing. I told her about my lifestyle as a dancer, joking that I wear a cup for protection.
She punched me in the balls to test that hypothesis. Yes, it hurt. Crushed my right testicle. And that’s how we had our first kiss.
I drove her home early because she had class. Really, we didn’t exactly go home; we more like paraded around and sang to each other, arm-in-arm. Kissed some more, agreed to see each other the next for tutoring at Title Hall. Literally, I thought she wanted tutoring, but really…not so much. I suggested the library, and she suggested Title Hall. Fair enough. Shaky ground, but meh. I think I should get to the climax (ZING!).
Now, Pippa and I are pseudo-dating. She doesn’t want to call it a relationship, but really, that’s what it is; titles scare people. I took her to my End Game venue to seal the deal: Granada Nightclub in Alhambra. I hate the place, but it’s beautiful. She told me she only started dancing because I taught her in the summer. I remember now…but I taught a lot of girls. Remembering the name was a hard task too, because…Pippa? Yeah. Anyhow, we’re together now, even Facebook says so. For once, I can say I got a girl my friends would approve; most think I have bad taste. There was some tough things that had to be negotiated, but hell, it worked itself out.
And tomorrow, I meet her family on Thanksgiving. Nothing can go wrong, right? Unless you’re referring to that title defense; that shit went bad. Skibbedebebop. Much later.
Current Track – Divide the Day “Let It Roll”