The DC
When I was in the 8th grade my entire class got the opportunity to travel to the wonderful, Eden-like tropics of Washington DC. Was the Garden of Eden tropical, or was it like my moms garden filled with tomatoes and sweet corn? I have no idea. I’m not really up to date on folklore. Anyways, this trip was school sponsored, but it also cost money. It was really a perfect situation. I figured it would be me with all the rich hot girls in my class and I’d finally find out what a vagina feels like.
Much to my dismay not only did none of the hot, rich chicks sign up to go, but all the ugly, poor ones did. I sort of shrugged it off though because there wasn’t going to be one grown up per hotel room so I figured I could get into some shady shit after dark. The only problem with that, though, was it usually takes me years to convince a girl to even like me, let a lone have sex with me, so I’d be starting from scratch. That is why I not only brought along a fake Oakley fund, I also brought a hooker fund. Sure, I was only in 8th grade, but we’re talking hookers here, not exactly moral individuals.
The first day we were in DC we went to some monuments, got harassed by homeless dudes, blah, blah blah, who gives a shit. That night, however, I was on the fucking prowl. I decided I was going to get some action one way or another. I brought along a wing-man just in case hookers got moral all of a sudden so I could stand on his shoulders and break out a tall trench coat to seal the deal.
The first place we decided to check out was the pool area. Right off the bat I got disheartened as every girl there was already on some dudes shoulders. They weren’t wearing trench coats though, because that would just be strange. I would have ran up, put on my swimming trunks and joined the fun, but I figured if a girl did get on my shoulders I’d probably attempt to spin her around to the front and I’d be thrown in jail as a rapist or something.
On the way back into the hotel I heard some “slammin beats” and realized that there was a dance club inside this hotel. Only it wasn’t so much a dance club as it was a fucking shoe box. The place could only hold 10 people, all of which were dudes dancing to terrible techno music. I ditched that place almost immediately and headed toward my last hope, the bar. Isn’t that where all the whores hang out? Apparently not because it was practically empty except for a couple sweaty middle aged dudes watching “the game”.
I was downtrodden. I had no more plans, no more tricks up my sleeve. I decided to catch the elevator and either go back up to my room and jerk one out to Taxi Cab Confessions (if it was a “good one”), or go straight up to the roof to jump. As I got on the elevator a girl my age also got on. Without even saying “hi” she jumped in with “you guys, don’t go up to the 7th floor. There is a girl up there giving blow jobs for $5″. Interesting…
With absolutely no shame I immediately pushed the 7th floor button and was on my way to my dream. The only thing that could salvage the whole night. A blow job for $5? That’s fucking unheard of. I could have bought 25 of them while wearing 12 pairs of fake Oakleys with the money I saved from not finding a real prostitute. It’s weird because at this point I wasn’t even concerned about looks or how much money her family had. I truly feel that at that very moment I was in love. Even if me and blow job girl got married and she still charged $5 for each one that’s still an amazing deal.
When I got up to the 7th floor I started to panic. I don’t know if you know this, but hotel floors are basically just fucking hallways. So unless this girl was blowing dudes in the hallway, or the vending machine nook I was fucked. Not to mention the fact that the first person I saw was a fucking security guard who just stared at me. I awkwardly went to the soda machine, put in a dollar which it of course took 5 times for it to take, and got the fuck out of there and back to my room to watch Taxi Cab Confessions and oh yes, it was a very good one.
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