Saturday night after the burlesque show, which featured an outstanding performance by Miss Maulie, we found our way over to Oil Can Harry's to satisfy my friends' urge to shake their moneymakers to the thumpa thumpa thumpa of DJ Bryan Konrad's offerings. On my first foray into the bar I was stopped by a handsome Puerto Rican man named Danny who complimented my eyes ("beeyootiful") and curls ("Eye luve dem") while sliding his hand down my back and into my jeans. I introduced myself, "hi, I'm Kaya and that is my thong" before stopping him from caressing my nalgas. Later on, when I turned to thank Danny for a drink he'd purchased he realized to his horror that I have a cold sore.
See, I've gotten cold sores since I was a toddler. They're triggered by stress and sunburned or chapped lips. I happen to have one now. It isn't huge and it isn't too bad of one so I guess it was easy to miss in a dimly lit bar. However, the brighter lights of the patio must've had some magic power to magnify because Danny was stupendously disgusted. "You have the err-pez?" was his horrified question. "Do you have the err-pez down there?" Now I'm not opposed to a stranger buying me a drink. And I didn't kick said stranger in the groin when he fondled my chones. But I do have a problem with being asked if I had the err-pez 'down there'. I did answer honestly (HELL NO) but was probably as shocked as I've ever been during a conversation at the Can.
Here's hoping you don't have the err-pez down there. And if you do, please remember to take your meds on a daily basis and practice safe funtimes. Eye luve funtimes.