Anal beads in hand, I’m sporting a fresh tube of KY. My earlier purchase, a twelve pack of condoms, sits on my dresser, next to my old fake ID and a dog-eared copy of Cosmo (I’m raw dawgin y’all.). My mission is clear.

After years of bar hopping, beer drinking fun, I’ve come to realize I’m not getting the full package. Sure, my drunken exploits are well recorded, but they’re missing a certain, what-say, je ne sais quoi. I never get laid.

Being a bar belle is a tough job, it requires dedication, an inquisitive eye and the desire to get bloody sloshed and then make up stories in the morning. Maybe I could get laid, if not for my propensity to pass out before the act itself.

There have been a few BJs here and there, but these usually end badly (think lockjaw). So it’s time, I’m making a stand, no more pussyfooting around 40-year-olds for free drinks. I’m getting myself some ass, some young ass, and I’m riding it ’til morning.

OK, OK, so I know you’re all wondering about the anal beads …

* * *

I feel a cold rush or air slowly stream across my face. It’s morning, but where am I? It dawns on me, I’m alone, semi-dressed, I’m hoping I got laid, though its hard to tell (the anal beads are still clean). I’m alone on a couch, in a small sparsely decorated room. A hand touches my shoulder, and I spin around. “Good morning you.”

He’s thin and wiry, probably under 40 (rock and roll dude!). But did we sleep together? I’m not sure.

“So” I say. “How was it for you?”

“I’m here for you dear, how do you feel about it?”

“I feel a little weird. Like something in me has changed.”

“I’m happy to hear that. It means I did my job well.”

He did his job? Whoa. Did I just pay for sex? For a moment I consider grabbing for my purse, checking for my wallet.

A woman joins us, carrying a bowl of chicken soup.

“Here you go,” she says smiling. “Remember me?”

Shit. What was I thinking? I certainly can’t afford this kind of party. How am I gonna explain it when this shows up on my dad’s credit card statement?

The woman speaks, “I just want you to know that I was happy I could help you last night,” she says. “You’ve changed my perspective to you know … ” She winks.

Aww well, Fuck it. Who hasn’t messed around? I scan the room, searching for something else to connect to. Hey, what’s a cross doing here? I’m Jewish. Moments later, I’m sprinting out of a church, screaming bloody murder.

“COME BACK!” I hear the man yell. “I thought you wanted to be saved.”

So I learned a lesson last night – anal beads look a lot like a rosary and you should never tell a priest you’re on a “mission.”