The otherr night, my friend John and I went to a DVD release party, which is sort of like a movie premier only sad. Even more sad because this release party was for the Penthouse: My First Girlfriend DVD (tagline: “Thy wanted it to be special . . .”). How did we end up here? Let’s just say that in my line of work, these invitations are constantly forwarded to you by people who have better things to do. And when I saw they were giving away vodka, I figured alcohol + soft core all girl pornography – dignity = a great time.
I was not right.
But I did spend a couple of hours there, and since I didn’t have a blog in college, I really missed out on the opportunity to write posts about girls making out. Unfortunately, I also missed out on the opportunity to write posts about girls making out this time too, because none did. The closest I saw two girls get was when one used a vodka bottle as a prop penis and the other one bent over in front of her, but even then they didn’t seem sincere.
So, in the interest of you, the reader, I decided to spice up the content. Everyone remembers the “choose your own adventure” books from their youth, or, if you were developmentally challenged and didn’t read maybe you remember other kids talking about them. Well, the same premise applies here. At the end of the intro there will be two story lines to choose from, one marked (tits) and one marked (ass). One will be the story of what actually happened and one will be the story as it should have happened. Basically, follow either the tits, the ass, or follow both. Just make sure “it’s special.”
John and I meet outside the club in midtown where the party is being held. I am a little late after having a wardrobe crisis. I figure at a Penthouse party there is a fine line between overdressed (desperate) and underdressed (touching yourself through your pocket). For some reason I can hear a scantily clad playmate whispering to her friend, “I can’t believe he’s wearing slacks.” In my heart of hearts, I know this is unreasonable, yet it leaves me standing in front of my closet wishing I had more “dressy casual” clothes, which, in turn, leaves me feeling not so good about myself. Regardless, we meet out front, trying to appear like we’ve “been there before” when really if you’ve been to a Penthouse party before chances are you aren’t concerned with things like “appearances.”
We walk up to the bouncer, who happens to be very large, black and oddly well-dressed (I’m self-conscious already) and he says, “May I help you gentlemen?”
“We’re here for the party?” in the form of a question.
“Depends, are there naked women in there?” in the form of a stupid joke.
“What party?” the bouncer cooly responds.
This throws me. There are people within earshot of us, people who are going places that have nothing to do with soft-core porn. As a general rule, I am usually one of those people. And I know what I would say about someone if I overheard them say, “The Penthouse party.” I would say something like, “Penthouse is a poor pimp’s Playboy,” and whoever I was with would politely make pretend to laugh.
So I lean in and whisper, “The Penthouse party.” I immediately feel like someone’s sketchy uncle. The bouncer waves us in. Apparently, whatever list our names were on was merely a list for knowing who to blackmail, not for admittance purposes.
We walk down dimly lit stairs, not saying a word to each other. We are unsure of what we are walking into. Will it be like a bachelor party, where men sit around drinking and ogling strippers? Or will it be like when you were a teenager and someone got their hands on a porn video and you sat there in your basement next to your buddy watching it not saying a word?
As we get closer to the entrance, we hear music. That is all we hear. We look at each other we a knowing look, a look that shares the sentiment, “We should turn ba-” But before we could complete the thought we were in the room: us, and about five other people, in a room large enough for a hundred. I wonder for a second if this is meant to be a surprise party, and any minute a hoard of scantily clad girls will jump out of hiding places holding DVDs. This does not happen.
Instead, John and I deal with this like we deal with most problems and drink. The party is hosted by V2* vodka, so that is the only thing that is free. Not like I care, of course. They could be offering whiskey-tinis and I would drink them as long as they were free. So John and I settle down at a table and take it all in.
I may have dozed off, but two hours later we are ready to leave. The place has slowly become filled with exactly the kind of people you would guess would be at a Penthouse party: old men with young girlfriends, frat boys, washed-up Penthouse models and teenage girls abused/naïve enough to respond to those ads on Craigslist to “make quick money” by “mingling” at a party and “bending over to pick things up in your miniskirt.”
At some point, I have been handed a raffle ticket. It says “Staples” on it and has a number. I have no idea what it is for. John and I decide it is worth staying to find out. Besides, it appears a “show” is about to start (there is indeed a spotlight and a makeshift stage). I save us a couple of prime seats on a couch and John goes to get the drinks. Just as he leaves, a woman sits down next to me. Because I know you guys are all shallow, she is not attractive. She isn’t ugly either, she is just stuck in the meaty portion of the curve reserved for women who shop at Ann Taylor. She introduces herself as though we are at a corporate mixer.
I don’t remember her name exactly, but I do remember that she is married, from Ottawa, and a “special needs” teacher. All in all, it is a unspectacular encounter made memorable by two things:
1. John comes back to tell us that the open bar is over. We gesture that, taking this into account, our reason to be there is over as well. She nearly jumps off the couch and says, “Well first round’s on me!” I’ve been alive for 27 years, drinking for 20 of them, and never has a random girl bought me a drink. It was so awkward that I immediately assumed she would spike my drink and excise my kidney for sale on the Canadian black market.
2. Just as John and I are weighing our options, a shortish, middle-aged hyper-active man walks up behind Canadian Teacher and puts his hand on her shoulder.
“I thought I lost you. You having fun?” he asks.
“Yes, a ton,” she responds.
“OK, I’m going over here now, but I’m coming back for you.” He winks.
She explains that this guy walked up to her outside and asked if she wanted to go to a party with him. And, of course, because it would be impolite to not go to a porno DVD release party when invited on the street, she says yes. This is when John and I decide that maybe another round of drinks is a bad idea, and as we leave Canadian Teacher gives us both a hearty handshake. Her wide eyes are communicating either, “HELP ME! I’M A KIDNAP VICTIM” or “I’M FUCKING CRAZY.” Either way, not my problem.
On the way out, John and I stop to look in the gift bags to see if there is anything worthwhile. They are empty. It seems a fitting end to our night.
“Hell yeah there’s naked women in there!” the bouncer responds.
John and I give the bouncer a fist pound as we brush past him into the club. Immediately we are wading through women in lingerie as though a whore levy just broke. One grabs me by the arm and whispers in my ear, “I love your outfit.”
John and I make our way to a reserved table where we sit and have vodka martinis served to us. A topless model mistakes me for Joseph Fiennes and asks me for my autograph. I give it to her. Everywhere there are women holding hands, playing footsy and motor boating one another.
We are informed that the “show” will be a dramatic interpretation of the DVD story with 10 Penthouse models on stage. They ask for a volunteer from the audience. John lifts up my arm for me, and they immediately call on me. I sheepishly make my way to the stage, pausing halfway there to spin around and throw John a “You dog!” finger point. Everyone is clapping.
Once on stage, the women inform me that they will each act out their “first time” with me. The task seems daunting, but I’m not about to let the audience down. The first model approaches me and sits on my lap. She begins to address the audience, “I was 16 and at sleep away camp.” But she doesn’t get any further; she is interrupted by a spontaneous orgasm. Like a string of dominoes, all the women on the stage break into orgasms of their own. It is a cacophony of screams. I throw the model from my lap, stand up and bow for the audience. The curtain comes down and I am whisked out the back entrance.
Outside, I meet a Canadian special needs teacher who sneaks up behind me and presses a chloroformed rag against my mouth (I knew she was a Canadian special needs teacher because she introduced herself while attacking me). The next morning I woke in a bathtub full of ice with a kidney missing. There was a note on the toilet that read, “Don’t worry, the police are on their way, aye.” I resolved right then and there that my Penthouse partying days were over.
* I found out the next day that V2 vodka contains caffeine and taurine, the essential amino acid found in Red Bull and other energy drinks. meaning that I was wide awake when I got home, left with plenty of time to recount the night’s events. Needless to say, I hate V2 vodka. But I have to thank the guy who works for V2 vodka who emailed me the banner picture after I approached him at the party and told him I wrote an entertainment blog and would love to cover the party. In hindsight, I can’t believe how much is wrong with that sentence.