Ms. Adventures #2: No Sex in The Nazi Room

no sex in the nazi room

  23 years old. I was drinking in the dark hollow that is the Ken Club. I was adorned in my finest garb, a brown rose pattern sleeveless dress, purchased that afternoon from that most exclusive of boutiques, Ross. I didn’t wash it before wearing it; I have been putting the "ass" in classy since 1984.

I had only one mission that evening: I was going to get laid. Well, no, there was another

mission, which was to get as inappropriately intoxicated as possible without getting kicked out. To be fair, this was standard protocol every time I went to a bar, party, or was alone in my bedroom playing Pokemon Snap.

My target had already been selected, a scraggly haired 30 something we will refer to as, “Thing 1.” In addition to my new outfit, I had also meticulously prepared a brand new joke that I knew would guarantee my entry into Pound Town.

Thing 1 didn’t immediately walk over to me and tell me how hot I looked – A direct challenge. I decided to be polite, and give him a few courtesy minutes to gather his thoughts. He fit the description of ‘Standard Guy’ perfectly. His lackluster appearance and personality were not what intrigued me; it was his obvious lack of interest that held my self-destructive nature captive in his tractor beam.

It was time to unleash my joke of mass destruction. I ordered another gin and tonic, sized up my prey, and made my way over doing my haters gon’ hate strut.

“Hey. Congo is one of the greatest movies of all time.”

“No, it’s not.” he replied.

This is where I should have let the joke die.

“No, it is, and here’s why. There is a talking gorilla, an army of evil gorillas who are guarding a crystal inside of a volcano, and, oh yeah, the crystal is also a laser!”

“That movie sucked.”

So, that happened. I made a hasty retreat back to the bar, obtained another drink, and began to internally interrogate myself as to why I thought a mid 90s sci-fi movie would ever be decent joke material. I suppose it may have had something to do with being incredibly stoned while I watched Congo on TBS.

The hour began to grow late and I was no closer to achieving my goal. As Thing 1 began to leave the bar I made one last desperate effort to seal the deal.

“All right, well, see ya, Sunny.”

“I should probably come with you.”

“Oh. I don’t think that is such a good idea.”

“Oh, but it is. I’m hot, I have great boobs, I’m hilarious, I have a great butt, I won’t steal your shit—”

“FINE. FUCKING FINE. LET’S GO, SUNNY.”

I had resorted to auctioning myself off much like livestock, and it worked. Things happened in the usual way that night, and if I have to go into greater detail than that, then the public education system has failed you.

The next morning, I awoke from my booze-induced slumber to find that Thing 1 was in the shower. This was the perfect moment to take my leave. As I stumbled into the burning rays of the daystar still in last night’s clothes, I realized that I didn’t have my car. Going back inside and imploring Thing 1 for a ride was not an option. So I did what any dignified person in my position would do, I called a friend, gave him my coordinates, and told him he had better not ask me any goddamn questions.

A few nights later I was out at Scolari’s Office horrifying the crowd with my drunken rendition of Third Eye Blind’s “Jumper.” This was years before the bar became The Office and  its signature scent of urine was replaced with Axe Body spray. Karaoke night at Scolari’s was the shit. Cheap drinks, a multitude of novelty songs for me to “sing,” and no matter how scummy I looked, I still ranked fairly high on the sliding scale of attractiveness. It’s easy to be a babe when you’re grading on a curve.

It was in this miasma of sleaze that I met “Thing 2.” He said some things to me I can’t remember, but I assume I found them charming since I ended up giving him my number. What I can recall is that he was having difficulty smoking his cigarette and talking at the same time.

A drunken encounter circa 1:30 a.m. outside of a sketchy bar, what could go wrong?

The next night, I went over to his house, which was also his place of employment. He assured me he was living there “mostly legally.” To this day, I am not sure what constitutes as mostly legal. He led me up a flight of stairs and into his bedroom where we commenced to drink. I learned a valuable lesson that night, the combination of gin and being 23 years old equates to not noticing warning signs approaching at warp speed.

“You look a lot different than I remember.” said Thing 2 while gulping his gin as though it were water.

“Oh. Um, okay."

“Your hair is different.”

“Oh, well, it’s naturally kind of wavy.”

“It looks really Jewey.”

Shitty, yet accurate. For reasons yet obscure, I did not confirm that my veins indeed contain the blood of the Chosen People and instead laughed nervously and changed the subject.

Thing 2 went on to bore me about his job, multiple D.U.I.’s, and rocky relationship with his father. Hades must have heard my prayer, because he abruptly ended his rant about his shoddy personal life and decided to put on the movie, Stalingrad, a film that portrays WW2 Germans in a sympathetic light. You know, real first date stuff.

I was bored, drunk, and figured fuck it, I’m already here I might as well sleep with him. During insertion was when I decided to take a look around his room.

“Oh, there appears to be quite a lot of World War 2 memorabilia in here. In fact, there only seems to be World War 2 memorabilia in here. Wait. Holy Hell, it’s Nazi memorabilia.”

I, Sunny Katz, was in the midst of having sex with a Nazi.

I am not a practicing Jew, but I am Jewish enough to be concerned about my personal safety when around people of anti-Semitic beliefs. However, the train had already left the station; an object in motion tends to stay in motion; and I make really bad decisions when I’m wildly shit faced.

Afterwards, As Thing 2 fell asleep, I took to plotting my next move. Fucking a Nazi is one thing, but sleeping next to one is just plain wrong.  One must draw the line somewhere.

It was time to escape and for him to LET MY PUSSY GO!

With the remaining shreds of my dignity and my pants, I disappeared like a thief in the night. I swore that would be the last time alcohol clouded my dealings with sex partners.

Spoiler alert, it wasn’t.

As I stumbled down 5th and Pennsylvania, a feeling of familiarity washed over me. I looked up and to the left, and there it was, Thing 1’s apartment. All remaining shreds of dignity abruptly vanished. But at least only 50% of my troubles were Nazis. Besides, this is my fuck block, and rent is cheap.