About a year ago I was able to snag a guest post on a website called Curvy Girl Guide. It was a quick little rant about being honest and expressive with your online avatars. After it was posted I got a call from my mother, who asked if I had taken “writer’s liberties” when writing it.
To her, “writer’s liberties” are little white lies to pad a story. To everybody else, it’s a phrase my mom made up to ask me if I was a dirty fucking liar just making things up for the attention.
Apparently I had referenced some past event that involved me being intoxicated and possibly messed up on pills in a hot tub, and my mom, being a mom and everything, was hoping that I had lied about it. It definitely wasn’t a lie, because drinking in hot tubs is like, my favorite thing.
Just the other week I told the story of waking up in a mansion in North Scottsdale with a Mormon. I didn’t think much of it at the time I posted it, just assumed it was another one of those funny little stories that come with the infusion of youth and alcohol.
I received seven texts that day asking if it actually happened, asking if I had taken “writer’s liberties.”
Three of them were from people who I’ve slept with or dated. Because sleeping with someone that has more money than them is like, a threat? Or something?
This happens sometimes with these kinds of stories, immediate questions about the authenticity of it all, as if wealthy people don’t have sex, as if bizarre situations are incapable of happening.
Is this how deep the class divide is in America now? Are we not even allowed to have the occasional hot bang with a millionaire without somebody questioning it? I’ve been asked why I don’t have pictures, and believe me, I tried, but after a few attempts at discretely taking a photo of this guy’s house I had to admit to myself that I was being a total fucking weirdo, and decided to be grateful that someone was willing to hook up with my incompetent ass in the first place.
I will admit to omitting one detail. But it was totally on accident.
He drove me home in a fucking minivan.
I didn’t even realize I’d forgotten to mention it until after I posted it, and it was such a “seriously what the fuck?!” moment on top of a series of “no fucking way” events that I just had no way to explain it.
A motherfucking minivan.
The next evening he offered to meet for drinks, but considering I was spending the day vomiting in my condo’s toilet (aw my first Arizona hangover puke), it seemed like a bad idea.
I’m really starting to regret not taking up that offer, because you guys, I have just as many questions as you do.
I thought Mormons couldn’t drink?
Why did you bring up that you’re Mormon in the middle of a dude-on-dude make out session?
Where do you get all of your money?
A minivan? What the fuck are you serious?
Can I have some of your money?
With a blog, a certain amount of veiling needs to take place to protect other parties involved. Names are changed, because if they weren’t, there would be a lot of hurt feelings, everyone I know would get fired from their jobs for even visiting this vulgar website, and some news personalities in Columbus would be pretty pissed at me, and I’m already on thin ice with those guys for always talking about how modern journalism is a joke.
This is my promise, that if I ever wake up in a Mormon’s mansion again, I will take a picture of the swim-up bar.
Or at least a few shots of the minivan.