I'm doing an open-mike stand-up gig at Yonge and Eglinton. I finish my set at the bar after narrowly avoiding a fist fight over my controversial spritzing and meet a girl hammering back shooters. My confidence is up because I've gotten big laughs, so I introduce myself. "My name is Angel. Tomorrow you can tell your friends you met an angel!" she slurs.
How innovative, a play on words. She's hot, drunk and wily with wit. Another drink for the lady. She confides in me that today she was fired from Hooters. Apparently, she had a nasty habit of having one too many drinks before arriving at work.
We close the bar and it's time to move on. I hail a cab and we head toward my garret in luxurious North Parkdale. I ask the cab to take a sidetrack. "We need some drugs. Where do you suggest?"
We arrive at a donut shop at Dupont and Lansdowne. I tell the cabbie to wait for us. We get out of the car, and Angel, sensing my "media-affected fear of stereotypes," holds onto me like I'm her pimp to give me street cred.
The cab gets flanked by willing crack dealers looking to make a buck who sit on bikes too small for them. Several guys ask what I need. I say a 10 spot of grass.
All the dealers leave except one guy, who drawls, "C'mon, star, me have what cha need!"
We follow him into an apartment. He tells us we're all going into an elevator. He'll get off at the eighth floor while Angel and I are supposed to go to the 10th floor, wait for a loud banging and then come back down and he'll have our stuff.
We drop him at eight, go to 10, make out and wait. Twenty minutes pass. I'm getting hard and wanna fuck but know an elevator shaft overtaken by the scent of rotting curry isn't the place for a women with the fine sensibilities of a girl named Angel. I want to leave, but I know we need the weed to get Angel in the fucking mood.
I wait five more minutes. We decide together that this is turning into more of an opportunity to get stabbed than to get buzzed. As we take the elevator down, it stops on nine. A black temptress gets on. She appears to be a hooker looking for a fix.
Her eyes are frantic, I suppose looking for cash or any kind of resource to get drugs. I lower my glance and see blood running down both of her inner thighs. She's working on her period. Now instead of thinking she's just about getting high, I think that m aybe she's working the streets because she has to feed her kids. My hard-on drops down four notches.
We arrive in the lobby to see our man standing there. He hands me my $10 sack angrily, but now he wants $20. He looks betrayed, like I was trying to bail on him, which I was. I give him the $20 because I prefer a good 100 per cent price hike to death in an alley any day.
Angel and I arrive home, find we've got no rollies and go right to bed.
We make out, and, no, because she's not high, she doesn't wanna fuck. I rub her shaved mound and tongue her clit, which is raunchily sweaty.
Since I figure I'm gonna hit it with a Hooters chick, I'm rock hard. Pulling her hiphuggers down, I continue working away with my tongue until she says, "I'm sober. I gotta sleep. Maybe in the morning."
I rise four hours later with a throbbing monster knocking on her back door. She arises, strokes it once, tells me she doesn't want to ruin what we had with oral sex, even though it would be the best of my life. She gets dressed and tells me she'll call me.
Angel never went back to Hooters, but she developed a habit of calling me and hanging up whenever she got drunk over the next eight months. I tried to get together with her once. She wanted to go out to a movie, but I offered the "come over to my place and let's rent a movie" ploy.
She knew that was just man-speak for "instead of my paying your way to a movie with the chance that you might go directly home afterwards, how about I trap you at my house with a bad video and we only watch half of it and have sex?" That's as close as I got, but even though I never even got her pants off, I'd like to think I've given hope to all those working men who go to Hooters and fantasize about hooking up with the lovely girls in orange shorts serving suicide wings.
One word of advice: avoid the clam dish - it's salty.