Brennan FoleyLadies, if you want to be a professional, please choose wisely.
I went to a party on Saturday.
It was a party with old friends, which I normally would avoid like a broad with a yeast infection. There's a reason they're called old friends – because you've went and found yourself some better, newer ones with more to offer.
But this occasion was a little different. One of the individuals in this particular group of faded memories – one who actually has some redeeming qualities – has cancer, so it was determined that the best way to make him feel better was to get him shit-fucked on booze and shove drugs in his face.
If you take 4 more pills, you can make that 6 by the bar into a 10.
Obviously an expert was needed for this operation. Since that's my usual Tuesday night, I was clearly needed to make sure things didn't get fucked up.
Of course, with The Foley at the helm, things went swimmingly.
That's not the point, though. I'm not an amateur. You shouldn't expect anything less than 100 percent satisfaction every time Brennan Foley is involved in such an operation.
[EDITOR'S NOTE: Anyone else turned on by the third-person references? Yeah, us neither. Carry on.]
The point is this: Somewhere along the way I ran into this chick who looked vaguely familiar to me. She said hi and I responded with some stupid look of confusion before pretending I knew her and making what was surely charming and witty small talk.
After I moved on, I did a little detective work.
“Who the hell is that broad over there?”
I was informed she was a porn star and it all came rushing back to me. And by “all,” I mean “blood” and by “me,” I mean “Foley Jr.”
How could I forget such a woman? A woman so in tune with her passion and her work? If you haven't had the pleasure, there's something to be said for a professional in the sexual arts. This one was no exception.
It's been a few years and much has happened, but I'm far too handsome to have Alzheimer's. Herein lies the problem.
I began to think the drugs had gotten their meaty hooks into me good, while the whiskey – my life blood – had dulled my once-keen memory.
But then I realized it was simply the endless string of mediocre, arbitrary sex and masturbation that caused me to forget the passionate, filthy, knock-down, drag-out romps that are now way too few and far between.
I had completely forgotten what I was missing.
It wasn't long ago that these porn star trysts were part of my usual schedule of nights of excess and days of debauchery.
While those now seem like they're somewhere in a galaxy far, far away, I can clearly remember the last woman who stood with me drink for drink and line for line. It happened just the other day.
When did turning yourself into a degenerate become the thing to do and what happened to learning how to please a man?
This city (or my lifestyle, two things which are essentially one in the same) has become so inundated with coke whores, whiskey wenches and raver chicks that a guy isn't even able to put a name to the face of good sex anymore.
So, look, if you want to be a pro at something, focus on the sex and leave the rest to me. We'll all be better off.
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