So, You’re a Pimp. Vagina: How Does it Smell?

One of my early encounters with liberalism at Brown University wasn’t even on campus. I met a girl while I was at a bar called the Yellow Kitten on Block Island, a small old-style colonial island off the coast of Narragansett, Rhode Island, my hometown. The area is a popular tourist spot in the summer, and thousands of people show up from all over the country to enjoy the beaches, fresh seafood, and tourist activities. It was the Fourth of July, and as you can imagine, an old-style colonial setting such as Block Island makes for a great celebration spot for that specific holiday. Thousands of people flocked to the island.

I was nineteen, and in the bar. Give me a break. I’m Irish.

Across the bar I saw a very attractive female, and anyone who knows me would also know that I would waste no time. You learn pretty quickly in your pubescent years that the pretty ones don’t stay lonely too long. This girl looked slightly older than me, and the only thing I found bizarre about her looks was that she was wearing some sort of alternative-style skirt that seemed to be made out of paper. I remember thinking that it looked as if she had made it herself in home-economics class in the third grade or something. Still, like The Flash, I was right beside her introducing myself. I remember her looking slightly miserable.

The typical starter questions were asked. What’s your name? Where ya from? Where do you go to school? What do you study? Is your boyfriend within a 100-foot radius? Her name was Katie. Katie or Katy or Kadi or Kaity or K.D. I don’t know how she spelled her name because I never got the chance to send her a love-letter.

Things went great at first, though. I remember making her laugh, but I don’t remember exactly what I said. I think I might have told her that I liked her paper skirt. That would have been funny.

She said she had graduated from Brown University. Great! Any competent womanizer knows that it always helps to have one common piece of ground for both of you to stand on, and I was going into my sophomore year at Brown in the fall. We were getting along great before I asked, “So what do you do now that you’ve graduated?”

“I moved back to San Francisco and I run my own business.” At 19 years-old I didn’t know any better. I couldn’t see the warning signs back then. Brown University. San Francisco. The paper skirt. I wasn’t going to get along with this chick. Oh, and I better not call her “chick” either.

“Oh yeah!? What’s your business?” I asked, pretending to care.

“I provide troubled women with sexual pleasure.”

“What?”

“Forget it. I don’t want to get into it,” she said.

“No, no. I want you to tell me about it.” This 19 year-old was suddenly very interested.