Lez Chronicles de Paris, Part Un.

My last night in San Francisco, the eve of my journey to Paris, should have been mellow. Of course, this was absolutely not the case. I should have packed at home, leisurely, taking my time, perhaps enjoying a glass of champagne, savoring these hours, where the toughest decision I have to make is whether to bring both pairs of Louboutins, or if the one studded pair would do the trick.

Instead, I get talked into a last night out, with the promise that I will have plenty of time to pack later!

Right.

I obviously have zero spine and completely cave to peer pressure when it includes promises of free booze, time with my friends, and girls girls girls--Cecilia and Ruth have my psychology down. Thus, on Saturday night, I ended up at some hipster pseudo-artistic event in the SOMA where I had way too many red headed sluts (the drink you perv) and checked out girls' asses with some random dude. From there I skipped over to the Lex with double trouble (C and Ruth). We ordered a few rounds of tequila shots, spoke of our undying love for one another, and made vows to give up monogamy for Lent! as well as other typical drunken banter.

We all know its fun and games until someone loses an eye. Into the bar walked the two blondes from a few weeks ago (you may or may not recall...I do only vaguely).

I did my casual eye contact/nod/dismissal and returned to theorizing about monogamy, praying they don’t approach. Of course, being blonde, they did.

Cecilia could hardly contain her laughter, hands clasped over her mouth, and Ruth just shook her head, rolling her eyes, somewhere between disbelief, disgust, and jealousy.

Hi… I wavered thinking NAMES NAMES NAMES!

Hey Lu… semi-unison, non-semi drawl.

Hey...

I’m Ruth.

Cecilia.

They could care less about Ruth and Cecilia but smiled vapidly, eyes attached to me.

Serena.

Kelly.

Saved. Awesome. We all stood there, looking at each other. I felt ridiculously drunk but Ruth and C looked to have sobered up slightly. Or maybe it was my imagination because endless drinks and five rounds of tequila shots do not a sober girl make. All of this (this being standing and making zero attempt at conversation) proved to be exhausting for Serena and Kelly.

I’m thirsty pouted Kelly with a face I assume she thought was adorably irresistible. Though drunk, I was not stupid and ignored the bait. The power butch standing next to us, with a perfectly coiffed fauxhawk circa 2006 and a stud in her chin, did not, and immediately took over the situation, getting cosmos for the girls. I took this opportunity to slink away, friends in tow. We erupted into giggles and Ruth grabbed me.

I’m thiiiirsty she whined in a baby voice and then bursts into a belly laugh as Cecilia batted eyelashes over astonishingly vacant eyes and shimmied her cleavage.

To celebrate the disentanglement, I think, we ordered several more rounds of tequila shots. Perfect idea.

At some point, in my tequila covered fog, I recall Serena returning to our corner and leaning on my arm, kissing my neck sloppily. The next thing I know, Kelly has arrived on the scene, and shit, she is not amused. And then neither is PBWF #1 (power butch with fauxhawk). Um crap. Back up? Can I call in some back up? Someone just shoved me from behind and now Kelly has Serena by the hair, and wait did PBWF #1 just punch me in the stomach? SHIT SHIT SHIT!

I covered my face with one hand NOT MY FACE! NOT MY FACE YOU CRAZY BITCHES! and grabbed Ruth's hand while Cecilia sandwiched my other side. We shoved our way out of the Lex, the brawl spilling out to the streets behind us. I stared, shocked and fascinated, as Serena and Kelly screamed at each other. Then I saw PBWF #1 storming towards me and did what any strong, independent, powerful woman would do: ran the hell away.

And so.

I woke up an hour before I had to leave for the airport. This led to a shove fest: I shoved the rest of…everything… into my suitcase. Anything forgotten could be bought in Paris. Finally I grabbed water, vitamin water, sbucks, a mega dose of aspirin, a vicodin for the plane, and jumped into a cab. I was off.

A bit later, as I sat in my tiny seat on Air France flight #917 trying to relax away the mayhem of the past 24 hours, everything quickly faded away. What was left then, were two things: the knowledge that I was embarking on the greatest escape of all--Paris--and that crazy bitch didn't get my face!

Always,

Louise