Attack of the She-Males: Or How I End Up in Adams Morgan Every Weekend

I don't care. Don't tell me I'm wrong. Don't tell me there's another way. It never fails...

Now, having been a DC resident going on five years, I consider myself educated, knowledgeable even, about the nightlife of this city. Wanna know where to grab some good Ethiopian grub? Gotcha. Mexican? Covered. How about some sushi? Just say, "Konichiwa, bitches." I'll even dress up all chic-like and escort you to Seasons or Capitol Grille, Mortons or Milano.

I've been to every cheesy club in NW. I've been to the hotspots in NE, SE, and SW...even on the evenings of various shootings (I'm telling ya, it's just my luck). I frequent the many lounges of downtown, hell...I'll even occasionally hit up the frat boy bars of Georgetown. Just keep me out of Arlington, for the love of God...I don't even wanna touch on that subject.

MASSIVE RUN-ON SENTENCE WARNING...NOW:
So, how is it, being the hip young urbanite that I am, that almost every Saturday night, rain or shine, wind or hail, presidential election or terrorist attack (pretty much the same thing in my book), when the bartender yells "Last call" and turns up the lights, I wink and slink away guilt-free from the hottie I was chatting up and from whom I took plenty of free drinks, and I then stumble to the door in a vodka-drenched stupor to...what? What's this?

OHMIGOSH! The horror! The humanity! What is this swirling leviathan of chaos? Kiddies, prepare yourselves: It's 18th Street at approximately 3:30AM on any given Sunday morning. Well, I'll tell ya, nothing sobers you up quicker than that scene. Geez Louise Almighty! Upon leaving the haven of the bar-cum-danceclub-cum-meatmarket, it hits you: the stench of 18th Street. Sweat, stale alcohol, vomit, blood, pizza, gyros and Ethiopian food mix with a not-so-subtle hint of sweaty balls in pantyhose (but I'll get to the she-males later).

I promise you, I can never quite remember how I ended up in Adams Morgan. The evening must have taken a turn for the worst at some point. It usually begins with a great meal or a cocktail in some stylish DC venue. Maybe we stopped at a houseparty and a few beers turned into a power hour, complete with jello-shots, flipcup, and drunken sorority girls, nay, sorority girl wannabes, dancing topless on couches (you know who you are, but lucky for you, you all look alike to me). Or maybe it was a really lame houseparty, and we drank all their booze just to punish them for being so uncool. Regardless, at some point we ran out of ideas, or one of my drunken friends just yelled out, "Adams Morgan!" and off we go, skipping toward the threshold of hell.

Inevitably, when I arrive on the 18th Street scene, I'm in that delightfully giddy, drunken reverie-type mood. All the people are "beautiful", even the bum by the ATM. The ladies are decked out in their cutest jeans, halter tops and stilettos, makeup flawless. The guys are resplendent in khakis and button downs, having just lacquered on some gel to keep their hair from fro-ing out in this humidity. I don't even notice the long lines outside Sake, Tom Tom or Heaven & Hell. There don't seem to be any at all...if there was a cover charge, I sure don't remember it. There's a seemingly endless wad of cash tucked in either my bra or the back pocket of my too-tight jeans. It all seems so glittery, so energetic, so perfect....ahhhh....

THEN EXPLAIN TO ME HOW IN THE HELL THIS MOSHPIT OF HUMANITY IS THE SAME UTOPIA UPON WHICH I ARRIVED JUST THREE HOURS EARLIER?!?!?!? Now, the scene is chaos. People are shoving, trying to get out of the bar, trying to get a slice of pizza, trying to get to their cars, trying to get a phone number, AND OBVIOUSLY TRYING TO ANNOY THE HELL OUT OF ME. Where are the beautiful people from the beginning of my evening? I saw them in line...I saw them dancing beside me...but they have all disappeared. The chic and fabulous are nowhere to be found. I shit you not. Upon leaving any Adams Morgan bar at closing time, I encounter only one thing: a SLEW of black men, most with more gold teeth than regular teeth at all, fumbling all over themselves to touch me, hold my hand or get my number. Now, I do not say this as if I were the hottest thing to ever walk the planet. In fact, it was positively terrifying the first time it happened, because I have never ever received that much attention from one man in my entire life, let alone a dozen all at once.

Once I break out of the Dating Game, I come face-to-face with a herd of people (most of the females looking like they skip most meals, anyway) literally wolfing down gigantic, gooey slices of pizza. You ever tried that stuff when you're sober? I promise you'll never eat it again when you're drunk. I turn away in disgust, searching for my friends, when I hear someone call my name. I whirl around in response and gasp for breath as someone grabs me in a bear hug and lifts me off of my feet. Nevermind the fact that I have no idea who it is.

"You look great!" He says, as I choke for air and struggle to remember where I've seen that face before. Oh, my precious Lord. My mind rewinds back to high school and a certain group of neanderthals that took such utter pleasure in making the lives of others (not just mine) so unspeakably miserable for four years. I know that face, dammit. He's that guy. The asshole. The one they called...

"[Insert cocky, third-generation-over-indulged-snob name here], it's been a long time. How are you?", I say, smiling my fakest smile. (He's really drunk, that's how he is. Pizza goo is hanging from one lip as he introduces me to his friend, an equally troglodyte-looking dude in those awful J.Crew shorts and a polo with, yes, you guessed it, a popped collar) Several moments of awkward silence pass after a cursory "what-are-you-up-to now" type convo, and I announce with great relief, "Well, nice running into you...(and not knowing what else to say) um, see ya at the reunion, I guess?"

"Yea, baby! October 7! Are you gonna be there? You gotta come! It will be so great! Just like old times!" I'll never know if he saw my jaw drop to the ground. I couldn't even think straight enough to remember how long I'd been out of high school, let alone remember the date of an upcoming reunion that will surely make for an interesting blog story.

"Er, um, sure." I say, waving goodbye and quickly making my exit. I quickly find my friends, including [insert hot boy who inevitably "just wants to be friends" here] and some astonishingly beautiful girl he's decided to bed down that even, er, morning, er, whatever.

After nearly having to arm wrestle some belligerent chick trying to get to her boyfriend at oh-so-holy Catholic U. while shouting expletives at me and questioning my African-American-ness repeatedly because my party didn't want to split a cab with her, I finally arrive home just in time to pass out naked on my bed. Alone. As usual.

At some point, hopefully many hours later, I'm awaked by my blaringly loud cell phone. Oh, joy. It's [Hot boy who wants to be "just friends"]. I muster the strength to speak. "So how was your night with what's-her-face?"

"Oh, yea. About that." He pauses. "I respect women, but I swear, if you tell anyone, I will punch you in the face without hesitation. She, well, she...[Astonishingly beautiful girl] wasn't really a she."

Aha. Balls in pantyhose. Gets you every time.