Perks of a one night stand: cut the karaoke line

Set the stage: Koreatown, LA, 2013ish, Brass Monkey karaoke bar, sometime after 10:00 PM

Main character: Me, early twenties, raging alcoholic, dressed in a high-waisted black skirt with a navy blue lace crop top stretched across my enormous chest, dancing sloppily in electric blue high heels, waiting to destroy at the microphone

Minor characters: Wonderful friends of mine, always down to party; DJ in charge of the karaoke order, average appearance, god-like power in this bar alone, nothing notable, really

I got my request in fairly early, so I was only on my second drink when the DJ called my name.

Drink down on the table, celebratory hands in the air, friends cheering me on

I walk to the front of the room and grab the mic. Tonight, I opted for a crowd favorite of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” instead of “Don’t Stop Me Now.” When I’m really desperate for attention, I prefer the much longer song that demands audience participation.

The familiar title displays across the multiple screens, garnering a few “woos” from the bar-goers. I give a little wink to them and watch the intro bars count down.

“Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality. Open your eyes, look up to the skies and seeeeeeeeeee …”

Crowd is hyped, my body sways to the beat, I feel invincible

I see the DJ smiling and jamming out to my performance from the corner of my eye. It feels like an achievement: I’m even impressing the man with all the influence! My song ends to an eruption of applause and cheers. I take a mockingly humble bow and leave the “stage” to return to my friends.

The DJ calls up the next singer and when their song begins, he makes his way over to me. “You were really good!”

“Thank you,” I say, taking a small sip of my whiskey, never breaking eye contact with him.

He shyly laughs and asks if I would like to perform another number. “I like to throw in performances that I know the crowd will love. And they love you. The list is full, but I can slot you in.” Power.

I tell him yes and sign up for Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now”, feeling like Miss America. He smiles and leaves our group to return to his throne.

Song after song is called, and still I have not performed my encore. I’m getting a little bored and running out of cash to keep hanging and drinking here. I ask him when I’ll be up, and he says, “Soon.” That compels me to stay. Power.

The bartender announces last call. The crowd has definitely thinned since my original showing, but they’re rowdier with increased alcohol consumption. I tell my friends that we should just go when I finally hear my name over the speakers.

Suddenly my desire to leave disappears and I skip up to the microphone. “Finally!” I joke to the DJ. I look to the screens and see the familiar countdown. “Toniiiight, I’m gonna have myseeeeellff a real good time, I feel aliii-hi-hi-hive!” Though the audience is smaller, the cheers are louder and I revel once more in the attention. Another success.

The DJ calls up the last singer after me and then comes back to my table once more. “You want a drink?” He can order me a drink after last call? Power. He returns with two double shots of Jägermeister. The scent of anise hits my nostrils and I attempt to take a drink and I immediately gag. But I’m an undiagnosed alcoholic and free booze is free booze, so I down in. I hate every second of the experience.

We talk a bit and then it hits closing time. He asks if he can join us back at my friend’s place. (The actual conversation that occurred here is very fuzzy following that last drink. It’s important to know that I am a blackout drinker, which is why sobriety is the right choice for me.)

Next thing I know is that we’re at my friend’s apartment and I am stumbling in my too-high heels while more drinks are being made. Did I partake in those? Yeah, probably.

Eventually, we flirt enough for him to invite me to his place. And then we’re there as if we teleported.

And then everything is black

The next morning, I wake up groggily, slowly opening my makeup crusted eyelids to see a shelf haphazardly filled with books, papers, CDs, DVDs, and just general trash. My thighs are dented with the ridges of my piled up skirt, bundled together at my waist. My eyes move around a bit more to take in the room: there’s a desk with an inch of dust on it and more piles of things, an overflowing laundry hamper, various unframed posters taped up on the wall, and men’s shoes grouped together by the door. I look down to see I’m on a mattress that is directly on the floor and covered by taupy-brown sheets. I understand that I am in a man’s room. And then I remember: the DJ.

I attempt to recall the events from the previous night and I can remember mostly everything leading up to getting to his place. I exhale a breath of gratitude that I don’t remember the actual sex. Sometimes, knowing you fucked a karaoke DJ is mortifying enough without knowing any of the actual details of how it all went down.

I feel him stir behind me. I freeze and stay silent. Then he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into him. “Good morning”, his terrible breath whispers into my ear. He kisses my cheek and rolls me to my back and mounts me. “Last night was fun!”

“Yeah,” I say. He starts to pull my skirt back up over my waist and his hands are immediately inside me. I roll my eyes to myself: well, I’m unfortunately gonna remember this.

He quickly has sex with me, while I wait for the whole thing to be over so that I can go home. Once he’s finished, he kisses me again and sighs with the air of someone who just satisfied his partner. It was completely unwarranted.

“Can you take me back to my car?” I ask. “Oh, for sure.” He says. “Do you wanna get breakfast of anything?”

“No, I need to get home.” He jumps out of bed with far more energy than I have. I unpeal myself from the sheets, trying not think about the dirt and sweat that they have shared with me now, and adjust my skirt and top. I debate whether to put my heels back on or just carry them. I have no idea what outside is like, so I opt for the safer option of wearing them. I am ready for my “walk of shame”.

As we exit his bedroom, I suspect that he lives with his mother / parents; but I have no actual proof, just a feeling. We get into his car and I feel the sun beat down on me in his car as he readies himself for the drive. Immediately, I am nauseated.

Even though we all live in LA, the time it takes to get to one neighborhood from another feels like crossing state lines. And no matter what time of day you’re driving, you’re bound to hit traffic somewhere. So while we drive back to Koreatown, I am stuck making small talk and fighting the urge to vomit as the late night shot of black licorice death randomly reminds my tastebuds of its memory.

As we sit in a two-lane backup, I can’t hold it in anymore. I open the door and immediately throw up onto the street. He exclaims, “Woah!” and awkwardly pats my back while I lean across the seat. “Hey, we’re moving!”

I lift my pounding head and close the door. He hands me an old napkin to wipe my face and I ignore any germaphobia as I gratefully dry my mouth. He jokes that my aim was impressive, “not anything in the car!” I close my eye, sink down into the passenger seat, and stay quiet for the rest of the drive.

I suppose we shared goodbyes, but I don’t remember. As soon as I’m at my car, I feel a huge relief. That event is over and I didn’t die and hopefully I don’t end up with a pregnancy or an STD.

After that, I didn’t make it up to LA as often as I used to, so my next visit to the Brass Monkey was a couple months later. We walk in, and my friend reminds me that my one-night-stand is working the DJ shift. I thank her for the information because I honestly forgot what he looks like. But, I revel in the fact that now I have the power: I had sex with him so therefore, I can skip the karaoke line.

I put on my flirty eyes and adjust my cleavage as I walk over to him. He smiles in recognition and opens his arms for a hug. “Oh wow, how are you? You look amazing!” He says.

“Thank you! It’s good to see you!” I lie.

“You wanna put your name in?”

“Yes, and maybe I won’t have to wait too long for my turn?” I query, batting my eyes.

“Oh, yeah …” he starts. “For sure, but um … I have a girlfriend now …”

I absorb this new information. Okay, and? I think, but I say nothing because I don’t really know what this has to do with anything.

Apparently his girlfriend is there tonight too, so he’ll throw me into the shuffle, but he can’t make this a regular thing and unfortunately, “we can’t go home together tonight.”

Ugh, as if! -Cher Horowitz

The night goes on, I sing my one song, and then leave later with my friends. I know now that my transaction is completed and the one perk that came from sleeping with the karaoke DJ has expired. I’m left with a subpar sexual experience, a spotty memory, and the knowledge that he thinks that I would’ve slept with him again.

My moment in power was brief and lackluster, if I’m being totally honest.

Author’s note, in hindsight:

While writing this story, I realized something: this experience has a little bit of rape grey area in it. I have no memory of the actual sexual encounter due to me being blacked out, so I have no idea what my behavior was during it (was I engaged, was I passed out, was I saying no?).

However, I do feel confident that I would have consented regardless of my drunkenness because I was at a point in my life where my sexual desirability was how I gauged my worth. So, though he did abuse his “position of power” and the semantics of the event weren’t exactly clean, I do not view this as a rape.

But ladies, gents, theys, don’t fuck a karaoke DJ that you don’t like or aren’t attracted to because you think you must or you think it’ll pay off in some way later. It most likely won’t.