The city I lived in at the time had not one but TWO Rocky “casts” which would rotate every weekend. Stacy performed twice a month and apparently also attended the other cast’s performances, even though there was supposedly a “rivalry” of sorts between the two. I showed up at around 11:50 or so and took a seat in the back, dressed in inconspicuous clothing. Every time I’ve tried to pick up a chick by going to her recital/play/short film screening/poetry slam/acoustic guitar performance, it always worked out in my favor if I sat in the back and then approached her after the performance.
It was not to be. Stacy spotted me from the front of the theater and came running back, all done up in way too much mascara and revealing clothing. If she looked like she’d been spat forth from a Hot Topic clearance aisle.
“Hey! You made it!”
“Yeah, you better go though, right? It’s gonna start soon I think.”
“Have you ever done this before?” she asked. Little did I know how my next few words would dictate the level of pain I’d have to tolerate.
“VIRGIN!” she shouted down to the front of the stage, pointing at me. “VIRGIN?!” they shouted back.
What the living fuck is this.
Little did I know that I was in fact a “virgin”, so to speak, about to be brutally mindraped by a bunch of dorks in fishnets who worshipped a shitty movie. Three guys came up from the front and grabbed me by my arms, laughing. One of them smelled very strongly of rum. They lifted me out of my seat and pushing me down towards the front of the theater where a small crowd of giggling college freshmen stood. As much as I wanted to punch them all in the face and go running out of the dingy theater I was in, I maintained. I was here to impress a girl.
Somehow I felt less impressive as a big “V” was written on my forehead in cheap lipstick and I was told to get up on stage with the other fools who had answered the question incorrectly. Some incredibly fat shitbrick in a filthy top hat and a ratty old suit shoved a microphone in my face and asked me to fake an orgasm. I was so irritated at this point, what came out of my mouth next added insult to injury.
It got a laugh out of the audience… but then I had to listen to this buttertroll fake a slobbering, disgusting orgasm, an image and a sound burned forever into my brain. He was being as theatrical as possible about it, earning more laughter from the audience, and then gave me the microphone.
I complied. I made a half-assed orgasm noise in the hopes that my captors would release me. Eventually they did let me go back to my seat…I tried to escape back to the rear again but was shepherded into the second row from the front. Stacy meanwhile was laughing and smiling at me. Maybe this was working, I thought.
Elliot said my breakup must have been due to the sweater curse, an unexplained phenomenon where anyone who gives their significant other a hand-knit sweater gets dumped. The only way to break the curse, Elliot said, was to destroy the sweater.
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