Tastes Like Chicken

I would like to relay the story of a friend of mine, who, for our purposes we'll call Gretchen. Now, Gretchen, Grace Jones and myself were all hanging out on Friday evening, enjoying a cocktail in the comfort of Grace's new home and just generally taking it easy. Around 1030 I was getting tired so I decided to head home. Gretchen apprently went home around midnight. But when she got home, she decided that maybe she wanted a nightcap to finish off the evening.

So she heads to Cobalt.

Where mayhaps she ran into a person that she went on a (second) date with on Thursday night.

And mayhaps she decided to leave said gentleman alone with his friends and head upstairs to "do a lap. You know, as you do..."

And mayhaps she found herself in a pleasant conversation with another gentleman.

Mayhaps said gentleman was a 21 year-old GW junior.

Possibly they took their pleasant conversation to a quieter corner. Namely the Cobalt bathroom (One of the upstairs stalls too!! Not the single use "hump, bump and dump" room downstairs).

Where mayhaps Gretchen decided she wanted a little taste of chicken (aka the 21 year-old GW junior).

Now why couldn't Gretchen and "the chicken" move their intimate conversation downstairs to the single use ladies room, were most people would have the decency to move this type of conversation? Oh right, her date from Thursday night was downstairs.

Whore.

P.S. The following conversation ensued between myself and Gretchen the next day:

Chris: So, was he cute? Did you go home with him?
Gretchen: Ya he was cute, but no I didn't go home with him.
Chris: Well you seemed to get along just fine in the Cobalt bathroom, why didn't you go home with him?
Gretchen: I didn't want to bring him back to my place 'cause they never leave when you want them to. And I certainly wasn't going back to his place in Foggy Bottom, that's in zone 2. And I'm not paying for a two zone cab ride back home.