My Doritos Loco Taco Gave Me a Boner
DISCLAIMER: this post is in no way sponsored by Taco Bell or Doritos and was inspired solely by the author’s raging hard-on for novelty tacos.
Months before it came inside my mouth, the flavor powder of my Doritos Locos taco lay in a 50 pound bag of chemical funk inside a Frito Lay factory in Killingly, Connecticut. Through a series of chemically and mechanically complex procedures, it was pulverized, dusted onto a circle of GMO corn purée, molded, baked, and shipped to NYC. Upon arrival, it was stuffed with a wet, gushy splatter of room temperature ground beef, thirst quenching ice lettuce, freshly diced tomatoes, and fluffy sour cream, shortly before we met.
Since the release of the Fiery Doritos Locos taco, Taco Bell has sold over a billion dollars worth of these spicy gut bombs—enough to finance a little less than a week’s worth of the war in Afghanistan. Just last year, the corporation hired more than 15,000 employees to help manage the growth of this magnificent item’s popularity. Upon hearing this news, a craving for the billion-dollar taco welled inside of me. And so it was that I recently found myself inside the Bell, where I opted for the Doritos Locos tacos combo meal, which includes one of each type of Dorito Locos tacos: Cool Ranch, Fiery, and Nacho Cheese.
My Very Gay Night at Very Straight Strip Clubs
I’m about as gay as Cristiano Ronaldo’s underwear drawer, so the sultry photos plastered outside of New York’s mega strip club, FlashDancers, have never really interested me. I live around the corner from the place, and I used to joke that the guys wearing maroon FlashDancers bibs and handing out titty-filled flyers were the only people in all of Manhattan who thought I had any interest in paying to see boobs. But recently I got to thinking, and as a man who loves sex, sex workers, the Platonic company of other men, and absolute camp insanity, I decided I should just sack up and go inside some straight strip clubs. I did, and that is how all my illusions about strippers were shattered.
I wasn’t alone. Serving as my Virgil to this implant-filled underworld were my friends John and Hassan, both strip club veterans if not exactly aficionados. After paying $20 to get into the place we walked up to the bar. The first tits I saw belonged to a woman gyrating behind the bartender with all the energy of a children’s toy whose batteries were about to die. As soon as we ordered our drinks a tall blonde who looked like Janice from The Muppets after some plastic surgery came up and talked to John. She wasn’t whispering sweet nothings in his ear for nothing—it was obvious that this interaction was about business. Then another stripper named Maya came up to talk with Hassan and me. She was American, about 5’8”, and hot in a very expected way. She most definitely had a tramp stamp. Her dress was electric blue and one of those situations where the top is connected to the floor-length skirt by a big metal ring that frames the belly button. I said I loved her dress and asked where she got it. She said they keep all the dresses there and the strippers get to choose from a big pile of them. I looked around and saw the same dress in different colors on several of the other dancers.
Seeing an opportunity, a third stripper came up to join us. Her name was Eva, and I was her reluctant mark. She was Swedish, so she said, but had dark hair, small tits, and was about six feet tall in her stripper heels. I peppered her with questions about the club. She told me it was busy earlier, with business travelers and the happy hour crowd, but it was starting to die down. She told me that the weekends were the busiest but also full of young guys, who are the worst customers. “Why? They don’t spend a lot of money?” I asked. “No,” she replied, “They just cum in their pants too quickly.”