DNA Loungin'

Observing the mating rituals of horny dudes at the Noc Noc

We had intended to go barhopping, but truly, though I do enjoy these fellas, I didn't feel like being a cock block all night long. And by the way, who decided to slip in a Coldplay record at the Noc Noc? I'm sorry, but that band is the Bruce Hornsby of the new millennium, and I will have none of it.

We exited, and, out in the crisp Lower Haight air, Hanz was laughing about some chick he had met at some point in his life. "Carry on, carry on," said his DNA, suddenly a fat British constable trying to direct traffic. "Step lively." The guys scooted down the street and into the next bar on their list. As for me, my gene pool directed me homeward. I needed my beauty sleep.


Postscript: Young Hanz indeed got lucky that night. As the clock reached its ebb, his genetic material was really getting antsy, and a 40-ish drunken babe who had just returned from a funeral earlier that day seemed as good a host as any. Apparently she slathered his Karl Rove in olive oil before fellating him, taking this whole "cooking with nucleotides" image just a little too far.

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