My dad invited me to go with him to a charity fundraiser for his friend whose wife had recently passed away from cancer. I agreed wholeheartedly, immediately picturing a fancy ball where beautiful people threw money at the cancer foundation while I ate Escargot and spit it back out into expensive champagne. On our way to the house where the fundraiser was held, my dad became shiftier and shiftier. When I suspiciously inquired into the entertainment for the evening, he avoided my questions with things like, “Just know it will make a good story, okay?”, which is exactly what I don’t want to hear on the way to a cancer fundraiser.
As soon as we walked through the door, we were met by a young, naked woman lying on a table covered in raw fish. Also known as a naked sushi party. Because what better way to raise money for a cancer cure than eating sushi off of naked women, am I right? My dad glanced at me, waiting for my reaction, and in an attempt to defy his predictions of my impending embarrassment, I assumed the attitude of a seasoned college student who had seen it all. “Dad, why would you think I’d be embarrassed? It’s art.” And with that, I plucked sashimi off the girl’s left nipple. For the next hour I walked around the room with the air of someone who frequented naked sushi parties, nodding to the nude, breathing platters and dabbling with the soy sauce.
My faux confidence was momentarily thrown when I discovered that the host of the fundraiser only invited his male friends and declined to mention the party to the wives. I was stuck roaming about naked sushi scenery, surrounded by a bunch of old dudes over the age of 50. The guys appeared to be starving, hurriedly taking as much sushi as they could and grumbling when the chef replaced the sushi that had been taken, covering up the beautiful view. Not only were they hungry, they were also incredibly helpful, rushing to help the women when they needed to get off the table for their break. I maintained a forcefully relaxed smile throughout the whole event (“Oh yeah, this is totally normal for me”) as I observed old men fawning over the twenty year olds who I later found out were strippers.
When the two women got up after they had finished the job and ran around the living room naked, vaginas flying everywhere, I couldn’t help but stare because, you know, boobs and vaginas and stuff. I only realized I was an accomplice to an ogling party that involved my dad and two other old fogies when a geezer turned to me and said, “Not so comfortable now, are you?” I nodded meekly, closed my eyes, and tried to Eternal Sunshine my memories for the rest of the night.