Straddling Jesus – The Sisterwives Do Dallas
You know those experiences that you look forward to and create such enormous expectations of, that the actual event doesn’t stand a chance?
The Sisterwives meet up was NOT one of those.
It began when Lizzi, our beautiful Brit, hatched her plan to travel to ‘Murica and meet dozens of beloved online friends. We formed a group to weave an elaborate tapestry of transportation across the states; Lizzi herself the backbone of the tapestry, as she brought together as complex an array of dazzling threads to ever intertwine on a loom.
The Sisterwives meetup was engendered when, as part of Lizzi’s ‘Murican tour, Hasty decided to drive Lizzi to Dallas to stay with Beth and Mandi. Four of the Sisterwives were to be in one place at the same time, why not ALL of us?
Why not, indeed?
On Sunday morning, GG (Gunmetal Geisha), Gretchen and Samara boarded planes carrying far too much luggage, Renee packed commercial strength Glade in anticipation of sharing a bathroom with 4 women, Aussa pondered mainlining caffeine to start her drive to Dallas and Mandi and Beth rushed around, stocking up on necessities. Which consisted of 15 bottles of wine.
At the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, Mandi picked Samara up bearing a sign with her name in the window. Samara was wearing black leather and sweating like a Miami hooker, but she still managed to jump up and down like a deranged hyena when Mandi drove up. After Samara got over the shock of Mandi being even
skinnier with bigger boobs more beautiful in person than online, they drove to pick up Gretchen in another part of the airport. Samara managed to contain herself until Mandi’s car came to a slow roll before jumping out and tackling Gretchen, knocking her to the ground.
From there, we all met at the hotel. It was a Hotness Overload.
There were five slightly awkward minutes while we took each other in. Renee and Aussa are much taller than one would expect. GG is a tiny spitfire whose waist you can encircle with your hands. Gretchen both speaks and walks with a Southern lilt. Samara looks like she is trying to frantically beat back death by dressing like a teenager.
First on the agenda – toast to Beth’s book, Order of Seven, winning an IPNE award. Which was a convenient excuse to get schnockered before Happy Hour even began.
The drinks were so strong that several of our faces spontaneously pixelated. Evidently, this is something that happens in Texas.
At this point, there were seven of us – Beth, Mandi, Samara, GG, Gretchen, Renee and Aussa. Hasty and Lizzi were en route from Oklahoma and scheduled to arrive the next morning.
We strolled around downtown Dallas. Happily, we discovered that several of us enjoy violating public property. A true bonding moment:
That evening, we took over the outside patio of the hotel. Nothing like a bevy of sexy ladies to attract attention:
And attract we did. There was repeated talk of a “very deep pussy” and no, we were not discussing a profound house pet.
This new young friend of ours misunderstood Aussa and thought we were “riders,” as in motorcycles, as opposed to “writers.” Whatever. We weren’t hanging out with him for his witty repartee.
He may have gotten just a little too close for comfort as he demonstrated for the ladies how he locates the female G spot. Although Samara looks interested…:
Please note: If you going to celebrate your award winning book, do it with champagne at dusk. Out of beautiful champagne flutes on a lavish hotel patio. With the loyalest and most loving tribe of women ever.
And make sure the person pouring the champagne looks like Mandi:
That night was the night of the Total Lunar Super Bowl Half Time Blood Moon Eclipse. To celebrate, we formed a drum circle and chanted about our menstrual cycles. It all grew into a frenzy as Mandi had some kind of spiritual epiphany and collapsed on the ground, rolling around and speaking in tongues.
Samara joined her on the ground, although later confessed that she faked the experience in order to be able to get in a few feelsies of Mandi’s boobs:
Back in our room, Aussa logged onto her Periscope account so that our resident photographer and filmmaker, GG, could direct a broadcast for Aussa’s
stalkers followers. Periscope, for the social media neophyte, is broadcasting live over the internet while responding to viewers comments as posted. It has a distinguished and credible vibe not unlike that of an STD-infested Tijuana whorehouse.
Several thousand viewers tuned in to watch us make scintillating dialogue, certainly not because we called our broadcast “Sisterwives ” and there were 7 hot chicks in a hotel room at 1 am.
Our viewing audience was treated to repeated mentions of Gretchen’s vagina, which apparently, like its owner, speaks with a southern accent. We were treated to late night intellectual discourse by our viewers, namely, “show us your tits!” Mandi sternly redressed these erring lotharios, admonishing them that we are “the new face of feminism – and it doesn’t have tits!”
The next morning, after several of us
came to woke up, we lugged our bedraggled asses to the lobby and attempted to resuscitate our brain cells with caffeine. Gretchen, Mandi and Samara regaled Aussa with a three way composite horror story of childbirth and breast-feeding, which they now plan to market as birth control.
Suddenly, Samara let out an Oli Sykes scream, disrupting the entire hotel lobby. Her piercing shriek caused an elderly gentleman checking in at the front desk to lose control of his bowels.
Hasty and Lizzi had arrived! Samara lurched towards them like a blind rhino with an ear infection – and Hasty took off running in the opposite direction.
-We interrupt this broadcast to inform you that there is NOTHING quite like hugging someone you love online for the very first time –
With our group now complete we headed out once more into Dallas.
On the way out, Samara got to work out more of her creepy Daddy issues by snuggling with a rando in the elevator. It would appear that her Daddy fantasy is actually Santa Claus on meth:
As Mandi posted her synopsis on Facebook of who she had groped the night before, it became evident that as much of a religious experience as being rubbed by Lizzi is, nothing compares to straddling her homeboy, Jesus.
Right after posting this, Facebook broke. Coincidence?
We think not.
That afternoon, we learned that alcohol dulls the proprioceptive and vestibular senses in the brain; translated – when you’re shitfaced you get in an elevator and don’t realize it’s not moving. Twenty minutes and 3 dozen selfies later, you realize – holy shit, we NEVER EVEN PRESSED THE BUTTON:
A hot young Italian waiter at a Mexican restaurant flirted outrageously with us, and had no problem with the idea of taking us on, en masse.
Get your minds out of the guitar! By “taking us on,” I meant, having sex with us:
Of course, he only had eyes for Hasty. Ha! Get in line behind everyone else on Facebook, buddy!
After the pillow fights in baby doll pajamas, we all snuggled in bed together:
In the wee hours of the night, we drifted gently to sleep, lulled by the dulcet tones of Beth and Mandi murmuring together as they traded sexy man-pics on their Pinterest boards. “Oh yeah, BABY, look in his eyes! That dude totally wants me to SIT ON HIS FACE!”
All too soon, our trip came to an end. Tired and
hung over still drunk
happy, we made our respective ways home.
The thing is, as awesome as you think people are online, it’s almost surreal when you meet them and they eclipse all your expectations.
Women are not always so charitable to one another. To find a group like this, of smart, funny, talented women – who love and support one another unconditionally – is nothing short of miraculous.
Currently, we are planning the next Sisterwives meetup. We cannot disclose the location as we cannot risk the paparazzi stalking us.
We’re ready. We have nerf guns and nipple pasties packed – and we’re not afraid to use them!