Party Like A Rockstar

PARTY LIKE A ROCKSTAR

Nicholas Lynn

Published by Nicholas Lynn

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 Nicholas Lynn

TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE: THE ART OF LIVING

CHAPTER TWO: THE ART OF DRINKING

CHAPTER THREE: THE ART OF HANGING OVER

CHAPTER FOUR: THE ART OF PARTYING

CHAPTER FIVE: THE ART OF STAYING SINGLE

CHAPTER SIX: THE ART OF PICKING UP

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE ART OF MAKING SEX

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I don’t have too many nice things to say about anyone but I would like to thank all My Wingmen for being part of my life and making it so much more than just a mere existence.

I’d especially like to express thanks to My Sister.

Lord knows what dumpster I’d be living behind if it weren’t for her and her ability to tolerate my stupidity.

And of course…

Jägermiester…

My dick and all the slightly larger women it entertains would be awfully bored without it.

Names have been changed in some of my stories to protect me from the innocent.

CHAPTER ONE: THE LIFESTYLE

Ugh…I’m never drinking again…

Who Am I?

My name is Nicholas Lynn and I lead the kind of life that will eventually land my picture hanging up in a post office or printed on a milk carton.

Now you don’t have to say it because I know what you’re thinking...

Cool.

And you’re right…

It is cool.

I’m 30 years old and have zero regrets. Not a penny I’ve misspent, not a Whiskey I’ve thrown up, not a drug I’ve inhaled or a (questionable) woman I’ve bedded.

Well…

Perhaps I regret a few (questionable) women…

But all in all, the money, the booze, the drugs and the (questionable) women make up the moments that carve out the chapters of my life, which is perfect because when everything is said and done, in the end, all I’ll be left with is my story.

There are no second chances.

This I’m certain of.

You’ll never remember things like getting up for work on time, paying off your credit card bill before VISA sent you the invoice or (if you’re unfortunate enough to be married) your wedding vows and the look in your spouses eyes when they said I do.

Even though they didn't.

But I can guarantee you’ll never forget the time you sexually experienced three partners in the same night at a casino after fourteen hours of power drinking, losing fifteen hundred dollars at a Black Jack table, getting told to stop cussing by The Keg’s manager and posing for a few nude photos in the shower as your buddies complained about the broad you brought back to the room or the night when you had unprotected, doggy style sex with a stranger in the back of a taxicab until you got to her place and tried for anal, only to be turned down and offered more regular sex, which you took but didn’t enjoy and woke up in the morning to burnt chicken fingers in the oven, an awkward goodbye and three weeks later a trip to the clinic for Chlamydia treatment.

Those occurrences you will never forget…

No matter how hard you try…

I promise.

So that being said it’s about time you start living your life.

It’s about time you start writing your book.

It’s about time you start PARTYING LIKE A ROCKSTAR.

And this is how…

Become The Part

Being a ROCKSTAR is a frame of mind. I don’t care what you listen to, where you hang out or what you wear, just be sure that whatever it is you’re doing you’re being yourself. People will like you for who you are and people will dislike you for who you are too, so knowing that, who gives a shit what anyone thinks?

Just do you.

You’re the only one who can.

Become A ROCKSTAR In Four Easy Steps

Learn to play at least one song on the guitar.

Tell broads you’re a guitarist.

Nail broads.

Repeat.

ROCKSTAR Dos And Don’ts

Don’t play the keyboard.

That shits gay.

That is all.

Things A ROCKSTAR Should Never Say

I shouldn’t go out tonight, it’s a weekday.

I’m not going to drink that.

I have to work tomorrow.

I wouldn’t make the sex with her.

Let me check with my girlfriend.

I hate Jäger.

No thanks. I don’t smoke.

I can’t sleep in that.

Get Yourself A ROCKSTAR Rep

I remember throwing a party at The Office and chatting up a female, who after a few minutes of boring me to death, asked, so, who do you know here? Do you know Nick Lynn? I paused for a moment to make sure the look of contempt I was wearing had been properly received then told her I never heard of him, but he sounds like a fag and walked away.

Clearly she’d never met me but she’d obviously heard about me.

Why?

Because of the way I behave while I’m out…

Poorly.

ROCKSTARS don’t really care what others deem as socially acceptable so here are some things you can do to get a real badass ROCKSTAR rep going on.

Swear…all the time.

Spit…Indoors.

Scratch at things in public. Especially your sac.

Drink. Even when it doesn’t make you feel as good as it’s supposed to.

Puke but don’t stop drinking.

Sleep with Randoms till your pecker falls off. When it does, shove it in something random.

Smoke…all the time.

When referring to your drinking problem, refer to it as not a problem.

Barf after sex. Then have sex again.

Call the girls you sleep with groupies.

Be the life of the party, never the death.

Never miss the party. Not even for work.

Recognize that condoms make better water balloons than pleasure enhancers.

Smoke: I don’t care what the Surgeon General says. Smoking is cool and they know it. I’ve yet to read on any pack that cigarettes are not cool.

Sure it’ll cause cancer in you and those around you, harm the unborn, make it difficult to breathe and even harder to stir up an erection but still…you can’t buy coolness anywhere cheaper than eleven bucks a pack.

Smoke Weed: Weed is easy to find, inexpensive, socially acceptable, makes crappy movies seem amazing and mixes wonderfully with booze…

And by wonderfully I mean, it gives you the spins and makes you puke.

Smoke Hash: Can somebody tell me whatever happened to hash and hash oil? I use to love that shit. Doesn’t seem to be around anymore.

If you can get any, email me and let me know where.

Don’t Do Steroids: Steroids are gay and so is bodybuilding. All that time spent at the gym getting healthy and showing your buddies your glutes is wasted time that could be better spent at a bar getting drunk and showing your buddies your sac.

I highly recommend trading in your gym pass for a shot glass.

Snort Cocaine: I love cocaine but hate cokeheads and here’s why:

Cokeheads Never Have Any Effing Coke.

They seem to just walk around the party, the club or your grandma’s crib pestering all the alcoholics.

Yo man, you got coke?

You want to split on some coke with me? You do? Know where we can get some?

Anyone want to go for a drive for an hour and a half to some shady neighborhood to visit it some shady individual to grab some coke with me?

No motherfucker, I don’t.

Cokeheads Think They Aren’t Druggies.

Yeah right.

And I’m not a boozing womanizer.

Cokeheads please own your shit. I’m tired of you denying that you do drugs. Quit saying ridiculous shit like, I only do this on occasion... when you’ve done it seven times this week…

And it’s only Tuesday.

I got news for you…

You’re a druggie.

Cokeheads Think They’re Better Than Drunks.

Just because you can afford to employ a more expensive habit and you dress better than me…and make more money than me…and are overall are just a better person than me, doesn’t make you better than me.

You’re still a piece of shit feeding an addiction…

Admit it. It’s cool.

Cokeheads Will Freeze Up On You While You’re Sexing Them.

It’s like they catch a case of Whiskey puss or something.

When I first experienced this I was mid thrust when all of a sudden, for no real reason, the woman I was pleasuring tensed up.

At first I thought she was just trying to make her self tighter for me, which I thought was a nice gesture however that wasn’t the case.

She wanted me to stop.

I asked her why?

She said, I’m just too high.

Okay then…I’ll just be over here…incase you want to suck something.

Look The Part: The ROCKSTAR appearance is a pretty easy one to pull off. It’s kind of looking like a clean, homeless person.

You know, the I need to be fixed look…

It says, I need to be fixed.

Grow your hair but never brush it.

Grown a beard but brush it often. The hunter-gatherer type that will catch things in it.

Shave your beard cause things kept getting caught in it.

Get some jeans that fit tightly…especially around the sac and surrounding area.

Lose some weight so your tight jeans fit lose…especially around the sac.

Buy some plaid shirts.

Move Downtown: All the best parties, the coolest places to drink and easiest pussy is downtown. It’s expensive to live in the city though so make sure all the bank loans you don’t plan on paying back are in order before you find yourself a cool building to live in. One with a younger demographic, a common area that people actually use, a rooftop patio complete with party room, hot tub, and barbeques is ideal.

I moved into a building that possessed all those things about nine years ago and have attained more sex stories than I know what to do with because of it.

Well that last bit is a lie…

I knew what to do with them…

I told them to people.

For example, when I was at The Toronto International Film Festival.

TIFF.

What a gay name.

TIFF.

Even though its name resembles something comparable to a pussy fart, the actual festival is amazing.

I was there for the duration of the festival last year seeking out parties, looking for connections in the industry and of course tracking Megan Fox. Although I never met Megan (which made it rather pointless for me to be roaming around with a tire iron and a handful of KY) I did come across tickets to a party where Ed Norton and Danny DeVito were promoting their new movie Leaves Of Grass…

I wake up alone on Mick Richards couch with my dick in my hand.

Just the way I like I like it.

I check my cell and have more txts than usual, so after glancing at a few of them which all seem very similar in content…

Nick, leave me alone.

I remember coming back here hammered last night and making about forty-five booty calls. I can only recall one chick answering who sounded sleepy but hung up on me immediately when I asked her who is this?

How rude.

I put on my pants on, head downstairs, fire up a smoke and fix myself a Caesar.

Mick Richards is in his office and he looks rough. I ask him what his plans are for the day and he says I can take a break...wanna go for a drive?

In Mick Richards language that means do you want to cruise around all day in my drop top smoking cigarettes until it’s time to drink?

Yes.

Yes I do.

The sun is shining, Van Morrison is playing and I’m converting cigarette after cigarette into ash while we journey the streets of Toronto.

God I love Mondays.

We hit a beer store, then drive from Yorkville down to Queen Street and back again making sure to pull into the lanes that are moving the slowest just to keep things moving at a laid back pace.

Jimmy Dylan txts and tells us to pick up him and Janis Cass so I tell him we’ll be right there.

He asks, How will we know what car you’re in?

I say, don’t worry. You won’t miss us.

And they don’t.

We drop Janis Cass off at The Hoetel so she can start getting ready because we’re supposed to meet with Trish Stratus tonight.

Trish Stratus is in the WWE.

She’s a hot wrestler.

I’m considering bailing because I’m so hung-over I’m finding it difficult to be obnoxious and furthermore I don’t like hanging out with bitches that have bigger balls than me but I say nothing for the moment.

We pick up My Sister and the four of us go out for something to eat near Ossington and Dundas at this cool little pizza joint that is fucking amazing.

Except for the food.

The food is shit.

Doesn’t affect me though because the only thing I consume is a beer that does nothing but worsen my sickly disposition. Everyone finishes eating; we pay the bill and swear to never come back again…

Unless of course we happen to have a craving for shit, then this place would top the list.

Mick Richards drives Jimmy Dylan and I to The Hoetel so we can get ready to meet HE-MAN…

I mean Trish Stratus…

I go down to the lobby to harass some of the girls but it’s just sit in the lobby playing on my iPhone. I get a text from Paul Garfunkel (who I met earlier in the week) that says he has some invitations for me to attend Edward Norton’s private party at Cheval for his film Leaves of Grass which is screening at the festival.

I rush up stairs with a rock hard boner.

It’s like I’m not hung-over at all.

I tell Jimmy Dylan and Janis Cass about Norton’s party.

Micky Jones (whom I also met earlier in the week) txts and asks if I drink red wine. I tell him I drink anything alcoholic and then Jimmy Dylan, Janis Cass and I leave to meet up with him and Paul Garfunkel.

We jump into a taxi that reeks like feces.

I’m worried the scent is going to stick to my clothes (that I borrowed off Jimmy Dylan) so I ask the cabbie can you roll down all the windows and do something about that shit smell please?

He says, What smell?

Never mind.

We pull up to this place called Spice Route, which is a fantastic place to eat.

If you don’t mind eating food that tastes like crap…

Paul Garfunkel and Micky Jones have a table outside with a bunch of booze on the go already. We join them and the waitress comes over with three more wine glasses and a bottle of red.

Micky Jones hands us our invitations.

Sweet.

Micky Jones says he has an extra invite, so I jump on the horn and try to track down some attractive hoochies that I haven’t slept with yet but all I have in my address book are numbers for girls who won’t pick up my calls or ones that say things like you only call if me if you need money or want to get laid.

They don’t know that it hurts me when they say shit like that.

Just kidding…

It’s totally true.

I observe the talent at Spice Route to see if anyone is worthy of coming upstairs with us but no one is.

Not even any off the staff was sexable.

I drink my wine and then drink Jimmy Dylan’s then Janis Cass’s. Paul Garfunkel pays the bill and then the five of us stroll over to Cheval. I have pretty low expectations for the party because of Heffner’s shindig (I went to a playboy party where Hef was supposed to be earlier in the week which was a bit of a bust but Robert Duvall was there so it was still cool) but when we arrive out front of Cheval, there is a big commotion.

We show one of the door guys our invites and instantly we’re treated - not like the riff raff I am - but like the royalty I tell everyone I should be treated like.

I could have kissed Micky Jones.

We’re escorted over the red carpet by our own private security through a concealed entrance, past the front of the bar towards the stairs. There are groupie hoes grabbing at my jacket, begging and pleading with me take me with you! Take me with you!

Jesus Christ bitches.

Get a grip.

I look at all of them and laugh, not because I'm an asshole (even though I am) but because I actually relish in the bogus attention.

I feel famous.

When we get upstairs I hit the bar to order a round of drinks and when I go to pay the bartender she declares, it’s an open bar.

I jizz a little and then tip the waitress fifty bucks just for the fuck of it.

Again I could have kissed Micky Jones…

On his bag…

Open mouth.

Things get very messy rather quickly. I’m ordering four drinks at a time and gulping down as many of them as I can, leaving the rest scattered around the patio. Paul Garfunkel takes a stack of my business cards and starts handing them out to strangers telling them he’s me. I start chatting with two bored looking broads who are Graphic Design Geeks.

After speaking to them for five minutes I figured out why they looked bored.

It’s because they were boring.

I head back over to the bar for some more shots and Jimmy Dylan is talking to some Piece Of Meat. I approach her and as she introduces herself, I stare at her like the piece of meat she is. The Meat sticks out her hand so I go to give her some change but she just laughs and flirts with her eyes at me.

I lean in towards her neck, slide my arm around her midsection and whisper, I want to fuck your brains out then grab her ass.

It doesn't faze her, which is good because I was half expecting to get slapped.

I turn away, drain a few more shots and leave another big tip.

So I'm basically paying for my booze at an open bar…

Idiot.

The Meat comes over and stands in front of me but before I can stick my hand up her skirt to let her know I have real feelings for her, she rams her tongue down my throat, which is fantastic…

If you like kissing old broads.

I order more shots for The Meat and I. Paul Garfunkel stumbles over and asks me if I want to meet this guy Danny. I tell him I'm not really into dudes but I go along with him anyway, which is a good move because it turns out Danny is actually Danny DeVito.

You know…

That really tall drink of water that was in the movie Twins.

Paul Garfunkel shouts hey Danny! Danny! This is my friend Nick. He's a producer and he gives Danny DeVito my business card.

Danny must have lost it because he never called to hang out.

Danny’s there with the hot chick from cheers, his wife, Rita. I look her up and down - which turns out to be a short glance because she’s only about two feet tall - then ask her how she’s doing.

She smiles sweetly and says fine.

I feel a little uncomfortable because I’m pretty sure she’s undressing me with her eyes so I leave and head over to a group of hot chicks way out of my league and start barking at them.

Literally…

I was barking at them.

I’m beyond trashed.

I turn around and head over to the bar where The Meat and Jimmy Dylan are and Meat says, I'm leaving now, if you want to come home with me to fuck.

The nerve.

What does this Piece Of Meat take me for?

Some sort of piece of meat?

Besides, why would I leave a perfectly good party to go sex some Meat at her husbands place when there is a perfectly good restroom not ten feet away?

Sometimes meat can be so absentminded.

I suggest the bathroom but she looks down her nose at me and says no way like she’s never been fucked over a toilet before.

Yeah right.

I tell her I’m not leaving and ask for her number. She says Jimmy Dylan has it already, get it off him then departs to go home and do whatever pieces of meat do when they go home alone.

I bark at the bartender, howl at the moon, order some more shots, tip big and notice that the bartender is really, really hot…

Under the cover of darkness…

I can tell she has no real interest me by the way she ignores me when I tip big and order things like her name and phone number.

If she only knew how close Danny DeVito and I are.

I head back over to where DeVito was sitting to hit on his wife but they’re gone…

Or perhaps they’re just stuck behind something short…

Edward Norton is beside me talking with some other cool looking guy and I'm blind drunk so I figure fuck it and walk up to them with my hand out.

Norton shakes it, which totally catches me of guard because I was going to ask him for some change but I quickly switch my demeanor and introduce myself.

He acknowledges me to his buddy and again I stick out my hand and receive nothing but a handshake.

Cheap fuckers.

I look at the two of them and say Fuck…will you guys come do a shot with me at the bar? but they politely decline.

I press a little saying, really? Not even one? And Ed Norton says maybe later.

I think to myself, fuck later. I'm doing it now and sit down in their booth.

My friends are baffled.

Jimmy Dylan and Janis Cass come sniffing around so I yell, come sit down. You’re embarrassing me.

Paul Garfunkel, Micky Jones and The Graphic Design Geeks come in and stand with their backs to Norton. The hostess brings over some sandwiches for the celebrities and then asks me what I would like to drink.

I can tell by the way she's looking at me she thinks I'm someone important.

Idiot.

There are a couple broads sitting beside me so I ask them what are you two drinking? and one says Vodka Pineapple so I tell the hostess I’ll have one of those…and can I get some shots brought over here? to which she replies no problem sir

Sir?

Fuck you.

Jimmy Dylan says he’s starving and eats the chicken out of all of the celebrity sandwiches, then places the tarnished bread back onto the plate. The hostess returns with a Vodka pineapple and a 26er of Grey Goose and starts flipping over shot glasses.

26 of them…

She starts pouring the shots and when there’s only a few left to fill, Paul Garfunkel falls ass first onto the table and takes out a bunch of drinks.

What a drunk.

His spill happens very quickly and nobody really cares too much but Paul Garfunkel pulls himself together, stands up, looks around at everyone and says, Okay…who pushed me?

Just when shit can't get any funnier, this old guy sits down beside Jimmy Dylan and says, mmmm sandwiches and begins gnawing on the flawed bread that Jimmy Dylan had already molested.

The guy eating the sandwiches is Ed Norton’s girlfriend’s father. Her name is Shauna Robertson and she’s some bigwig movie producer.

Her dad is a hang gliding instructor.

He and Jimmy Dylan start talking.

Paul Garfunkel, who’s covered in booze and embarrassment, leaves without saying goodbye.

I do a bunch of shots with the Vodka Pineapple Broads and a few with Micky Jones and The Graphic Design Geeks. It hit’s 2:00 AM and they shut the open bar down.

Jimmy Dylan and Janis Cass split.

I head downstairs where they’re still serving at a cash bar until 4:00 AM with Micky Jones and The Graphic Design Geeks. One of The Geeks seems interested in me but that could just be my ego talking, though it really doesn’t matter because as soon as I hit the bar I meet a couple of whours right off the bat.

I only call them a couple of whours because of the way they were dancing…

Like a couple of whours…

I buy everyone in my group as well as the whours a round of drinks and everyone starts dancing…

if you can even call it that…

It was more like everyone trying to keep from falling over on a dance floor amidst a crowd.

I start making out with this chick that looks like Megan fox.

She tells me her name’s Megan.

I decide her name is going to be Megan Coyote.

Anyway it hardly makes a difference whether this bitch is a fox, a coyote or a platypus, the point is she looks like a fox and I want to sex her brains out. I ask her to come for a smoke with me but she declines. I tell her I’m going for one but I’ll be right back. Don’t fuck anything else.

She smiles at me like she’d already fucked something else.

Should have called her Megan Pig.

While I’m outside I meet some girl who jots her number down on my arm. She says, You look kind of drunk…do you want me to write my name down too? so I shout, I’m not going to forget your fucking name but already don’t remember what it is.

Whoever she is leaves and I turn around and come face to ass with this Trashy Blonde Bird