Then I got the chicken pox. What a chore. Oatmeal baths and rubber just don't go together. Heck, chicken pox and rubber don't go together. But just as it was winding up, the first fetish party was coming to town. What a bummer. How could I go with chicken pox? But how could I not go? I decided to go. In the same outfit and with still a little bit of a showing pox problem I went all the way down to this club on the river. You got to be 21 to enter. I don't have a license (actually I didn't get my license until I was 23). What year were you born, uh.... 1996. Oh shit, I mean 1975. So the bastards wouldn't let me in, probably not helping were my pock marks. I paid thirty bucks for the ticket or something and I had to sell it to this guy on the street. What a major bummer. That really sucked. So I would have to wait a year, but then real-girlfriend no. 4 came along, and she had even longer to wait. So the first time I went was actually this past year's party.