There have been many nights in Pilsen, this is just one.

It began with a moody tongue and ended with an ass spanked.

I met Aidan, Chicago reclusive author Clive Javanski, and Femke at Clive’s new place in Pilsen. It was late March but Clive, who moved there in December, still had mistletoe hanging in his kitchen hallway.

I wanted to kiss Femke underneath it, but she only wanted to strangle me with it (Femke means “woman of peace”).

I haven’t seen Femke for a few years, since before I left for Ireland. I thought I had made peace with everyone who was mad at me here when I left for Dublin several years ago. But I forgot about Femke. I don’t remember what she was mad about. I only remember how great she looked in a black goth skirt and Doc Martens.

I pointed to the mistletoe and said to Femke that if it’s still up there, it must mean something. Like it never reached its kiss quota.

“It means Clive didn’t fucking take it down yet,” she said.

The night shifted to The Moody Tongue, a brewery south of 18th Street.  It’s pretty lavish for a brewery. “High crust” as Clive called it. It definitely clashed with the red sweatpants Clive was wearing.

After a Nectarine IPA or two or three we headed to 18th Street and a bar called Simone’s. I was here a few weeks ago and I recall standing outside with a pudgy short redhead while she had a smoke. I forget what I said to her, but I remember her reply.

“How’d you like it if I stuck this cigarette up your ass?”

After another few beers and some food we poured out of Simone’s and saw a notice taped to a pole that advertised an apartment for rent. Femke read it and then looked at me.

“This has two bedrooms, and I want to fuck you in at least one of them,” she said.

We walked across the street to a liquor store for her cigarettes. It was a social club. Old men were sitting in chairs along the sides of the aisle. I think there was a bar in the back, but I wasn’t sure. I tried to take a peak but the cashier, also an old man with a large scab on his lip, scolded me in Spanish. A woman with a shaved head recognized Clive and took him back there. As we were leaving a man who smelled like a thrift store asked me if I liked butt stuff.

“I’m about to find out,” Femke said.

We went to another bar, Punch House, where Femke didn’t find out if I like butt stuff, but that I did like Front 242, whose lovely industrial sounds the DJs were playing as we walked in. Although I’m not gay, I found myself attracted to one of the bartenders. He was caring, charming and gruff. I just knew. He had a several tattoos on his arms and nice fitting jeans.

After that an inebriated Femke and I gathered back at Clive’s place. The first thing we noticed after opening the door was the red sweatpants strewn on the floor. Then we heard a familiar slapping sound and found Clive being spanked under the mistletoe by the woman with the shaved head.

Femke looked at me, squeezed my hand and led me to the bedroom.

“Come with me,” she said. “Let’s do something inappropriate.”