It’s Friday, and C__ is back in town from Brussels, whatever that is, and I am SO EXCITED because we’ve made plans for a ladies night out at FUEGO, D.C.’s hottest gay nightclub for Latinos and the men who fetishize them. Although I qualify as neither of those things, both C__ and our friend R__ do, and besides, who am I to deny my brothers a night of passion with someone who lives in Alexandria, wears Old Navy boxer shorts, and doesn’t speak English.

As it turns out, Fuego is not exactly located in the most accessible of neighborhoods. In fact, it’s not really located in a neighborhood at all. What does one call the 1800 block of New York Avenue NE? The Arboretum District? Because that’s what’s across the street. Oh, and it’s housed in the same building as the United Cerebral Palsy headquarters. Perhaps PN Hoffman will build a condo there and a bunch of intrepid douches will start a “UnCePal” listserv.

Anyway, we pile into a cab, and after 20 minutes of watching the meter climb to an alarming $20, we pull up to our destination. “This is it!” R__ says, pointing at an awning with the United Cerebral Palsy logo. Somehow, this is reassuring. The driver pulls away, and we find ourselves alone in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Ah, but see, out of the darkness emerges a gang of Latinos, which might have proven a wee bit unnerving on any other given night, but on this night they inspire sighs of relief. And they’re cute! Perhaps our Fuego adventure won’t be as much of a pig fuck as I had expected. We follow them into the club, where we pay $10 for cover and get hammered.

Well, that’s oversimplifying things. I had three rum and Cokes, which were essentially glasses of rum with some ice dropped in as a perfunctory gesture. I took off my T-shirt because it was just so damn caliente in there. My self-tanner was dripping all over the place and left orange smears on several unidentified objects/people. Someone winked at me, the way an uncle winks at his niece after he abuses her in a Lifetime movie. We left in a cab and went to the gay McDonalds on 17th Street, where I traded in my remaining scraps of dignity for an eight-piece McNuggets meal. Then I called my boyfriend and made him pick me up. I watched a few episodes of “Three’s Company” (“Where’s Susan Sarandon’s character?”) and passed out at 5 a.m.

The next day I went to the public pool, but that’s a story for another time. All of my friends wear Speedos and I have no idea why.