Not the actual back alley.
I wake up. It’s Sunday morning, and I’m still in my dress, shoes, jewelry, and full makeup from the night before, like the iconic Prancercise lady. I’m flat on my back with my arms crossed religiously across my chest – like a dead person laid to rest or sleeping vampire – but tightly clutching my vibrator. I lift up my skirt to realize I have no underwear on, my panties tossed carelessly on the floor. I don’t recall anyone else in my apartment the night before, so I open my laptop; to my relief it opens to gay porn. I would NEVER watch gay porn with a guy, so I’m assured I came home alone, where I apparently unsuccessfully tried to fuck myself. In case you were wondering, the porno features four college guys running a train on each other. Let the record show: I don’t always watch gay porn, but when I do, it has to involve a minimum of 3 guys or more. It was evident my vagina had had a party last night and I hadn’t been invited.
The night before was supposed to be a quiet one where I stayed home, playing Civilization V for hours, or maybe finishing the 1/4 of whiskey on my nightstand left and hitting up chatroulette. I like telling strangers that I am a fortune teller, and describing how they are going to die very, very soon. However, my friend Jason told me about a fun, laid-back shindig in the condo building his friend works at, and I figured I could check it out and head home if I didn’t feel it. Chat roulette would be waiting.
On my way to the party I see a bar I’ve never seen before, naturally I had to stop by. I mean, knowing the bar and restaurant scene in my city is part of my job – I love having a built in excuse to find new watering holes. I sat next to a chubby guy, Cacey, who happened to be the bartender’s best friend. Cacey was there hanging out with his ex wife, and the bartender was comping all their drinks, including mine. I drank like a motherfucker, and every time I went to the bathroom I gulped a shot of whiskey from my flask. Cacey must have figured out I was drinking in the bathroom, because I was getting super trashed on what was ostensibly my second drink.
Turned out Cacey was a pot dealer. He also dealt other stuff, but his specialty was his marijuana delivery service. Never to miss an opportunity for a free high, we went to the alley behind the restaurant to smoke. There we chatted with the restaurant staff until the conversation was abruptly interrupted by a waitress violently throwing open the back door, puking on the street, and wobbling back into work in a practiced manner. “I guess this is just something she does nightly,” I thought.
We finished our chit-chat and went back inside. Four moscow mules and a now empty flask rattling around my purse, I am giving this man business ideas. I pitched him an adult bakery that sells phallic and gory pastries, with weekly art exhibits, live body painting and magic shows on Thursdays. I think on Wednesdays there’s a puppet show, but I’ll have to check the calendar. It’s also a pot café with a full bar. I don’t know if he’ll follow my advice, but I am convinced this place could be a success. The name of the place: “2 Girls 1 Cup of Sugar”.
At this point both Cacey and his ex-wife became concerned about me. They were leaving, but insisted on driving me home, which was a whopping 3 blocks away. In hindsight I realize this might not have been a smart move, and in greater hindsight I realize it was probably the worst idea ever. I left that bar with two strangers who were super eager to take me home “safely”, where apparently their idea of “safely” was to cram me into a Celica, sitting on Cacey’s lap with no seatbelt and my head in the ceiling. To my post-event-reflective surprise, they did take me home, gang-rape free, and made it a point to tell me to go straight to bed, no more bars for me.
Naturally, I went to the bar on the corner of my street. I did my little routine: meet a random guy, talk about work, invite him to one of my events with the implicit promise of a date with no intention of follow-through, and scoring an easy ticket sale. I drank 3-4 shots of scotch in the process, ordered donuts at the bar, and eventually went berserk when I was told they didn’t serve donuts.
The rest of the evening and how I got home are a mystery to me. I saw in my text messages I dumped a guy who I am not dating, and messaged Max to state that lately I only get to speak Spanish when I’m having sex. I didn’t text anyone naked photos. Success.